Tag: gay

Pride!: Alan’s Story

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I was born in Ireland in the eighties, raised in a catholic household, and educated in catholic schools. I was taught that pride was a sin – one of the seven deadly sins, in fact. 
It was painted as arrogance, as vanity. Something to be ashamed of. And shame? Shame was a virtue.
To be clear, I’m not even talking queer pride…we’ll get to that. I’m just talking about regular, good old pride in one’s own self. 

In Ireland, we were taught to reject compliments and diminish our accomplishments so as not to seem too proud. If you ever compliment an Irish person on their outfit, they’ll immediately tell you how cheap it was, or how old it is, and that they look like shit. 
We also judged people for being proud: growing up, discussions about someone else’s success were usually coupled with phrases like “he’s gotten too big for his boots” or “Miss high and mighty in the big city.”
So, before I was even sure I was gay, I was already afraid of being proud of anything. To baby gay Alan, the thought of being proud to be queer was impossible. Why would anyone be proud of that?

So, I learned to hide. I stayed quiet. I didn’t make friends often, and if I did, I didn’t let them get too close. I hid the way I wanted to express myself, the way I wanted to live. 
I was taught, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways, that my existence could make others uncomfortable. And so, I would shrink myself to make others feel safe. 

Pride is hard.

I eventually came out, of course; you can only hide for so long before something has to give. When I was 16, I told my parents and a select few friends that I was gay — and was met with just the right amount of fake surprise.
But if I am being honest with you, dear audience, I only really half came out. 
When I went to college, and when I got a job, I never talked about my boyfriend openly, or said the name of the bars I drank at on the weekend. 
Never talked about the hot guys on TV… but never talked about the hot girls, either. Never lying, but never really being fully truthful.
Even though people probably already knew, I still hid. 

The first time I went to a Pride parade, I was about 16 or 17. I didn’t tell anyone – I just showed up, alone, pulled there by a quiet curiosity I couldn’t ignore. I didn’t wear anything rainbow. I didn’t carry a flag. I stood at the edge of the crowd, heart pounding, scanning every face, terrified that someone I knew would spot me. That someone would recognize me and know… The irony of being ashamed to be seen at a celebration of pride isn’t lost on me. 

Pride is hard.

That moment at the parade stayed with me, even as life moved on. I immigrated to Vancouver about eight years ago. I came with my then-boyfriend. Here, we discovered an amazing queer community — something we’d never really had, back in Ireland. My then-boyfriend has since become my now–husband. We’ve made some of the closest friends we’ve ever had.

A couple of years ago, I joined the board of directors and became chair of the board of Vancouver Pride. 
If I thought pride was hard before,  I don’t think I was prepared for how hard Capital P pride is when you are at the helm of a struggling, underfunded not-for-profit organization, operating in a world with an ongoing genocide, during a time when trans and queer people are under attack globally.

For some people, Pride is impossible.

I had the privilege of being part of the Society and chairing the board through Canada Pride: Vancouver’s biggest pride celebration to date. A truly rewarding, exhausting experience that damn well nearly broke me. We had a record-breaking turnout, our largest parade ever, amazing performances… and threats of violence, budget cuts, and protests.

Friends, I know I’ve mentioned a couple of times now, but:

Pride. Is. Hard.

When I was a kid, and well into my twenties, the idea of wearing nail varnish, or anything even slightly effeminate, was unthinkable. Femininity was something to be feared or hidden.I would worry that I was walking or sitting too “girly” (whatever that means) , I would worry that I wasn’t talking like a “normal” man. All these small things that would consume my brain in an effort to suppress my difference.
But here I am, nearing my 40th birthday and A couple of weeks ago, I debuted as Lady Anal in my first-ever drag performance. I wore a corset, tutu, and 5-inch heels, and danced to Lady Gaga on a stage in front of around 600 people… and let me tell you – DRAG is hard!
I think baby gay Alan would be shocked to see me in a corset and heels—but I also think he’d be proud. Finally.

I often think back to that first parade. Hiding amongst the other spectators, heart racing. I was scared, but there was something else creeping in; something almost indescribable — queer joy. Queer joy isn’t always loud, or even obvious. Sometimes, it’s just the peace of being fully yourself, without apology. I didn’t know it then, but standing at the edge of that parade was the first step toward the centre of it.

Pride is hard… But it’s worth it.

Because every time someone steps up and says who they truly are, the world becomes a better, more interesting place.

Pride!: Ryan’s Story

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I grew up Filipino.
Which meant I also grew up Catholic, respectful, and quiet when it mattered.
You didn’t talk back. You didn’t question your elders. You didn’t come home too late. And you definitely didn’t talk about queerness.
In our community, you could suspect. You could joke. But no one ever said it.
Being gay was either a punchline or a shameful rumor that hovered around someone until it stuck. So I learned early: keep it tucked away. Smile. Be helpful. Be successful. And I was. Success became my armour. Good grades. Good manners. A carefully curated version of myself.
If I couldn’t belong by being me, maybe I could belong by being perfect.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know I was queer. I did.
I felt it in the way I watched certain people longer than I should—especially my sister’s guy friends. These boys were always around: loud, confident in that casual way boys are when they’ve never had to question their belonging.
They’d play basketball, all shoulders and jokes and zero personal space.
And there I was, always on the sidelines wondering what it would feel like not having to hide.
I wasn’t just crushing—I was studying.
How they existed around each other without fear. They were soft with each other in ways no one called soft. Their masculinity was never questioned. Mine was something I monitored constantly.
And I’d sit there wondering, Do I want to kiss them? Be them? Or just be allowed
near that kind of ease? Let’s be real—probably all of the above.

That’s why my first Pride felt… surreal. It was in Vancouver. I had just started letting myself live more openly—not just online or in whispers, but out loud. I didn’t know what to expect.
I just remember putting on this yellow polo shirt—something bright, safe, cheerful. I added a rainbow pin, maybe some beads I’d been handed by a volunteer. It felt like putting on armour, but softer. Like permission. I watched from the sidewalk as the parade moved past. Rainbow flags everywhere. Glitter. Music. People cheering and kissing and dancing in the street like the whole city had finally taken a deep breath.
And then I saw it—the TD float, blasting music with half-naked people dancing in the sun. Glistening bodies. Queer joy. Sweat and pride and freedom.

But here’s the thing: I didn’t feel like I was part of it. I felt like a spectator. Like I was watching someone else’s celebration, not mine.
I was smiling, clapping, even laughing—but I was still on the curb. Still unsure. Still asking myself, “Am I queer enough to belong here?”
It wasn’t shame exactly. It was distance. Like I had stepped into the world of Pride, but I hadn’t quite arrived in myself yet.

It took me a few more years, and a move across the ocean, before I’d feel anything different. Brussels Pride caught me off guard. I hadn’t even planned to go, but I found myself in the middle of the city, swept up in the energy.
This wasn’t a hyper-produced parade with big floats and barricades. It felt open. Messy. Intimate.
People weren’t just watching—they were walking. The barriers were barely there. Anyone could step off the sidewalk and join the procession. And people did. People of different backgrounds, mingling, dancing and exuberantly celebrating.
Young people marching with their chosen family. Straight friends carrying signs that said, “I’m here because I love someone queer.”

And the soundtrack? Pure Eurovision chaos. From someone blasting “Tattoo” by Loreen like it was church, to a rhythmic chant to “Europapa,” it was enchanting.
Every corner had its own beat. Every queer had a flag. Every moment felt like home—if your home also occasionally served techno with a side of identity crisis.
Honestly, if you’re a Eurovision fan, hit me up, we clearly speak the same emotional language: high drama, bold fashion choices, and the occasional key change that saves lives and after some time I stepped off the sidewalk.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to earn my place.
I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t loud. I was just present. And that was enough.

When I think about Pride now, I don’t think about the floats or the glitter or the corporations with their rebranded logos. I think about that moment in Brussels—stepping off the sidewalk and into the street.
Because Pride isn’t a performance. It’s a process. It’s the slow unlearning of shame. It’s the decision to stop apologizing. It’s choosing joy even when the world has only taught you fear.

And yet even now, when I walk into certain spaces—queer or not—I still carry that quiet calculation: “Am I too much here? Or not enough?”
Because queerness is not a monolith and the mainstream image of Pride still doesn’t always look like me.
There’s a kind of queerness that gets celebrated more easily.
Usually white. Usually cis. Often male. Lean. Loud.
Unapologetic in a way that feels less like protest and more like branding.
And sometimes, in those clubs, those professional events, those “inclusive” queer spaces, I still feel like I’m back on the sidewalk. Watching the parade.
I’ve been the only brown face in a meeting. I’ve had coworkers pull me aside to tell me I’m “so well-spoken,” as if it’s a surprise. I’ve had white queer people talk over me in meetings about diversity.
I’ve been fetishized for my brownness. Othered, even in intimacy.
And I’ve seen how people treat me differently when I show up femme—when I wear non-conforming garments, when my voice softens, when my wrists move too freely. Sometimes, being a queer person of colour means walking into rooms that claim to celebrate you, but only if you come in fragments.
Only if you leave the messiness, the accent, the ancestors, the softness, the trauma, and the realness at the door.

But that’s not who I am anymore. I don’t fragment myself for anyone now.
Because Pride isn’t just about who you love. It’s about how you insist on your wholeness in a world that keeps trying to carve you into pieces.
I once heard someone say:
“We don’t just want to be tolerated—we want to be accepted.” And that hit me.
Because for so long, I’d been satisfied with tolerance.
With not being bullied. With not being the punchline. With being allowed to exist.
But now? I want more. I want room to be joyful. To be complicated. To be brilliant and brown and queer and soft and taken seriously.
I want acceptance. Not as a concession, but as a given.
I’ve found power in taking up space—not always loudly, but fully. In speaking up at work when something feels off, even if I’m the only one who notices. In mentoring other queer folks of colour, so they don’t have to wait as long as I did to feel seen. In holding space for softness, for mess, for nuance.
In telling my story, especially the parts that aren’t tidy.

Because this is Pride, too. Not just rainbow floats and party weekends, but healing. Boundaries. Audacity. The choice to keep showing up, again and again, in rooms that weren’t designed for you, and remaking them in your image.
Now, when I think about my journey, from hiding behind grades in a Filipino household, to staring longingly at sweaty basketball boys, to watching the parade in Vancouver, to marching through a sea of techno and tears in Brussels—I realize I was never chasing a performance.
I was building a relationship with myself. One where I could love all of who I am.
Brown. Queer. Soft. Strategic. Sensual.
Not half of anything. Not apologizing anymore.

So if you’ve ever felt like Pride wasn’t made for you—too brown, too quiet, too complicated—I hope you know this:
You don’t have to wait for someone to invite you in. You belong here.
Even if you don’t wear glitter. Even if your pride looks like staying in.
Even if your anthem is Loreen and you cry to “Europapa” once a week.

Because Pride is not a moment.
It’s a practice. A rhythm. A reclamation.
And it’s yours.

Pride!: Bryce’s Story

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Growing up gay in a small town is like learning to whisper when all you want to do is sing. You get really good at editing yourself; at shrinking. I grew up in a town of 5,000 people, where most people knew each other, or at least thought they did. You learn quickly how to blend in, when the cost of standing out is being left out entirely. And so, I did what a lot of queer kids do: I said I wasn’t. I hid.

I knew I was different early on, but I didn’t have the language for it, or the confidence to claim it. In a place like that, being gay wasn’t something you admitted. It was something you denied, or joked about, before anyone else could weaponize it. I learned how to pass. How to act. How to keep one part of myself tucked away so well that sometimes even I forgot where I put it.

Then I met someone who had hidden just as well as I had. Someone from an even smaller town—500 people, if you can believe it! I used to joke that if I had it bad, he had it worse. But the truth is, we had something in common: we both grew up thinking we had to be less to be loved.

At first, being together was like finding a mirror. Not just in the obvious way—both of us boys, both of us figuring it out—but in how deeply we understood the effort it took to make ourselves palatable to the world. We didn’t just fall in love; we fell into safety. Into understanding. Into survival.

But we also fell into habits that mirrored our upbringing. We stayed quiet. We didn’t talk about our relationship in certain spaces. And even though our families knew we were gay, and knew we were together, we kept things toned down. We didn’t call each other “boyfriend” around them. We didn’t show affection. To them, I think we were just… neutral. Not hiding, exactly, but not fully seen either. We weren’t straight, but somehow, we still managed to look it.

For a long time, we didn’t feel like Pride was for us. It felt like something other people did: louder people, braver people. People who had figured it out. People with less to lose. It wasn’t shame, exactly. It was just… caution.

Then in 2019, we finally went to our first Pride event. Not in Canada. Not even in North America. It was in Manchester, England. And to be honest, one of the biggest reasons we went was because Ariana Grande was headlining the closing show. We had already seen her in April that same year… but Ariana at Pride? That felt like something different. It felt iconic. It felt like a good enough excuse to finally show up.
We booked the trip half for her, and half, I think, for ourselves, though we wouldn’t have admitted that then.

I remember walking down the street and hearing the music before we even saw the crowd. There were rainbow flags everywhere. Drag queens, couples holding hands, kids in rainbow tutus, protestors with signs, allies cheering. It was colourful and chaotic, and so beautifully alive. It was everything we weren’t used to. Everything we had quietly denied ourselves.

And for the first time, we didn’t feel like we were borrowing space. We felt seen. Not just tolerated. Not just allowed. Seen.

It was overwhelming, in the best way. We danced. We laughed. We kissed, even. Right there in the street, surrounded by strangers who clapped and cheered, and kept on dancing. I had never felt more free; or more aware of just how tightly I’d been holding myself.

That was the year Pride stopped being a word and became a feeling.

Since then, we’ve been to more Pride events, but not dozens. Just a few that mattered. Vancouver Pride has become a bit of a tradition for us. And this year, we went to Winnipeg Pride with the biggest group of gays I think I’ve ever travelled with. It was loud, joyful, chaotic, in the best way. A complete contrast to how we first learned to be gay: quietly, cautiously, carefully.

Every time, we let go a little more. Not just in public, but with ourselves. We let ourselves be soft. We let ourselves be loud. We remind ourselves that we don’t have to earn our space. We just get to be.

And here’s the thing: it’s not always perfect. Sometimes Pride is corporate. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes, it doesn’t represent everyone the way it should. But at its core, when you strip away the noise and the politics, Pride is about the right to exist fully. Without apology. Without compromise.

It’s a reminder that joy is resistance. That celebration is healing. That there is room for every kind of queer story, even the quiet ones. Even the ones like mine.

Because the truth is, I don’t have a dramatic coming out story. I didn’t run away. I didn’t get kicked out. I didn’t have to fight tooth and nail for acceptance. But I did fight. Quietly. Internally. For years, I fought for the right to be honest about who I am. I fought to believe that I didn’t have to shrink to be loved.

And that’s what Pride gave me. It gave me back the parts of myself I thought I had to hide. It showed me that visibility isn’t just about being seen by others. It’s about being seen by yourself.

So now, twelve years later, I get to stand next to the same man I met when we were both still scared. We’ve grown together. We’ve healed together. We’ve learned that the world is big enough for love like ours, and that we don’t have to water it down.

We still hold hands in some places, and not others. We still measure our surroundings before we kiss in public. The world isn’t perfect. But we are no longer pretending we’re something we’re not. And that matters.

Pride, to me, means hope.
Hope that someone else growing up in a small town—someone who’s hiding, someone who’s scared—can see people like us and feel just a little less alone.
Hope that the next generation won’t have to learn how to whisper.
Hope that one day, we won’t just be accepted—we’ll be celebrated.
Not because we’re exceptional, or brave, or resilient. But because we’re here.
And that’s enough.

Pride!: Evan’s Story

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When I came out almost 10 years ago, I could never have anticipated the journey that would lead me to my life partner. Let alone expect to be someone’s husband, for the past 30 days. As I stand here today, I am grateful for every minute of it, even the hard parts. I’m thrilled to say that the most wonderful man, to quote Beyonce, put a ring on it. Technically, we both did… Happy endings aren’t just for bathhouses. I’d like to take a few minutes to tell you about our recent wedding and elopement.
Our relationship, while, of course not perfect, has been relatively smooth when it comes to planning things: since I like doing all general planning things and Parm is extremely detail-orientated. I ride the hot-mess ADHD express and lose my dopamine rush when it comes to the more precise points. It’s truly a great match to have planning a vacation, moving apartments, redecorating, but when planning a wedding it can be a blessing and a curse.

Parm and I got engaged December 2023 and since we’re both planners we wanted to have a long engagement to make sure we had adequate time to plan things out. A quick backstory on how we got engaged. I decided to surprise him on our anniversary, since Parm hates surprises. It was the one way I could ensure he wouldn’t be suspicious I was planning something. I had tried, and failed, to surprise Parm a few times. I thought It would be a good idea to take him to high tea, after he was at the gym in street clothes, and was underfed from a leg day.  For the proposal, I tried to keep the destination a secret. But who would have thought he would’ve figured out I was taking him to Circle Wellness on Granville Island of all places. On the walk to where I had arranged his friends to meet us, Parm launched into a diatribe about why I shouldn’t try and surprise him anymore. Mainly since he wanted to know the plan to be mentally prepared and be properly dressed for the occasion. All I could think of in the back of my mind was, oh boy, you’re in for one major surprise in 5 minutes…

Going back to wedding planning, one of the greatest strengths I’ve learned since coming out is that there isn’t a “right” or “normal” way to be queer. So many social norms and expectations are shed when we come out and start living as our queer, authentic selves; especially when you enter a relationship. In gay relationships, nothing is assumed. You must clearly and openly communicate your roles, your responsibilities, and expectations. When Parm and I moved in together, we had to discuss how laundry, cooking, cleaning worked.
When we were planning our formal wedding, we had to figure out how walking down the aisle would work. If we wanted to include gendered cultural wedding traditions, how that would work. Being able to define all these things on our terms was (and is) a powerful thing, and I hope the same intentionality and partnership starts to show up more in hetero relationships. Be open and communicate what works for you as an individual and as a couple, and don’t just assume your role based on gender. We initially had a the “big white wedding” planned. Well, maybe not big, since we had capped it at 80 people. And maybe not all that white, since Parm has a big Indian family.

We were excited for our formal wedding here in Vancouver and placed the deposit for our dream venue, but as the time started coming closer to actually need to put pen to paper, we just weren’t excited at the idea. It just seemed like work and didn’t really feel like us. We toyed with the idea of eloping, at first here in BC, by doing a helicopter wedding to ensure none of our family could sneak in. But we had already planned on doing a honeymoon… before our wedding I may add, in the Faroe Islands and Mallorca. Why were we going to the Faroe Islands? Parm had seen it and wanted to explore it for it’s beauty. I wanted to go because there was a sweater shop I wanted to go to. Parm had an excellent idea to have our elopement in the Faroe Islands since the nature is beautiful and dramatic.

We cancelled our Vancouver wedding and instead carried out our plan to do our wedding there. And it was the best decision that we could’ve made. But first we had to make it legal and literally got married in slippers and bathrobes here in the West End. We forgot to give our officiant a heads-up, so she was a little surprised. It was unapologetically us. We love to travel, we love going to random places, we love hiking and nature, and we love doing things differently. We spent the whole day exploring the country with a local photographer, who proclaimed that five tourists at a site was “busy”.  We think he would have an aneurysm seeing the steam clock crowds in summer…
We did everything that we loved. We explored a small picturesque town with colourful houses. Went to a waterfall and scaled the rocks in dress shoes. Did our vows in the rain. Got, possibly a top-10 burger, at a gas station. And ended the day doing a hike in our tuxes to see one of the most beautiful parts of the Faroe Islands, Traepania, Where there is a lake above the ocean, backdropped by sheer cliffs. We were tired, muddy, and had our wedding night back at the hotel, lying in bed with pizza. In short, we wouldn’t have done things any different, and it was a perfect wedding day.

I’m just so happy that Parm is the person I got to marry. The full story of how we came together is a story for a different day, but I initially tried to push him away.  I had come out of quite a toxic relationship and wasn’t ready to date. He actually went on a few dates with my ex and pieced it together by the missing furniture in our respective apartments. Needless to say, he learned that I wasn’t the crazy ex.
In spite of all of the emotional push and pull (and the occasional self sabotage, of course) Parm stuck by my side. He gave me endless patience, a safe space to be irrational if I was spiralling while trying to process my trauma, and showed me that not everyone is out to get me. That I could feel safe enough to trust someone again.
I’m looking forward to building a life together and this next chapter is just the beginning. I’m just excited to be writing this one together as husband and husband.

Pride!: Gerardo’s Story

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I was 15
when I came out of the closet…
and ended up on the street.

No applause.
No rainbow confetti.
No RuPaul track playing in the background like a fabulous gay fairy tale.

Just me,
a garbage bag of clothes,
a slammed door,
and a silence that hummed like heartbreak.

That was my welcome to being gay.

I was raised Catholic.
Not “Christmas and Easter” Catholic,
I mean full-blown confess-your-thoughts-about-Ricky-Martin Catholic.
Church every Sunday.
Rosaries.
Guilt… lots of it.

They told me to love God…
but not like men.

So I prayed. Hard.
To be “normal.”
To wake up with a sudden interest in boobs and dirt bikes.

I prayed so much,
I could do the Hail Mary in under 10 seconds,
blindfolded, while crying, and brushing my teeth.

But when I finally said the words,
“I’m gay,”
those prayers didn’t soften anything.

No angels showed up.
Only a mother with heartbreak in her eyes
and a “pack your things” on her lips.So I did.

Here’s the twist though:
I used to play football.
Yeah… cleats, tackles, full-on jock life.
And so did my first boyfriend.

We were teammates…
and then roommates.
And then, well,
boyfriends with shared trauma and a twin mattress.

When both our parents kicked us out,
we moved in together.
Two 15-year-old boys,
figuring out rent, ramen,
and how to hide tears in public bathrooms.

I lied about where we were living.
Said I was “staying with friends.”
Showed up to school like everything was fine.
Even when I was starving.
Even when everything hurt.

And that…
was my first taste of Pride.

Not the parade.
Not the glitter.
Not the glam.
But the quiet, stubborn kind.
The “I’m still here” kind.
The “watch me survive” kind.

In school, I got bullied.
They whispered “faggot” like it was a spell meant to vanish me.
And for a while… I did disappear.
Into myself.

Until one day,
I cracked. I got loud.
Got mean.
Got funny.
And accidentally became… a bully.

Because if I made you the punchline,
then I couldn’t be one.

And honestly?
Therapist says: iconic trauma, villain era.

But broken kids wear armour however they can.

In my 20s, I was a mess with Internet.
(Yeah, that one with the horrible phone sound.)
Terrible jobs…
Worse taste in men…
A strict diet of frozen pizza, mezcal shots, and red flags.

But I kept going.
Finished two degrees.
Opened my own little restaurant.
Not Michelin-starred…
but hey, the health inspector only gave us one warning. (Just kidding. Kind of.)

Safe.
Stable.
Mine.

Then one day…
a message.

From her.
My mom.

“I miss you. Can we talk?”

So we did.
We cried.
We screamed (in Spanish… very healing).
We listened.

She apologized.
I told her I was still hurt.
But we tried.

Slowly,
we learned each other again.
Found love in the wreckage.

And now?
Now I’ve got something 15-year-old me never dreamed of…
I’m married.
To a man who makes me laugh,
makes me coffee,
and makes me feel safe in a way I didn’t know men could.

And yes…
my mother walked me down the aisle.
She cried.
I cried.
Even the DJ cried.
(It was Madonna’s “Like a Virgin…” who doesn’t cry at that?)

So yeah,
I’m proud.

Proud of the pain I survived.
Proud of the boy who didn’t disappear.
Proud of the man I became…
with jokes, scars, and a hell of a lot of glitter.

Pride isn’t just a parade.
It’s not just drag and disco (although… bless those queens).
It’s surviving.
It’s forgiving.
It’s calling your mom after coming out…
and knowing she’ll answer.

It’s saying,
“This is who I am,”
and not flinching anymore.

I used to kneel in church,
begging God to fix me.

Now I stand up tall,
husband by my side,
knowing there was never anything broken to begin with.

And bro…
no slammed door,
no whispered slur,
no prayer for “normal,”
will ever make me doubt my pride again.

Pride!: Randy’s Story

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From as far back as I can remember, self-confidence, and feeling a general sense of pride, has been a challenge for me. As a skinny kid growing up in East Vancouver, I was vaguely insecure and slow to make friends. By the time I became a teenager and became aware that I was gay, the sense of feeling different or “other” did nothing to improve my self-image. 

When the mid-’80s hit, and I was at an age where coming out as gay was even a remote possibility, the AIDS crisis was full-blown. This increased the homophobia in the world, and in the home I shared with my family– not to mention my insecurities and fears. I didn’t come out as a gay man until my late 20s, and I did not do so with a sense of celebration or liberty, but with fear and uncertainty. Feeling a sense of pride about myself as a gay man was still a long way off.

In the new millennium, I did some hard work with a fantastic gay psychologist who helped me significantly in unpacking and understanding my fears and feelings. This increased my need to connect with other gay men, so I decided to be brave and open myself up to as many coffee and/or dog-walking dates with eligible men as I could fit into my schedule. The bar scene wasn’t my thing, so this seemed like a good way to go, as I am fairly confident in a one-on-one setting. My thinking was that every date could be a) a friend, b) a romantic connection, or c) a fascinating and eye-opening experience. I used a pre-smartphone online dating service called Lava Life, and I let everyone in my life know that I was open to being set up for blind dates as well, even if the only reason that they might think that me and the other person would be a match was that we were the only two gay men they knew. It was a busy year, which ultimately felt like a series of job interviews. But by the end of year one of my power-dating marathon, I was lucky enough to have met Drew, the man who would become my husband.  

At the time, he was living life as a hippie on Pender Island. We connected online, by phone, and eventually in person. A few months later, he moved to the Lower Mainland, and we saw each other regularly. He was handsome, kind, funny, smart, and a good kisser. So, why was I dragging my feet? I told him directly one night that I had no idea why I wasn’t in love with him. After some mutual tears, a week’s time, a huge bouquet of flowers, and a lot of personal introspection, I realized that I was sure that he, like most gay men, would deceive me, hurt me, and disrespect me in some way. This came from a few past experiences, but mostly some homophobia that had built up in me over the years, via my parents, and possibly TV & film. It shouldn’t take the approval of friends to convince me to give him a fair chance, but the unanimous approval of him from my social circle was highly influential. From that point on, I jumped in with both feet, and not a day has gone by when I wasn’t sure that I made a great choice. Choosing to be with this wonderful man is the best decision I have ever made.

Drew and I were very much in love and wanted the same things out of life and out of our relationship. This marked the first time I felt a sense of pride as a gay man. A big part of that was my joy at having found someone whom I loved and wanted to be with, and who loved and wanted to be with me, too. I felt proud to let the world know who my wonderful partner was, and that we were together.
A few years later, we were married and were lucky enough to welcome a newborn baby boy to our family. We were very visible wherever we went, and this felt amazing to me. As a family, we were as out and proud as we could be – we were part of several documentaries about gay dads, and also a real estate reality show on HGTV. We spent the next 15 years or so living a fairly heteronormative life, and tended to surround ourselves with couples with children. We therefore had very little contact with the gay community.

About five years ago, when our now-teenaged son wanted very little to do with his dads, and we were called upon to do much less parenting, we decided to address the fact that we had almost no gay friends. I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but I was really craving having people around me who I could relate to on many more levels than I do with my straight friends. It was both exciting and scary, but I felt very motivated to find my place in the community. I dove in headfirst, finding connections through social media, and then through the gay softball league, and ultimately, socializing at local gay bars. I found, and still find, that it is difficult to make new friends in Vancouver’s gay community. However, I feel a real sense of gratification being out and about in the village or where queer people congregate, and to be able to greet numerous people whom I now know. It’s a great feeling that I never really imagined I would have access to, and I have to say: I love it. People who know me will tell you that when I am out, I tend to be chatty as hell, love to connect with folks I don’t know, and that I occasionally turn my flirting all the way to eleven.

Feeling a sense of pride as a gay man was a long process, but I finally feel comfortable in my skin. I welcome any and all opportunities to connect in the community, and to tell anyone in the world who I am. I feel no regret about not doing this sooner, as my journey is my journey, and I believe things are meant to happen when and how they happen. I wouldn’t change a thing.

During the last few years, I have prioritized challenging myself to do things that are not in my wheelhouse and that I could not have imagined doing just a few short years ago. Some of these include telling you my story right now; go-go dancing at parties while wearing very little clothing; singing karaoke at Pumpjack; and being a back-up dancer for my softball team’s drag queen at the annual WESA pageant.

Part of the pride that I feel comes from being a tiny part of a long history of brave people who have risked their lives and livelihoods to fight, and yell, and scream for the rights that I have and benefit from on a daily basis. I did nothing to earn the right to marry my husband, to start a family with him, and to live in a city where we can comfortably hold hands in public — except, come of age at the right time.  I take none of this for granted.

Pride was a long time coming, but it feels fantastic. Being with my husband built me up and continues to do so to this day, after almost 23 years together. How I feel about myself, my general sense of happiness, and how much joy I am able to experience, have increased decade over decade. 

As an older-than-middle-aged man, I will passionately resist becoming a crabby old person whose worldview becomes more and more narrow with time. I will continue to be open to new connections and experiences, and travel, and do it all with Drew by my side.

I can’t wait to find out what happens in the next ten years.

Pride!: M.’s Story

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The first time I came out, I lied.
I told a story that never happened.
But in that moment, it was the only way I could tell the truth.
I was 15. In a Catholic Sisters school. Closeted.
And carrying enough shame to light every candle at Sunday Mass.
So I made up a story.
A boy. A waterpark. Two accidental boners in the changing room.
I told my best friend at the time that I saw a naked senior guy at the waterpark, and we both got instant boners.
Was it believable? I mean… no.
Was it weirdly specific?… Maybe.
But it was the only version of gayness I thought she might accept — 
if it came packaged like a confession instead of a fact.
I wanted her to be curious. Supportive.
To say something like, “Oh my god, really? Tell me more.”
Instead, she blinked. Changed the subject. And that was it.
The closet door slammed shut again.

Second try. 
New story. New lie. New setting. New hope. Same best friend.
This time: a man in the library. We exchanged numbers. We texted. A whole made-up story, with some text messages to prove it.
(There was no library. It was a guy I met online.)
And she —bless her homophobia— told me to block him.
That it was the only way for “the thoughts” to go away.

Ma’am… they did not go away.
My coming out attempts were failing. But still, there was this urge.
An instinctive need to share what I was feeling.
Not because I needed to announce it —
but because I needed someone else to say, “It’s okay.”
Keeping it a secret made it feel wrong.
Made it feel shameful.

SHAME.

I gave up on telling her. We drifted.
Best friends turned into strangers.

*****

Then came camp.
No, not like that, I mean actual summer camp.
Religious, of course. Orthodox church this time, for range…

I met a girl. We hit it off instantly.
The camp ended. We exchanged numbers.
And a week later, I texted her. Told her the truth.
This time, no fake boys. No boners.
Why her? I think I just had a gut feeling.
I’d been attending church camps since I was a kid — and for the first time, I’d made a friend who wasn’t there for the Jesus of it all. 
She was there for the fun. And somehow, that gave me reassurance. 
That maybe —just maybe— she wouldn’t think I was going to burn in hell.

Part of me felt: If this goes badly, the stakes aren’t high. I haven’t known her long.
“Hey. I need to tell you something… I’m gay.” I said
She replied: “I hope you’re not joking. I don’t tolerate jokes like that — I have gay friends.”
I found out later… I was her first gay friend.
She just wanted to make it clear she was safe, before she even had the words to say it. She’s now my lifelong best friend.
And that’s when I learned: Some people just get it.
Even if they’re still figuring out how to say it.

*****

But from there, I wasn’t coming out as much as I was living out.

It became less about declarations and more about decisions.
Who deserves to know me? Who deserves access?
In the Middle East, coming out isn’t an event — it’s a strategy.
You don’t burst out of the closet. You leave little doors ajar.
You observe. You feel it out. You find your people.
I met so many who got it.
Supportive friends. Chosen family.
People who held space for me.
But I also had to let go of some people I thought I’d keep forever.
People who said they were okay with it — but their eyes changed.
They saw me differently.
As unserious. As broken. As someone struggling.
Even when I was not really struggling.
And honestly? That can be worse than rejection.
That quiet shift, from friend to case study.

SHAME!

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even angry. But it was necessary.
Their silence told me everything I needed to know.

At that point in life, I didn’t feel the need to come out anymore.
I had my people. My little queer bubble. My peace.
But there was always that question.
“Do your parents know?” “What about your brothers?”
“Have you come out to your family yet?”
There was no roadmap.
And I had distanced myself from my family. Partly because of geography…
and partly because of me.
Because of the life I was building, and the parts I wasn’t ready to explain.
I had seen how queerness was met in my family: reactions that made me afraid of what it could do to the dynamic we had; how it might change things, forever…

But there was my cousin. My closest cousin.
The one who told me everything: hookups, dating drama, men with questionable tattoos in questionable places.
She clearly trusted me, so it finally felt like the right time to trust her back.
When she asked about my love life, I told her. It didn’t make sense to lie anymore.
“Hey, you know I date men, right? I’m gay”
She blinked. Paused.

I could see her flipping through some imaginary “How to Talk to Your Gay Cousin” guide — one she hadn’t finished reading.
And even though it wasn’t long ago, the memory’s quite blurry now.
But I remember the awkwardness. She asked if something triggered it. If something happened to me when I was younger. As if there had to be a reason.
And she ended with: “I won’t bring it up again… unless you want to.”
That was the cherry on top of the shame sundae.

SHAME.

We haven’t spoken  since. Life drifted us apart.
But if I’m being honest… I chose to let it.

*****

In my last visit to Lebanon, I met my Catholic school friend again.
The one I lied to — just to say something true.
We ran into each other years later and were catching up.
And somewhere in the conversation, she figured it out.
She put two and two together and looked at me and said:
“I’m really sorry for how I reacted when we were younger.
I didn’t know how to process what you were telling me.”
And, for the first time, I didn’t flinch.
I understood. I had made peace with it, with her, with the past, with myself.
And I realized… That was maybe what I needed all along.
Not an apology. Not validation. I just needed to be seen.
To have someone look at me — not as who I was when I first tried to tell the truth, but as who I’ve become since.

*****

Living in a society that doesn’t tolerate your queerness isn’t just hard —
it’s disorienting.
It rewires how you see yourself. How you remember yourself.
How you imagine others will see you.
The way we’re raised makes it almost impossible to believe that “love is love,”
when every message you’ve ever received screams:

SHAME. SHAME. SHAME!

But somehow, despite all of that, we find each other. We find ourselves.
And once we do, we begin to learn — that Pride isn’t just a destination we reach.
It’s a practice we return to.

A conversation we carry. A story we tell. A quiet, rebellious act, not just for ourselves, but for those still searching for their reflection.
So maybe my story doesn’t end with one perfect coming out… but with a dozen imperfect ones. Some with lies. Some with silence. Some with pain.
But also, some with laughter. Some with apology. And some with peace.

And even now —living in Canada, a place I chose because I could finally breathe; because I could finally say “I’m gay” out loud without looking over my shoulder— even here, with all the safety and freedom I’ve found…
I still think about those who don’t have this.
Those who wake up every day to a cup of shame served by their families, their governments, their gods, their “friends.”
Those who have never had the chance to live their truth and are still told that love is wrong.
We still live in a world where Pride is a privilege.
And I don’t take that lightly.

So if I have it now —if I get to walk through life with my shoulders a little higher, my voice a little louder— I want to honour every version of me that never thought this would be possible.
Because, the pride I feel now?
That is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

And I’ll never stop being grateful for it.

Around the World: Claus’ Story

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I fell in love in Paris.

I know, what a cliché – guy goes to Paris, and falls in love. But I couldn’t help it. Falling in love isn’t really something that you do. It’s something that happens to you.

The year was 2008, and this was my first trip ever outside of North America. It was also the first time I had ever travelled on my own, and with my inexperience and terrible planning, I ended up with a 23-hour layover in the French Capital. My budget was too low to pay for a hotel, so my plan was to spend that time at the airport… but after one hour of doing Sudoku, I was bored.

Courageously, I took the train to the city — where I managed to get stuck overnight, because I was under the mistaken impression that Paris was a 24-hour city, with 24-hour trains. Remember, smartphones didn’t exist at that time, so travelling was much more difficult than it is today. Without these modern tools, I wasn’t able to find accommodation that didn’t cost hundreds of Euros. So, I spent the night outside, half-sleeping, freezing, and scared, at the Champ-de-Mars park overlooking the Eiffel Tower — but that’s a story for another day.

Before I got stuck overnight without a hotel, I found myself roaming through the various neighbourhoods of Paris, with a heavy backpack and beautiful shoes that left my feet full of blisters. I walked all over the city, admiring its riverside banks, it’s palaces, and parks. I saw the Eiffel Tower, and the Notre-Dame Cathedral, and I had a subpar coffee with one of the best pain au chocolat I’ve ever tasted. And then, I made it all the way to the Montmartre neighbourhood, and there she was.

Beautiful and grand, tall and statuesque — commanding the attention of everyone around her. She stood there, looking out over a picture-perfect panorama of Paris from the top of the hill of Montmartre. The late afternoon sun reflected off her flawless fair skin, illuminating every one of her features so beautifully, that they seemed to come to life. Her curves, perfectly symmetrical, made to be admired. She was ageless, despite having been 94 years old at the time. 

By now you probably have realized, I hope, that I’m speaking about a building. But not just any building: The Sacré-Cœur Basilica, the most beautiful piece of architecture I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It was love at first sight, and from that moment on, I told —half jokingly— to everyone that would listen, that if anyone ever proposed to me, I wanted it to be there, at the Sacré-Cœur.

Fast forward to 2019, more than a decade after I first laid eyes on her, and three visits later. By then, I had been with my partner Eamonn for four years, and we were in the midst of planning a trip to the Balkans when he suggested: “Why don’t we do a stopover in Paris on the way there?” Just a quick one night stop, to see the sights, and visit friends.

“Oh my god,” I thought to myself. “This. is. it!” 

To be perfectly honest, I had never really cared about marriage before. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to get married. I simply didn’t care either way. But at that moment, I actually started to think, “he is the right person, so why not?”

We stayed with our friends, who conveniently lived in the Montmartre district. On our first night, we enjoyed dinner and a couple of bottles of red on the patio of a wine bar with them. The next day, Eamonn and I set off to wander alone. We walked along the cobbled stone streets of Montmartre, through alleys filled with cafés and boulangeries, and finally, to my old Parisian fling: the stunning Sacré-Cœur Basilica, looking as beautiful as she had one decade earlier.

It was the middle of summer and the crowds of tourists were thick around us. Eamonn led the way, as we circled the basilica. This way, then that. We walked down the steps to the bottom of the hill, the Sacré-Cœur looking down at us from its summit, her white domes resplendent under the August sun. Eamonn was clearly looking for the perfect spot to propose. He looked nervous. I was nervous, too, wondering how I should react when the moment finally came — should I act surprised? Should I admit that I was expecting it? Or would an unplanned emotion take over?

After some time, a selfie or 10 later, Eamonn suggested we grab a beer with a side of espresso (the Paris way) at the Café des Deux Moulins, famous for appearing in the film Amélie. We sat at the café, and the whole time, in the back of my mind, I kept wondering when the moment would come. And finally, after paying for our beers (with a side of espresso), Eamonn finally said: “We should get going, we have a train to catch.”

And so, we left Paris —and the Sacré-Cœur— behind. The romanticized idea of our imaginary engagement dissolving as the train pulled further away from the city.

But worry not, dear listeners, because this story has a happy ending.

Less than two weeks later, in Slovenia, we planned a day trip from Lubljana to Lake Bled. After spending the morning walking around the lake, admiring the stunning scenery that surrounded us, Eamonn suggested we hiked up a hill to what he described as a “famous bench.” I was surprised, as I am the more-enthusiastic hiker of the two of us. 

It was a hot day, in the mid 30s, when we embarked on an uphill trajectory through a dusty path in search of this bench. The vegetation was too sparse to provide us any shade, but I persevered, unsure of what our final destination was, and completely unaware of what was coming next.

Finally, we got there. The bench: meh. A standard park bench with no redeeming features. But the view. I’m not exaggerating when I say it is one of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever seen, to this day. The expansive Lake Bled below us, with its many shades of turquoise, and blue, and green. An island in the middle of the lake with a church rising from it. The mountains all around us, lush with vegetation, extending as far as the eye could see. And atop one of the mountains, on the opposite side of the lake, a castle. A view taken right out of a fairytale, made all the more beautiful under a blue sky splattered with white cotton clouds, and the love of my life by my side.

We caught our breath from the hike (and lost our breath to the views), and after some time, we sat on the so-called-famous bench. And suddenly, the words fumbled out of Eamonn’s mouth: a not-so-romantic speech that included something about “finalizing the contract” and “this seems as good a time as any.” 

In his hands, a silver ring. An Irish Claddagh, with its iconic design featuring two hands, symbolizing friendship. A heart, for love. And a crown, for loyalty. 
And around the length of the ring, a Celtic knot, to represent eternity.

I fell in love in Paris, and the Sacré-Cœur will always have a special place in my heart. But nothing could compare to the perfect moment that had me saying a resounding “yes, yes, yes,” before Eamonn could even ask the question.

Around the World: M.’s Story

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Okay, so this story takes us back to 2015. I was just 18, still a student at AUB, which is basically the UBC of Beirut, where I’m from. But instead of being half an hour away from downtown, it’s literally in downtown. Picture a university inside Stanley Park.

Back then, I was still closeted — obviously living with my parents — and I used to drive to university every morning. And, like many gay men in the Middle East, I had Grindr. Because let’s be honest, that was the gay community. There were very few queer events or hangouts, just a bar or two… but mainly, a grid of torsos and chaos.

And that’s where I met Julien. French guy, blonde, older. In Beirut for a few days. Very much giving “European tourist with a tote bag and a mysterious backstory.” He told me he was travelling through French-speaking countries writing a book — which, at the time, sounded super fake; but he was still hot, so I didn’t question it.
I tapped him. He tapped me. We chatted. And we decided to meet up for coffee on campus, like respectable homosexuals. I picked him up, gave him a little tour of AUB, and also showed him around the city in my car, which honestly made me feel so cool. Like, I was 18! Driving this charming older French man around Beirut like it was nothing. I was glowing. Walking a little faster. Laughing a little louder. You know the vibe.

That night — the same night we met— he ran into a little problem. His iPhone locked him out. Completely. He kept saying, “I’m sure I’m typing the right code,” but his phone was like, “Nope. Try again in 3 days.” If you know, you know.
So now he’s in Lebanon, with no Google Maps, no contacts, no apps. Not even Grindr. Dark, dark times.
Buying a new phone? Too expensive. Renting one? Is that even a thing? And that’s when I saw my little gay moment to shine — not to impress, but to be useful. I told him, “I actually have a second phone; you can use it while you’re here. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a flex. It was just something I could do… so I did.

Now, everyone I told thought I was absolutely out of my mind.
“He’s going to disappear with your phone.” “It’s a scam.” “He does this in every country.” But honestly? I trusted him. I don’t know why. Maybe I was being naïve. Or maybe I just liked the way he said merci.

We saw each other a couple more times after that. Nothing major (okay, we fooled around a bit). One thing that I remember, that makes me cringe so hard, was this moment when I asked him, very stupidly, if he had downloaded Grindr on the phone. And of course, he had. And I was like, “…oh.”
He explained that Grindr was how he met people when he travelled. At the time, I didn’t really get it. To me, Grindr was still this secret, shameful hookup thing. But now? I mean… most of my friends today? I met them on gay hookup apps.
So… yeah. Julien was ahead of his time; or at least ahead of mine.
Before he left, Julien gave me back the phone and thanked me. Said his trip would’ve been totally different if he hadn’t met me. And that meant something. It made me feel kinda special — like I had made a little mark on someone’s journey.

We kept in touch here and there. He only messaged me in French — partly because his English wasn’t great, and partly because he’d say, “tu dois pratiquer.” Little did I know, my French skills helped me get my PR in Canada 10 years later.
And for a long time, I really thought that was it. A sweet little story. I didn’t expect to see him again.

But then, seven years later, I visited France for the first time. I messaged him, just to say hi. “Hey… I’m coming to Paris.” And he replied immediately: “Let’s meet.”
And just like that, we did. He showed up on a bicycle — of course he did — looking older than I remembered. More silver in his hair. Definitely giving daddy energy. And if you know me, you know that’s very on-brand.

This time, it wasn’t flirty. It was just… really lovely. We spent a few days together, and it honestly felt like picking up a thread from a story I thought had ended. He showed me around Paris like a true local. We vibed, got a little drunk, had the best time. He took me to beautiful theatres, gay bars, this riverside queer spot called Rosa Bonheur — which is basically the Paris version of Birdhouse. If you ever visit, highly recommended.

And on my last day there, we took the train to Versailles to go to a theatre festival — because I’m a theatre gay, obviously. We wandered through the gardens with some strawberries and a bottle of bubbles, because in France, you can literally just crack open a bottle of wine in public, and it’s totally normal. We had this quiet, beautiful day, just the two of us. And I don’t know, there was such a strong connection between us. And if you’re wondering: no, nothing happened. He had a boyfriend, not that this ever stopped anyone. But honestly, nothing needed to. The vibe was there. That was enough.

And of course, the trains back got cancelled. So, we had to navigate this maze of night buses, switching lines, figuring it all out. I would never have made it back alone. So I guess we’re even now: I gave him a phone in Beirut, and he got me home in Paris.
On the way back to Paris — after running around trying to figure out which random village bus was actually going back to the city — we were both exhausted. Sitting there in silence, half-delirious, half-relieved that we even made it onto the right bus.
We both kind of knew this was the last time we’d see each other before I left. 

And somewhere between stops, Julien turned to me and said, “By the way… I mentioned you in my book.”
And I was like, “Wait — what book?” I had totally forgotten that he was even an author.
He smiled and said I was one of the memorable friendships he made along the journey of writing it. Just a small mention, nothing dramatic. But still — it really hit me. Like… damn. I actually meant something to this person.

We still talk sometimes. Send each other voice notes. He still corrects my French grammar like it’s his life mission.

And that’s my story. A little Grindr match in Beirut. A train ride from Versailles. A mention in a French linguistics book. Nothing dramatic. Just one of those rare, quiet connections that stick with you — even when you know you probably won’t cross paths again.

Around the World: Bryce’s Story

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Let me take you back.

I was 18. That magical age where you think you’ve got it all figured out, but you still call your mom when your laundry turns pink. I had just hit that point in life where everything in my hometown felt too small. The streets, the routines, the same familiar faces. It was all closing in on me.
I needed space. Air. Maybe even some chaos. So, I packed up my car—if you could call it that. It was more of a metal box with an engine and a slight identity crisis. No GPS, no credit card, barely any cash, but a lot of heart.
I didn’t even tell many people I was leaving. I just drove west and decided I’d figure it out on the way.

When I got to Vancouver, I had exactly zero plans. Zero housing. Zero resources. But I had arrived, and that felt like… something?
I found myself driving around Stanley Park. I’d never seen anything like it. There were trees that made my little car look like a toy. Water that sparkled like it was auditioning for a movie. And people, jogging like they actually enjoyed it.
I parked and sat in silence for a bit, pretending this was all part of some Eat, Pray, Love moment. In reality, I was stalling because I had nowhere else to go.
That night, I curled up in the driver’s seat, hoodie rolled up as a pillow, trying to convince myself it was an adventure. The air was damp. The windows fogged up. But hey, I was free… right?

By morning, my back felt like it had aged 50 years, but I was still in one piece. I took that as a win. I stretched out, rubbed my eyes, looked out across the park and said, “Okay, day one in the big city—let’s do this.”
I drove into downtown. The city was buzzing: there were bikes, buses, beeping horns, neon signs. And somehow, every single person seemed like they had somewhere important to be.
Except for me, that is. But I didn’t want to look like an outsider, so I did what any self-respecting newcomer would do: I pretended. I adjusted my sunglasses. I leaned back like I knew where I was going. I even nodded at the people on the street, like I was one of them.

And then I saw it: a street that looked like it led somewhere cool. Brick buildings, people walking dogs, some artsy-looking cafés. Perfect. So I went for it.
Left-hand turn. No big deal.
Except, within seconds, I realized… big deal.
Because coming directly toward me, fast, was a silver Audi R8.
I froze. Like, full-body, “brain not working,” kind of frozen.

There are moments in life where time slows down. Where everything gets very clear, very fast. This was one of those moments.
I could see the grill of that car. The expression on the driver’s face (equal parts confusion and rage). And even the little sunglasses dangling from his rearview mirror. That man had money—and zero patience for a kid in a $2,000 car, going the wrong way.
I heard honking, shouting. I saw people on the sidewalk point at me like I was some kind of public safety demonstration. One guy just shook his head, like I’d personally disappointed him.

I did what my instincts told me to do: I cranked the wheel and swerved into the nearest side street—right past a massive green dumpster.
Parked—slammed my car into park. And just sat there.
I was shaking. My face was hot. I felt like I’d just survived an extreme sport, except the only thing I’d done was make a left turn.

And then the thoughts came, one by one, loud and clear:
Did I actually just do that?
Am I still alive?
Is it too late to move back home?

I slumped down in my seat, like hiding would help. I was parked beside literal garbage, and somehow it still felt like a step up from what had just happened.
I remember looking around to make sure no one had followed me; as if the Audi guy was going to chase me down, and hand me a bill for emotional damages.

Eventually, the adrenaline wore off, and something strange happened: I started laughing. Like, really laughing. The kind of laugh that starts as a nervous giggle and then snowballs until your stomach hurts. Because in the grand scheme of things… it was kind of hilarious.
I had survived my first real Vancouver experience. Not a sunset on the seawall. Not a cozy coffee shop moment. But a full-blown, wrong-way-down-a-one-way-street near-death experience.

Over time, I got better. I learned the roads. I found a place to live. I even got a credit card—with a limit so low, it was more symbolic than useful, but still. I figured it out. But I’ll never forget that feeling—of being completely out of place, completely lost. And somehow still okay.

And that, my friends, is how I learned about one-way streets.
Not from a sign. Not from a city tour. Not even from Google Maps.
No, I learned about one-way streets the old-fashioned way:
With fear. With adrenaline.
And with a luxury car speeding directly at my face.