I once believed I had the perfect life laid out in front of me — the family, the future, the career — or at least that’s what I convinced my friends, my family, and, most painfully, myself. For years, I mastered the art of pretending. I would Google how to act, how to respond, even how to defend myself emotionally, all so no one would see the parts of me I was terrified to reveal. I was afraid that if people truly knew me, I would no longer be accepted, that I would be judged, or worse, abandoned. Losing friends or family felt unbearable, so I learned how to bury my emotions so deeply that, eventually, they exploded. I became a puppet in my own mind, controlled by fear and silence.
I learned how to wear different masks depending on where I was or who I was with. I was born in the Bronx, New York — the projects, as anyone from the city would proudly say. New York lives by the phrase, “If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere,” and that’s exactly what my family did. No matter the hardships, they found a way to survive. My parents wanted better for us — better education, fewer mistakes, a future untouched by trouble. They worked full-time jobs and often picked up extra shifts just to keep us financially stable and moving forward.
My grandmother raised my siblings and me, and if she were alive today, she would laugh telling stories about how we were always sneaking out or finding trouble. She was my angel. No matter what I did or how wrong I was, she always had my back. Growing up, I was a tomboy through and through. I loved G.I. Joes, cars, sports, and being outside. Makeup, manicures, and “girly” things never interested me. I wanted to be where the boys were — if they played basketball, I was calling “next” for the game. I was determined and outspoken, never afraid to ask for what I wanted. Growing up in New York teaches you that if you don’t speak up and hustle, you’ll be left behind. The city moves fast, and you either keep up or get passed.
Eventually, my parents saved enough money to leave New York, and we moved to Houston, Texas. At the time, I thought we had moved into a mansion — in reality, it was just a regular two-story house. But compared to New York City, it felt like a dream. I was young and didn’t understand the difference; I was just grateful for what we had. Life picked up speed as I grew older. Basketball became my world. I played in middle school, then at the YMCA, and eventually AAU. Through basketball, I made friends, attended sleepovers, and spent countless nights surrounded by teammates. My parents were always involved — my dad coached and trained me, and my mom never missed a game.
My dad drove my AAU team everywhere, never missing a single moment. My mom made sure her voice was heard from the stands. I remember being the starting point guard, and anytime I was benched, my mom would yell, “Put my daughter back in — you need her!” Those are the moments you don’t fully appreciate until years later. As our family became established in Houston, everyone knew my parents. They appeared inseparable, or at least that’s the picture they painted. I thought everything was perfect — until high school, when my life began to unravel.
My siblings and I are all two years apart, and as my brothers grew older, they started finding their own paths — and trouble followed. School fights turned into legal issues, and tension filled our home. My parents fought often, and we heard it all. One day, I saw my dad physically hit my mom. That moment changed everything. When I asked my mom about it, she told me I must have been dreaming. But I began noticing patterns — the fights became louder, more frequent. I felt helpless. Do I protect my mom? Do I confront my dad? When I asked again, she told me I was too young to understand. She was right — I didn’t.
As I began to understand my attraction to women, I told no one in my family. I was terrified of rejection, especially in a home already filled with fear and abuse. After seeing what my dad did to my mom, I was afraid of what he might do to me. Abuse slowly became normalized in my mind. My life started spiraling. I fell in with the wrong crowd and made choices I had no business making. In my relationships, I recognized patterns of emotional abuse — patterns I had learned at home. My mom noticed changes in me, and just as she had lied to me, I lied to her.
Everything came crashing down when she found a diary I shared with my girlfriend. That was the day she learned I was a lesbian. She sat on my bed crying, questioning herself as a mother, asking where she went wrong. My dad rushed upstairs, and through tears, my mom said, “I think we have a gay daughter.” That was the day my family rejected me. My dad told me to leave, called me names, said I wasn’t his daughter, and began throwing away my clothes — anything he believed was “boy-related.” Everything I feared would happen, did.
After leaving home, depression settled over me like a dark cloud. I didn’t know where to go, who would love me, or how I would survive. Commitment became difficult — I was constantly trying to fill an empty void. When someone got too close, I ran. I buried my truth and pushed away anyone who loved me. My depression deepened after I was raped — twice. I hid everything, convincing myself basketball could save me. On the court, I felt normal, accepted, and safe.
College was my breaking point. Anxiety and depression followed me everywhere. I stopped sleeping, stopped eating, and nearly failed out of school. I wrote apology letters to people I had hurt, convinced I was done. After self-medicating, the girl I was dating came to my apartment after a text I sent. She may never know it, but she saved my life that day.
The next day, I opened up to a professor who helped guide me toward getting help. I learned how to face my pain and forgive myself. I still carried anger toward my dad and confusion about my past. While volunteering, I met a young girl in juvenile detention, and I was asked to mentor her. When she was released, she wrote me a letter saying I saved her life. For the first time, I felt like I had a purpose.
I began using my voice to help others — especially those questioning their sexuality or healing from trauma and sexual assault. Though my platform was small, I took every opportunity to help. I realized my pain could give someone else hope. Giving up would mean everything I survived was for nothing.
In 2015, I met my wife. She became my best friend and my greatest support. We married in 2019, and after four years together, we welcomed our son through a successful IUI cycle. My life continues to grow, and now I have wisdom to pass on. Life isn’t just about me anymore — and for the first time, that feels like everything.
