As someone in my mid-40’s who is not a digital native, I have a somewhat trivial and love-hate relationship with social media. I often find myself rolling my eyes at some ridiculous posts and wasting precious seconds of my life on others — both are moments I can never get back. However, more recently, I posted a Facebook memory from several years ago. It was a meme simply asking, “You meet your 18-year-old self. You are allowed to say 3 words. What do you say?” To kick start the conversation, I shared that I would tell myself “It gets better.”
At the time, I was a freshman at UCF, experiencing my first real exposure to queerness. I didn’t know what I was, but I certainly knew what I wasn’t. Taken straight from the script of a melodramatic ‘90s lesbian flick, I realized that I was falling in love with my straight roommate. Spoiler alert: it was an epic disaster. I found myself spinning in a whirlpool of endless questions, ever-evolving self-discovery, lack of direction, absolutely no guidance and family rejection; everything felt overwhelming. I didn’t even recognize myself. Like countless other queer youth, I was kidnapped by darkness, despair and depression. Therefore, as in a Hallmark Channel Christmas classic, I wish I could go back as a ghostly fairy godmother figure and whisper into my ear, “It gets better.” It gets much better. It gets so, so much better. And, 28 years later, I can confidently say — it is actually great! Even on the low days, I can still give thanks.
Originally, my post was meant to be an opportunity for us to inspire each other and perhaps spark a sense of gratitude. However, as I kept receiving Facebook notifications, I began to notice a common theme — a recurring sense of regret. There was a weightiness to the three words that many of my fellow queer community members shared. I could sense the sadness, the caution and the remorse.
Having been involved in the LGBTQIA+ movement for years, I am fully aware of the challenges and struggles we face, our history and our aspirations. But this particular post was intended to be a simple, lighthearted discussion starter. Instead, it led me down a path of introspection, sparking numerous questions and ultimately altering my perspective. I understood that our shared experiences are not easy and deviate from the traditional American dream. However, the collective trauma seemed to leap off my screen and ring in my ears. It became evident to me that even those who had the privilege of a less turbulent journey still bore the weight of breaking away from societal narrative and norms. It appeared as if going against the grain in pursuit of our authentic selves created some level of trauma. This, to me, illustrates the firm grip and influence that heteronormative, white upper-class Anglo-Saxon expectations have on us, regardless of our gender, sex, race, religion, ethnicity, ability or country of origin.
My work in the LGBTQIA+ community is my passion, my life’s calling. I know I have an unhealthy entanglement and affair between my personal and professional lives, with such blurred lines that I’ve lost part of myself. Yet, I’m in love with her. When I do this work and organize for the community, I envision my audience of different faces and scenarios that I hope I’m helping, never really knowing the impact. But, with this post, I empathize and feel our collective trauma. The fear. The rejection. The addiction. The mental anguish. The uncertainty and unknown. We carry this collective pain as our burden and our load.
After much thought, I realized that at Come Out With Pride, I am creating spaces for our 18-year-old queer selves, who were inside us fighting to emerge and come out. All we wanted then and now is the freedom and the liberation to be our authentic selves. Therefore, I think about my 18-year-old lost, foolish self and give her grace for not knowing and love her for all her faults and fuck-ups. And I’ve learned and acknowledge that the work I’m doing now is to help heal her and the countless other 18-year-olds trapped in our memories who need to be in a place of love, belonging and acceptance.
As we each carry our crosses, we cannot allow it to define us. But instead at special moments such as Pride, we come together to find collective comfort, remind ourselves that we are not alone and celebrate who we are then and especially NOW!
Tatiana Quiroga is the executive director for Come Out With Pride. She is a proud mother, wife and LGBTQ+ advocate in Central Florida.
