I grew up in a religious, Chinese-American household during a time when queer identity simply wasn’t named — let alone accepted. As a teen and young adult in the ’80s and ’90s, I didn’t yet have the words to describe what I was feeling. What I did have was fear, secrecy, and prayer — lots of it. I spent years asking to be “cured,” trying to suppress what I didn’t yet understand. Looking back, I can see that the journey to self-acceptance was always running parallel to my slow, often painful unraveling of the faith framework I’d inherited. My early relationships reflected that inner conflict. They were passionate but unstable, conducted in secrecy, and marked by co-dependence rather than commitment. It wasn’t until my 30s and 40s that I had my first adult relationship — one that grew, over time, into the marriage I’m in today. My husband and I met more than two decades ago, and what began as an on-again, off-again connection eventually evolved into a long-term partnership grounded in growth, empathy, and deep care. Being outsiders taught us we didn’t have to follow anyone else’s script. Choosing marriage became an intentional, even political act. It was never about assimilation. It was about building something that felt true. Over time, I found community. Not always in ways that mirrored me, but in spaces that embraced difference. A dear friend in my 20s introduced me to the wider gay world: the clubs, the culture, the freedom of Pride. And while I didn’t identify with every part of it, I came to understand that there’s room in queer life for every kind of story — including mine. Today, I belong to a quiet corner of the queer world, and also to a lineage of people who survived and reimagined. What I hope to offer others — especially those still wrestling with shame or uncertainty — is a place of rest. A checkpoint. A reminder that your instincts toward truth and connection are worth following, and that the world you’re building for yourself is one worth living in.