I lied to everyone even to myself for a long time about having it all. I had the family, the future, and the façade of success. But behind the mask, I was disintegrating. I spent countless hours scouring the internet for how to keep my feelings hidden, how to behave “normally,” and how to ensure no one noticed the pain I was carrying. I was afraid that if others really knew me, they’d leave.
I grew up in the Bronx, New York, where life was quick, loud, and full of struggle. My parents struggled, working double shifts just to provide a brighter future for us. My grandmother took care of my siblings and me while they worked, and she was my shield, my shelter. I was a tomboy who enjoyed sports, G.I. Joe, and basketball. I learned early on that in New York, you must speak up and hustle or you will be left behind.
When my parents were able to save enough money to move to Texas, we had arrived, as far as I knew. Our two-story Houston home was a mansion in my eyes. My dad was my basketball coach and number one booster, and my mom was the loudest spectator in the stands. Life was perfect for a little while. Then came high school, and everything fell apart.
My brothers got into trouble, and our home was soon full of tension. One evening, I witnessed my father striking my mother. I asked her about it, and she said I must have dreamed it. But I saw what I saw. The yelling, the bruises, the lies I began believing that love hurt.
Somewhere around the same time, I started to realize that I was into women. But I was afraid. I had witnessed what my father could do, and I couldn’t afford to become another cause for him to blow his top. I kept that piece of myself hidden, but secrets have a way of coming out. When my mother discovered my diary and learned I was a lesbian, she cried. My dad hurled names at me, tossed my clothes out, and said I wasn’t his daughter. That evening, I lost not only my home, but my identity.
Depression knocked hard. I was unwanted and unloved. I attempted to fill that void through relationships, but pain accompanied me everywhere. Having been raped twice and then being sexually assaulted, I was further submerged into despair. Basketball was my sole escape a place where I felt normal and accepted. But when I went to college, all that I had buried exploded. I was consumed by anxiety and depression. I stopped eating, sleeping, and caring. I wrote goodbye letters and considered ending it all, but a text from my girlfriend that evening saved me.
The following day, I confided in a professor who directed me to seek assistance. Therapy assisted me in confronting my pain, forgiving my father, and learning how to forgive myself. Later, I began mentoring a female in juvenile detention. When she sent me a letter stating that I had rescued her life, I understood that my pain was for a reason.
I started talking freely about survival, identity, and resilience. I wanted them to realize that they were not alone. My history previously a point of shame became my power. I would not be defined by it.
It was in 2015 that I met the woman I would marry. She lit up my darkest moments and let me know that I was worthy of love. We were married in 2019, and after a while, we had a lovely son. Now it is all simple: my mission in life is to raise him with the love, acceptance, and strength that I struggled so long to discover.
Life isn’t perfect, but it’s real. My pain built my strength. My scars became my story. And for the first time, I don’t have to hide who I am.
