Queer Mom Chronicles: Happy Pride Y’all!

I came out when my son was almost five years old. He was at an age where we could talk about what my identity meant and about life as a queer person. It was important for me that he not only understand my queerness in relation to his life but understand the LGBTQ+ community as a whole. Young kids are often way more open minded; it’s much easier to explain queer life to a four and a half year old and have him accept it.

One of the ways we did that was through picture books. There are so many picture books for kids that explain queer life and tell queer stories. One of his favorites was a book about Stonewall; not just the riot, but the building itself. When we lived in New York, we would pass it often because it was near the salon I took him to for haircuts. When we got to the part about the riot, I appealed to his empathetic nature and his sense of fairness to make it all make sense. Once he understood it in terms he could make sense of, I knew it would be easy to build on that over time.

By the following year, he understood that Pride started as a riot and why it’s important to acknowledge the origins of the month. I was able to teach him the un-whitewashed version of the Stonewall riots, giving power to the black and brown folks that put their bodies on the line so that his mom could be free to love freely. He already knew that people fear those who are different and how that can lead to violence, but that marginalized groups always find ways to fight back. But I didn’t only focus on that. I did teach him about the joy of being queer, and that even though Pride’s roots are a riot, we continue to celebrate to show the world what liberation and joy look like. That’s why we have a parade every year. When he was younger, the parade was not his vibe, and then the pandemic happened, so we had to wait to celebrate publicly.

Last year was the first time my family celebrated Pride, and woo wee, did we go all out. LA actually has TWO Pride weekends. West Hollywood Pride is the first weekend of the month (by time as you all read this, we will have already been!) so we went to the parade, which was a fun time. Driving would have been a nightmare, so we took public transportation; the city has trolleys that take you to the start of the parade route. On the trolley, there was an older gay man with a speaker playing a bunch of 70s and 80s disco, but then he put on the soundtrack to Rent and the whole trolley whooped. Did my partner and I participate in a singalong of “La Vie Boheme” and “Seasons of Love”? You bet your ass we did. It’s truly one of the gayest things I’ve ever done in public, and I loved every fucking second of it. That’s what Pride is all about!

Somehow, we ended up in an area with a lot of families, so he found other kids to play with. People were handing out flags and signs, so I taught him to chant “no cops at Pride,” and he really got into it while we waited. He got a beach ball and it kept him occupied, which was a godsend. His other favorite part was seeing JoJo Siwa on a float; he told all of his friends about it at school the next day. We walked the length of the parade because there’s a Salt & Straw at the end and we could all use an ice cream.

I planned our summer trip to New York to coincide with New York Pride. It was something I never got to experience when I lived there, and I just had to go. I convinced my best friend to come (she’d never been either), and I requested my mom’s presence, mainly so she could take my son home afterwards. To my absolute surprise, my dad decided he wanted to join in on the fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve gone to a Pride parade with your eight-year-old son and your seventy-seven year old dad who’s going blind and walks with a cane. But they had a great time! It was really special to experience that day with my whole family.

We also did Dyke Day in LA, which was so much fun. Some friends brought a whole picnic setup, and we brought our puppy and his puppy bestie. The pups were absolutely the belles of the ball. If you’re single, bring a puppy to Dyke Day. You won’t be single for long. The NYC Dyke March was a lot of fun too, especially because we skipped the marching part and waited for the march to reach Washington Square Park. You can hear them coming, and the energy in the park is electric. We hadn’t planned to stay long, but our kiddo had a blast playing with other kids who had families that looked like ours. We had to drag him out of the park.

This year, I’m planning on doing a Pride slideshow with his class. Most of his classmates know that he has two moms, but I don’t think they truly understand what that means. I did a slideshow presentation for Black History Month, and it went over really well, so I’m super excited to do this one. I’m going to teach them some vocabulary words, some LGBTQ+ icons, and have a printout of the progress Pride flag for them to color. My son gets mini lessons all the time, but I have no idea what his classmates know. I’m a little nervous, but I know the kids in his class are open to learning, and who knows? Maybe they’ll be able to teach someone close to them a little something.

I was curious to see what some other families are going to be doing this year. The WeHo Pride parade is full of families, but I know that not every family does that. Below are my favorite responses.

“I will be in Arlington, VA reading my debut picture book Molly’s Tuxedo at the Family Pride event at the Museum of Modern Art Arlington, co-sponsored by Rainbow Families. My daughter is home from college and will be there, too to help me out.” – Vicki Johnson

“We always talk a little bit about history and why we have to be visible and celebrate and activate because we weren’t always free to do so and many people fought for us to be here. Every year she gets older we talk a little deeper and a little more real in that regard. Otherwise it’s just a party and it’s really not. It’s important to me she knows that part especially now.” – Audrey Babcock

No matter how you celebrate, I hope you have a Happy Pride month!

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Queer Mom Chronicles is a monthly column where I examine all of the many facets of queer parenthood through my tired mom eyes. 

Queer Mom Chronicles: Why Is Bedtime Such a Battle?

Sleep. I feel like it’s one of the biggest mysteries of being a mom: Is my kid ever going to sleep through the night? Are they getting enough sleep? “WHY WON’T YOU JUST GO TO SLEEP??”

My son is nine, almost ten, and while we’re long past the days of nap schedules, I still worry about the quality of sleep he’s getting. There are mornings where he wakes up groggy, sleep still crusting in his little eyes and purple bags so prominent I could put a wallet in them. Chances are, he woke up too early or went to sleep too late, and we’re all going to pay for it at some point. Mainly because he turns into a real dick when he’s tired, and I get it. But as his mom, it’s my job to make sure that he’s getting as much rest as he can. It’s hard at this age though, because he’s always so busy. More importantly, he doesn’t want to go to sleep. (I know, I don’t get it either!)

When he was a baby, he was what some would call a “difficult” sleeper. I swear, he just wanted to be awake all the time. I would give him a bath with that lavender baby soap and rub him down with lotion, swaddle him, nurse him and put him down. What felt like five minutes later, he’d be like, “I’m up bitch! Let’s party!” If I got him down early, he’d be up early and would want to hang out and watch TV with me…at 6 a.m. First of all, he couldn’t hold up his own head! I was exhausted and worried that he wasn’t getting enough sleep.

One thing I knew for sure was that sleep training or “cry it out” weren’t for us. I’m not going to pass judgment on parents who use those methods, but I have my own reasons for not wanting to. I couldn’t bear the thought of making him cry because he needed and wanted comfort to sleep. Both things felt like they would be more for me than him, because I was going against his natural body rhythms to make him conform to my beliefs of what I thought his sleep schedule needed to be.

“Some babies just do things their own way,” people would tell me.

As annoying as it was, I had a baby (and toddler) who was more nocturnal than would be ideal. Some of that had to do with our lifestyle at the time. I was working afternoons/evenings, and he came with me, so we would get home around what would normally be bedtime. He was too stimulated to take a nap at a “normal” time, so he took a late nap, which led to a later bedtime. Was it ideal? Absolutely fucking not. But it was what it was. According to my mom, I was also a toddler who liked being up late. (I’m still that way, I’d prefer to stay up late than get up early.) So maybe there was something genetic to it as well. When it comes to kids, nothing lasts forever, so I knew this was a wave I’d just have to ride until we came out on the other side.

When I stopped nursing him to sleep, we had to create a new routine. He still slept in bed with me (it was just the two of us) and he still needed the closeness of nursing without the actual act. I used to fall asleep to music every night, so I thought that might be a good thing to try with him. We found a playlist on Spotify with piano ballads and every night after lights out, I would put his music on, and he would drift off to sleep. He doesn’t like a completely dark room because there was always a dim light on when he was a baby, so I would lay next to him and play games on my phone. The glow from my phone mimicked the dim light, and was comforting for him. This change in routine also coincided with his starting preschool, and school definitely changes your kid’s relationship with sleep.

The American Academy of Sleep Medicine created sleep guidelines for kids, which has been endorsed by the American Academy of Pediatrics. For school aged kids, they recommend 9-12 hours of sleep a night. We’re lucky enough to live close to his school, which means he can sleep until 7 a.m. and still get to school on time. Because I worked from home, I’d pick him up at 3:15, we’d have dinner early, and usually he was in bed no later than 8 p.m. It was a good routine, but then the pandemic came in and totally messed everything up.

Once he was home all the time, sleep felt like a punishment. “Why do I need to go to sleep?” he’d whine. It wasn’t like he was doing much of anything a lot of the time, so by his logic, he didn’t need to sleep. He wasn’t expending enough energy to support my claims of sleep being restorative. Much like we adults were feeling, he felt like sleep was just a thing that happened between the monotony of one day to the next. I worried about his sleep habits; he often took a long time to fall asleep (sometimes over 45 minutes) and woke early. He was prone to meltdowns midday or in the evening because he wasn’t getting enough sleep, but bedtime was still such a fight. I shared about our struggles on Facebook and found other parents were struggling too, which was comforting.

A study released in 2022, showed that the pandemic absolutely fucked with the sleep of all kids, not just mine. Before the pandemic, around 25% of kids had trouble sleeping. During the pandemic, that amount nearly doubled; 46% of kids were having trouble sleeping, which the study noted was “alarming.” Much of it was attributed to the way the pandemic messed with kids’ routines — spending more time on screens for school or socializing, spending less time moving their bodies, and the way that the long expanses of idle time messed with their schedules. Things got better for us once he was able to go to the playground with some regularity, but the 18 months he wasn’t in regular school were LONG. I found myself missing getting up at 7 a.m. and fighting with him to get ready for school.

Last year, he started an afterschool music program, which changed our routine yet again. Several days a week, he doesn’t get home until after 6 p.m., and I try to have his dinner waiting, but he still needs time to decompress from the school day. For him, that means he’s watching YouTube or playing Minecraft on his tablet. Then it’s time for homework and a bath before I try to get him in bed no later than 9 p.m. Sometimes we’re more successful than others. Because homework may take longer, or I didn’t get dinner made in time, or we both lose track of time while he’s in the bath. Or maybe he needs a little more decompression time or wants to show us the new song he’s learning on his cello or he needs some mom time. It’s hard when you’re fighting against a racing clock to make sure he’s getting enough sleep.

If you’re a parent, you know how hard it is to get a kid to go to sleep when they don’t want to. I truly wish I could tell you it gets easier, but I don’t like to lie. There are days when bedtime is a breeze: I announce it’s time and the boy starts the routine without complaint. Unfortunately, that is not the norm. Most days, there’s whining, huffing and me screaming about him dawdling in the bathroom to avoid having to go to sleep. He really thinks I don’t know how long it should take to brush his teeth. The weekends are especially tough, because I give him a little more leeway with what time he goes to bed. I don’t get crazy, I let him stay up for like an extra half hour or something. He’s very rarely in bed after 9pm unless we were doing something special. I told you, he turns into a dick once he’s been up too long past his bedtime. Then everything is so much harder.

Every kid is different, but there are some things that experts (and me) can agree on to create less of a battle at bedtime.

• A routine is important. My kiddo knows that when it’s time for bed, he has to brush teeth, put on pjs, feed his guinea pigs, say goodnight to everyone and then get in bed. We put on his night light, I tuck him in and put on his nighttime music. (Right now he’s listening to cello music) When he was younger, I would read a bedtime story, but now he’s over that. On the occasions he has a babysitter, he can do the routine without any assistance.
• Screens off 30 minutes before bed. I noticed during the pandemic that if he was on his electronics until bedtime, it took longer for him to wind down and fall asleep. And then he woke up earlier because he was eager to get back to his game. Now he knows that his tablet or Switch goes off 30 minutes before bed on non homework nights. He can play with toys or watch TV with us until it’s time for bed if he’s not taking a bath that night.
• Physical activity (if you can). Kids have a lot of energy to burn, and if they don’t burn enough of it during the day, it’s harder for them to wind their mind and body down for bedtime. An hour or so before bedtime, have them do some sort of physical activity that will expend that energy and help them sleep. I don’t allow my kid to do his Power Ranger moves too close to bedtime because he gets hyped, but maybe taking a walk or if your kid is into yoga, they can do a few moves before bed. Fresh air also does the trick, I’ve found.
• No sugar too close to bed. After a certain point in the night, I make my kid switch to drinking water and don’t allow sugary snacks. Fruit or veggies are okay, as well as chips or pretzels. A full belly helps kids sleep better, so a light snack 30 minutes before it’s time to brush teeth can be helpful!

What have you noticed about your kids and sleep? How do you get through the bedtime battle?

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Queer Mom Chronicles is a monthly column where I examine all of the many facets of queer parenthood through my tired mom eyes. 

Queer Mom Chronicles: When You’re the Only Lesbian Mom on the Playground

I’ve written before about my desire for more queer mom friends. Making mom friends is really hard. And it’s only made harder when you’re often the only queer mom in your mom circle.

When my son was born, we lived with my parents. I was lucky because my best friend at the time lived nearby and had a son the same age as mine. But I needed more than one friend, so I decided to start attending one of those baby groups. Our local library hosted one every week, so I’d load up my baby and we’d go. It was cool for him to be around a bunch of other babies (I guess, he was an infant) but more importantly, it was nice to be around other moms. I could talk to them about naps and feeding them solids, who was walking and talking, and lament about things like breastfeeding and the lack of sleep that came with early motherhood. But inevitably, they’d talk about their husbands or boyfriends, and I would be left out. At the time, I wasn’t out as queer and had recently ended a relationship with my son’s father. One minute I felt like I was part of the group, and the next, I remembered I was on the sidelines.

I was so desperate for mom friends and to feel included that I went to church. Now before you say anything, yes I know there are inclusive religious folks. But these are not the people I encountered. I became friends with the pastor’s wife — we would usually meet at the neighborhood playground, but sometimes she invited us over. One day we got into a very heated debate about gay marriage. At that moment, I didn’t feel comfortable outing myself to her, but I gradually stopped hanging out with her after expressing my disappointment in her views. We stayed Facebook friends, and after I came out, she tried to insinuate that I was an intolerant lesbian (at the time, I identified as bisexual or queer, so she was wrong on two counts). It was the one time a mom friend had turned on me because of who I was, and it was an important lesson.

My son was school-aged when I started dating women, but it wasn’t until I met my partner that the person I was dating became a part of his life regularly. This happened to coincide with the pandemic, which means we weren’t interacting with other parents much. And when we were, it was happening separately. She often took him to the local playground after virtual school, and during that time, the other moms came to recognize her. For her, it was difficult to relate to them because she had only been a mom for a few months. The first time I took him to the same playground, the kids he played with repeatedly asked him which one of us was his “real” mom, well within earshot of their mothers. Not once did those moms stop their kids and tell them that was an invasive question. Those moms had made assumptions about our family dynamic too; they seemed fine with there being two moms, but no one could hide their surprise that I’m Black.

The regular moms who knew my partner were cordial to me, but they didn’t try to engage me or invite me into their social group the way they did with my partner. They gushed about how much they loved her and how sweet my son was, but they didn’t have any interest in getting to know me. It was hurtful, because whether they intended to or not, they made it very clear which one of us they felt was worthy of their time. And unlike my partner, I would have been more interested in doing the mom talk with them.

As far as I know, my partner and I are the only same-sex parents at my son’s K-8 school. The school itself is incredibly inclusive; the administration knows our family dynamic and are always warm and welcoming to my partner and I. Before the pandemic, there was a middle school GSA, and many classrooms have inclusive books. But I know there’s been negative feedback from families in the past. I’d been told by several administrators that I was rare for pushing for more inclusivity in classrooms. When I volunteered with the GSA, they were shocked to see a parent who wanted to be involved. And not only a parent, but a queer parent. Even though no one had directly othered me, I felt it, because I knew my beliefs were so vastly different from the typical parent in our community.

There’s a certain amount of risk calculation you have to do when you’re the only queer mom in a group of parents. It’s a sad truth: You simply don’t know how those parents will react. And more importantly, you don’t know how that will affect the way they treat you. Or how their kids will treat your kid. One of my biggest fears is that one of my son’s friends will be told to stop hanging out with him because their family doesn’t approve of his two moms. Kids might be able to make their own assumptions about people, but they’re still very influenced by the adults in their life.

Last school year, my son told me that one of his male classmates called another little boy in their class “gay.” Of course, my kid knew exactly what that meant and asked me if hugging his male friend made him gay. We talked about it, and I told him that next time someone said that, he could say “my moms are gay, and being gay is great!” The whole situation gave me an uneasy feeling though. Look, I know kids can pick things up from anywhere, but I had to wonder who at home this kid heard that from. Then I had to do a risk assessment on what would happen if that kid’s family found out one of his classmates had gay moms. Would it become a thing? This was a kid he considered a friend; I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that. At the same time, I don’t want my kid being friends with someone who would use gay as a derogatory comment. Especially a kid who was only in the second grade.

Interactions with other parents are always awkward, if I’m being totally honest. But it’s most obvious when you’re the only queer moms in the group. This is the most obvious at birthday parties. When I was a kid, my friends’ dads never came to a birthday party. But that’s not the case for my kid’s peers. But the dads just kind of sit there mostly silent. My partner and I are very chatty people and will converse with most of the parents at a party. So it makes me wonder why the other moms drag their husbands along if they’re not going to engage. It’s weird!

While I’m grateful that so far none of the hetero parents have been blatantly exclusionary to my partner and I, it would be nice to feel more included in the group.

Tell me, have you found this to be true? How do you cope with it?

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Queer Mom Chronicles is a monthly column where I examine all of the many facets of queer parenthood through my tired mom eyes. 

Queer Mom Chronicles: I Don’t Want To Be a Parenting Influencer

During my days as a parenting writer, I often got lumped in with parenting influencers during press events. When you’re a parent who chooses to create content around raising a family, people are quick to call you things like a blogger or influencer, never taking into account there are parents who create content that goes beyond the things happening in their own home. I have always been against the term influencer for what I do. I’m a writer, and there is a difference between the two.

As I’ve talked about, there are not a lot of queer writers who write about being parents. As I was navigating those early days of being an openly queer mom, I was desperate to read more about this life. And then after my partner and I started dating, I wanted to read more about other families like ours. But that content doesn’t really exist in written form, so I had to turn to social media, mainly Instagram. There, I started to find queer mom influencers who were creating punchy social media content showcasing their families. I was excited that they existed, but I struggled to relate. I wanted to dig deeper than an Instagram story or caption under a goofy dance video could go. I wanted to connect on what felt like a more “real” level than is possible on social media.

Please don’t take this as me putting down queer parent social media influencers. What they do is great — it’s so much work for what can be very little reward. I just cannot fathom being a full time digital content creator. I make one Instagram reel and need a nap and a Xanax. So kudos to them for even taking that responsibility on AT ALL.

I’ve cultivated my social media to be a space for me. I post when and what I want and I only follow accounts that make me feel good. Because I started all of my social accounts before I made the decision to have a forward facing job like being a writer, I’ve always used them as places to share my silly little thoughts. I made a conscious decision to not do a lot of education on social media even though I have a lot of followers who found me through my work. It’s a way to not only protect my peace in a space where that’s really hard, but to maintain a work-life balance where the lines are already really blurry. Being a queer parent social media influencer doesn’t just blur those lines, it makes them nonexistent.

For me, there is a line when it comes to being visible. Being a queer parent social media influencer crosses that line for me.

Queer parent social media influencers create the platforms they do because they want to create visibility. They want to become a beacon for other queer families to see themselves among the noise of parenting influencer spaces, to show that queer families merely exist. Visibility is one very large component of normalizing the existence of queer families. If we show them, “hey, I’m just like you because my partner hates doing the dishes too!” then maybe they won’t teach their kids to be little homophobes and tease ours in the schoolyard about having two moms. But when you’re talking about social media, you’re constantly fighting against the algorithm. There have been enough studies that show algorithms create an echo chamber for social media users; whatever they most engage with is what they’re going to see. So if those hetero moms aren’t explicitly looking for queer moms to relate to, they ain’t gonna find them. But you know who ALWAYS seems to find them? Bigots.

Without fail, some homophobic, racist, etc. bigot will show up with some sort of nasty or dangerous comment. Every so often, the queer parent influencers I follow will do a post or story about how they receive these awful comments on their posts and I have to think why would you open yourself up to this? Call me cynical, but acceptance doesn’t feel worth putting myself and my family through that. Especially when you get comments that tell you that the world would be better off without you. Nowadays, it’s just too easy to find things like your address or phone number. It’s one thing to subject yourself to potential threats, but it’s a VERY different thing when you have children. Especially now when queer people are the subject of so much widespread hate from the government, it emboldens regular people to act on those threats.

There are plenty of ways to be visible as queer parents without subjecting ourselves to the hate and vitriol of social media. I’m a work-from-home freelancer, so my schedule is flexible. That has led to me being a more visible presence at my son’s school. Parents are finally allowed back on campus as volunteers this year, which is something I was excited about. When the school year started, we had a virtual meeting with his teacher and explained our family dynamic and asked about how she creates an inclusive classroom environment. She invited us to come and help out whenever we had the opportunity to, and I knew that I would help out as much as I could.

My partner and I have cultivated a good relationship with my son’s teacher, so she offers both of us volunteer opportunities as they arise. My partner usually has to work, but she was able to come help with their holiday class pancake breakfast, and it was a lot of fun. It was the first time his class got to see us as a united front, and while they all know exactly who we are without each other, it’s important to be seen together.

“So, you’re both the moms?” one of the kids asked my partner.
“Yup, I am,” she said with a smile.
“That makes sense,” the kid said and walked off.

As far as I know, we’re the only same-sex parents at the school. That’s why it’s so crucial for me to show up when I can. If kids see me and know me as one of the two moms in our family, they begin to just accept it at face value. When my son says he has two moms, chances are they know one or both of us from seeing us around school. Parents know me because they see me at pickup or drop-off wearing my “who’s all gay here?” shirt.

In addition to volunteering with my son’s class, I also volunteer with his former first grade teacher’s class. I help out with their dance class and read to them during their reading period. They’re the sweetest, most loving little buggers I’ve ever met. Every time I see them, they run up to me with big smiles and hug my knees. They know about my wife and son, and they still think I’m the coolest person they’ve ever met.

Knowing me gives them someone tangible to relate queerness to. Because if they hear someone in their life disparage a queer person, they can think: “I know Miss Sai, and she’s not any of the bad things I’m hearing.” They know that I’m kind, and I’m a mom, and even though I don’t let them act foolish, I like to have fun with them. I’m the same lady who baked funfetti cupcakes for my son’s class because they were well behaved on their field trip. The first graders know that I brought them fruit snacks and candy canes. They can see my kiddo is well loved and a good peer to them.

By showing up every day and being as present as I can around school, I am doing my best to destigmatize the myth of what queer people for a group of kids who may not know any in real life. I show parents that I’m just like them, not because I’m exposing my life to them, but because we’re all standing at the lost and found grabbing our kids’ jackets for the umpteenth time this month. When they see my family, they know that there’s nothing different about us. And to me, that’s so much more impactful than a TikTok meme video on Instagram. That’s why I continue to do what I do.

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Queer Mom Chronicles is a monthly column where I examine all of the many facets of queer parenthood through my tired mom eyes. 

Queer Mom Chronicles: This Is Not Your Typical Mommy Blog

Welcome to Queer Mom Chronicles, where I get real about all things parenting, but especially all things QUEER parenting. I’m by no means an expert, but I am incredibly open about stumbling my way through this mom life thing.

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Hi, my name is Sa’iyda and I’m not a cool mom, I’m a queer mom. I’ve been a mom since 2013 when my son was born. His dad (yes he has a dad, more on that another time) and I split up when he was a baby, and I was a single mom for six and a half years. In February of 2020, I met my partner and quickly realized she was the missing piece to our little family. We live in Los Angeles and have FIVE pets: two cats, one puppy and two guinea pigs.

Before I started writing for Autostraddle, I spent five years writing for Scary Mommy, a popular parenting and lifestyle website. During my time there, I wrote about a lot of typical parenting stuff: potty training, having a kid who doesn’t like to wear pants, and mom burnout. I also talked about things that were unique to me: being a Black mom to a mixed race kiddo, being low income, and of course, being queer. Writing about being a queer mom wasn’t a conscious choice; it’s just a part of my life, and most of my work revolves around my lived experiences.

This is what you need to know about parenting digital media: It’s run almost exclusively by white cis-het people. Most of the editorial teams are women. These factors play into things like the site’s audience, the writing staff, and the kind of content that is produced. During my time writing parenting content, I never had an editor of color or a queer editor (as far as I know!). With those things in mind, I tempered my expectations about what kind of queer parenting content I would pitch to my editors. When you’re a marginalized writer writing for a largely not marginalized audience, you have to approach your work differently. 

As a Black, queer mom writing in a space dominated by heterosexual white women, I always felt like I had to educate the audience. I couldn’t write a piece that merely spoke my truth — I had to do it in a way that made sense to them. More often than not, I didn’t write about queer parenting stuff unless I was running out of regular ideas. It didn’t feel worth it most of the time, because I couldn’t guarantee that the people who would understand — or need — it would even see it. Most of the writing I do is intended to create personal connections, and it’s hard to do that when I know the people reading don’t get it. When you’re a queer parent writing for a largely hetero audience, it feels like you’re pleading your case to exist. After a while, it becomes demoralizing. I remember writing a piece about why Pride events were important once we became a two-mom family. A lot of it came down to having to explain visibility and the significance of seeing other queer families. If I wrote an essay like that for Autostraddle, I wouldn’t have to explain the importance of visibility; our readers already know what I’m saying.

I originally came up with the idea for my essay “Are All The Queer Moms Hanging Out Without Me?” back in 2021. But I knew I couldn’t have it published on Scary Mommy or any of the other mainstream sites I usually wrote for. The audience simply wasn’t there. Mainly, I didn’t want hetero moms to take over with their comments about how it’s hard for all moms to find friends without recognizing the unique struggles queer moms go through. I didn’t want them taking up space asking why we as queer moms needed to feel special.

“I feel like there’s nowhere to go for queer parenting advice or even to see examples of queer parenting/queer parents,” queer mom Kelly Shira told me via email. I met Kelly and her wife after that essay ran on Autostraddle.

Mainstream parenting publications don’t have the infrastructure to cater to marginalized parents. When you look at the mastheads for sites like Scary Mommy, Romper, and Parents, they are overwhelmingly white top to bottom. Even with slightly diverse editorial teams, the people at the top making decisions are white. Take for example, Bustle Digital Group, who owns both Scary Mommy and Romper. Their Chief Creative Officer is a cisgender heterosexual white woman, and the teams she’s created reflect that. As a result, so does the type of content those publications put out.

“I am very mindful of the publications I submit to. While I want to have a hand in normalizing my queer family, as a freelance writer, I also want to get paid for my work,” Nikkya Hargrove, a Black queer mom of three and freelance writer explained. We worked together at Scary Mommy for several years.

She also made a great point about what it’s like to be a queer parent writing for parenting publications: “I’ve had editors seek me out because I’ve worked with them before and it’s Pride Month, which isn’t cool either. There are 335 other days in the year, and I am gay all 365 of them.”

Traditional parenting publications always like to parade marginalized parents out when it’s convenient. But they often “forget” we exist all the time, and our stories deserve telling every day of the year. It makes it difficult to want to write content when you know that it only exists to serve as a lesson to less marginalized parents.

Some editors and publications will make an effort, but because the parenting world is largely white, cisgender, and heterosexual, finding marginalized writers who wanted to regularly write in that space was difficult. When I first joined the writing staff at Scary Mommy, I was the only Black writer. While I was never the only queer writer, I was the only queer editor, and the only editor of color. One of my goals was to make a designated space on the site specifically for queer parents, but I was never able to make that come to fruition.

Amplifying marginalized voices was always my first priority, but knowing the audience, it was hard to get people to want to open themselves up. The comments sections on our pieces were often a lot more vitrolic than an essay written by a white parent about “typical” parenting content. And while Scary Mommy made an effort to curb those comments, other sites (notably Parents) would not do any sort of mitigating of the comment section to protect the heart of the writer. No amount of money can make an experience like that bearable.

Parenting digital media, much like the rest of digital media, is going through major layoffs and editorial teams changing. In the fall of 2021, BDG acquired Scary Mommy and two other parenting brands: The Dad and Fatherly, making them the owners of the most parenting brands. Parents has two offshoots under their umbrella: Parents Latina and Kindred, which is for Black parents. Both of these brands have had major shake ups in the last year and a half. Most of Scary Mommy’s original editorial team (me included) chose to leave because we didn’t agree with the editorial changes made to the site. One of the biggest ones was letting go of the diverse group of writers that were there despite commitments to diversity. Both Parents and Romper have had major layoffs as well. These changes lead to further homogenizing the digital parenting landscape.

“Change happens when people not only feel the responsibility to be inclusive, but when they also take responsibility to protect the work and people who they are including. Too much lip service happens in digital media, particularly in parenting spaces when it comes to representing queer parents and queer kids,” said Ambery Leventry, a writer and editor who is also a queer parent. (Fun fact: Amber was my earliest queerleader as I went through my coming out journey!)

Mainstream parenting media isn’t the same place it was when I started writing back in 2017. Engaging personal stories are becoming scarce in favor of service pieces that ask and answer questions. The heart of what drew so many parents to that space is withering away in front of our eyes. As more queer parents, especially moms, search the internet for connection, those pieces are ceasing to exist. Part of that is because the people in charge can’t see the benefit; they’re all obsessed with metrics: how many clicks a piece gets, which could translate into advertising dollars in their pockets.

I often wonder if it’s worth trying to fight for space in mainstream parenting media. It’s clear that queer parents aren’t a priority for any editorial teams — maybe we should just fully divest from them altogether. But it’s a difficult decision to make — regardless of who is writing, they will try to put out service content that caters to queer parents. So do we suck it up and at least make ourselves available to accurately report those pieces? Is there an alternative?

These are questions I don’t quite have the answers to just yet. But they’re also what made me want to write this column. There aren’t spaces for queer parents to come together in community. We don’t have sites we can go to and learn about things that are unique to our families. I’m happy to be here in community with all of you. I want to create space for other queer moms to commiserate and feel seen and heard. To feel a little less alone.

What are some things you want to hear me talk about? Tell me in the comments!

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Queer Mom Chronicles is a monthly column where I examine all of the many facets of queer parenthood through my tired mom eyes. 

Into the A+ Advice Box #77: Should You Co-Parent With Your Queer Friends?

Feature image via rparaboe / Getty Images

Welcome to the 77^th edition of Into the A+ Advice Box, in which we answer all the queer and lesbian advice questions from A+ members who submitted their queries into our A+ ask box! Here, we answer your questions in a space just for A+ members, safe from the general public. (No guarantees regarding your ex, however.) Here, the Autostraddle team’s doling out advice on everything from sex and relationships, to friend and family dynamics, career questions, style, and more! We’re doing this column TWICE a month, now.

Every SECOND A+ Advice box of the month is themed! This month’s theme is FORGIVENESS/ACCOUNTABILITY.  What do you need help being accountable for? Who do you need help forgiving? Are there patterns of resentment, grudges, avoidance, making excuses that you want to get out from under? We are going to practice holding ourselves accountable and forgiving others, together in this advice box. Get those questions in by Monday, February 6th! Go! Do it! This will publish on the 17th!

The general Into the A+ Advice Boxes, like this one, where we take questions on practically any topic, publish on the first Friday of each month, and you can send questions on any topic, at any time.

So, now, let’s dig in!!

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Q1:

I’m a 29yo cis woman and have never had an orgasm that wasn’t from my own hands or me using a toy. I’m self-conscious about how long it takes me and how I need a specific pressure, so when I’m with someone, I’ve shortcutted to them holding me and me just doing it myself in my specific way. But I feel like I’m losing out of the pleasure of having a partner get me there. I feel like it would likely be physically possible for me, but the problem seems like a mental thing — I have a lot of anxieties about giving up that control and fears of it not working that are blocking me from getting there. I also feel shy/awkward/(demanding?) telling my partner what to do. All this being said… I talked to my partner about this and they are down to experiment and try to make this happen! Any advice or tips as I embark on this journey?

A:

Vanessa: Okay, my answer has two parts. First, I’ll address your question — it’s so great that your partner is down to experiment and wants to make you feel good. Hell yeah, as they should. Because you’ve expressed that you can make yourself orgasm and you think it might be mental, I want to really give you permission to relax and take as longggg as you need when experimenting. Remember, sex should be about pleasure! So if you think a full body massage would get you in the mood, ask for that. If you really like a specific kind of pressure, show your partner what that looks like and then take some time with them trying it out. You’re not demanding for asking for what you want — most people I know LOVE when a lover tells them exactly what works — you’re gifting them a secret key to your body! That rules. I find mutual masturbation very sexy, and taking turns can be hot too — so maybe do a masturbation night where you each take turns getting yourself off while the other person watches. If you’re comfortable you can narrate what you’re doing out loud so the other person really gets a full tutorial. Hopefully if your partner is doing this too it’ll feel more like a paired activity and not you “being demanding” although I want to reiterate that you’re not doing anything wrong for asking what you want when it comes to pleasure! I’d also encourage you to think of these experiments as a fun journey, not a mission where the goal is to orgasm. See what happens. Notice how you feel. What keeps you in the moment? What causes you to get anxious and in your head? How can you make sex more relaxing and fun? The second part of my answer is not what you asked but I’d be remiss not to say it: it’s TOTALLY FINE to make yourself come during sex while your partner holds you (or doesn’t hold you, or watches you, or or or etc). If YOU feel like you want to practice the act of orgasming from a partner’s touch, I support you 100%, but if it’s some kind of external pressure that is making you feel like you must do that, I want to say — that’s bullshit! Do you! I personally love making myself orgasm while my partner does a variety of other things to my body, and it doesn’t feel any less like sex or any less fulfilling — it feels like I know what I want and everyone involved in the sex I’m having wants me to get it. I hope these two parts of the answer help and I wish you and your partner a very fun and sexy ride!

Ro: I whole-heartedly co-sign all of Vanessa’s excellent advice and have one suggestion to add. If you decide that you really want to orgasm from your partner’s touch because you want to for the sake of novelty, experimentation, and fun (and not because you’re feeling external pressure to do so), here’s one way to push through any physical and/or mental blocks that might be getting in your way. First, like Vanessa suggested, show your partner exactly how you like to be touched. Then, once they’ve got the technique down, have your partner take a break and use your own hands to get yourself almost to the point of orgasm. Once you’re almost there, let your partner take over and bring you to climax. This can help your body get used to the feeling of letting someone else make you come, and after repeating this a few times, you might feel relaxed and confident enough to let your partner get you there from start to finish.

Q2:

Hey team!

I’m hoping for advice on being a Cool Queer Aunt! I am, as far as I know, the only queer person in my immediate family, and one of only two queer people (and the other is less “out” than I am) in my extended family. I am also in a straight-appearing relationship.

My oldest nibling is six, and there are several younger ones ages one through five. I have enough niblings that at least one of them is likely to be queer and/or trans, and even if none of them are, I want to make sure they’re seeing a happy, healthy, queer adult person in their lives. But because they’re young and I’m in this straight-appearing relationship, I’m not sure how to be visibly queer in an age-appropriate way (they’re too young to know what my very gay jewelry means, for instance, and I haven’t dated enough for an ex-girlfriend comment to come up in normal conversation.) I don’t anticipate any pushback from my siblings, but it doesn’t feel organic to just say “bi the way I’m bi, here’s what that means” to the kids. Any advice on how to introduce my queerness to them in an age-appropriate way? What about as they get older? How does one become the Cool Queer Aunt?

A:

Casey: Surprise, surprise, my answer for this is books! There are so many rad queer picture books and board books available these days. I think reading them to your niblings is a great way to introduce them to LGBTQ+ identities / themes and it will give you a casual opportunity to talk about your bi identity as it relates to the book or in response to any questions your niblings ask. Some books to check out:

Bathe the Cat by Alice B. McGinty and David Roberts

Pride Puppy by Robin Stevenson and Julie McLaughlin

My Moms Love Me by Anna Membrino and Joy Hwang Ruiz

Mama and Mommy and Me in the Middle by Nina LaCour and Kaylani Juanita

Love, Violet by Charlotte Sullivan Wild and Charlene Chua

Pride Colors by Robin Stevenson

Love in the Wild by Katy Tanis

Ritu Weds Chandni by Ameya Narvankar

We Are Little Feminists: Families by Little Feminist, Archaa Shrivastav, and Lindsey Blakey

I also think taking your niblings to the Pride parade and/or other queer events that might be available where you live is another great way to introduce them to queer culture and your place in it. Check out kid-friendly events at or around Pride week. Near where I live there are events like gay dog walks, rainbow storytimes, family picnics, drag baseball games – lots of stuff kids would love to go to!

Ro: I love all of Casey’s book suggestions! This isn’t exactly an answer to your question, but I just wanted to share my own experience: I was the only openly queer person in my extended family for my entire life, but recently, one of my younger relatives came out to me. Being open about my queer identity with the conservative side of my family has been hard, but I’m so glad I made myself visible — because years later, my younger relative knew they could reach out to me for advice. And now we go to see queer art exhibits together and gossip about our homophobic relatives and do other fun gay stuff! So if you ever feel silly about going to great lengths to be visibly queer, don’t! I love that you want to be “a happy, healthy, queer adult person” in your niblings’ lives, and someday they’ll thank you for that.

Sa’iyda: I love both of the above answers and would like to submit that just being yourself is enough right now. I don’t think you have to go out of your way to show them your queerness, but making yourself a safe space for them will keep that door open should they need it in the future. I wasn’t visibly out when I was younger, and my niece and nephew still came out to me because I had made myself the Cool Aunt even without them knowing I was queer. Of course, I came out to them then so they felt less alone, but it wasn’t a thing I felt I had to prove to them for them to know I would wholly accept them. Just be present for them, and they will think you’re the coolest!

Valerie Anne: Staying true to MY brand here, you could also use TV characters to open that conversation! More and more kids’ cartoons are including queer characters (Luna Loud on The Loud House, the polar bears on Peppa Pig, pretty much everyone on The Owl House, etc) so depending on their age level, probably there’s a character you could mention that you relate to. Or even if you don’t necessarily tie it to yourself right away, even just celebrating the queer characters they’ve been exposed to will help make it a happy association instead of a secret or shameful or ‘strange’ one, and letting them lead the conversation until it gets to a point you feel comfortable being like “Yeah I’m queer like Luz!”

Q3:

One of my best friends lives in the suburbs and I live in the city, whenever I mention doing something in town, she says she’ll stay at my place overnight. The thing is, I don’t want her to, and she’s taking it personally that I keep saying no or giving excuses.

I’m a very private person and she’s always opening cupboards and going through stuff etc. I’m also anxious because my house is always a bit chaotic. I have messy roommates and I struggle with depression (which she’s aware of), but I’m embarrassed and anxious about her judging me or being condescending.

Also when we’ve gone to gay clubs in the past she acts weird and creeped out when women talk to her. Our friendship is completely platonic – but sharing a bed with her etc. brings up some internalized homophobia in me because I think of how she acted towards those other queer women, and it makes me wonder if she feels repulsed by me too (though she’s never acted that way).

Of course, I want her to get home safe, (for context she isn’t too far out from the city, I used to live there and transit home all the time). I’m just wondering what to do! Should I get over myself and clean my room and invite her? Should I put my foot down and tell her I’m not comfortable with her staying over?

I rarely have people over to my place – I’m an anxious person about my space and very private. I appreciate any advice or much needed tough love you can give.

A:

Casey: Friend, I’m sorry you’re going through this situation with one of your best friends. My honest to goddess opinion here is that this person is not actually a good friend to you, which is something you absolutely deserve! A friend should respect your boundaries, and if you’re not comfortable with them staying over at your place, they should respect that and you should be okay telling them so. If you’re a private person who doesn’t like people looking through your cupboards, your friend should respect that and you should be able to ask them not to. Maybe you haven’t explicitly told your friend about either of these issues, just made excuses that sort of put off making a clear boundary. That’s totally understandable. Those conversations are awkward. If you really want to continue a friendship with this person, unfortunately you’re going to have to assert your boundaries with her. If she crosses them again after you being explicit, that’s a real bad sign.

But imho, it doesn’t sound like this person is a friend worth keeping for you as a queer person because she sounds homophobic!! If you’re a woman at a gay bar, women are going to talk to you (or, at least theoretically they are going to, lol, it never happened to me much). Unless these women approaching your friend are being disrespectful or creepy or harassing, it is absolutely not cool for your friend to act weird or creeped out. I think it creates an unsafe space for you as a queer person and for the other queer people at the bar. You deserve to have friends who — even if they’re cishet — exuberantly support you in your queerness and don’t make you feel feelings of internalized homophobia. I don’t think you are overreacting by worrying about her “feeling repulsed” by you if you’ve seen her react that way to other queer people.

You’re being a good friend wanting to make sure your friend makes it home safe and inviting her into the city and, to be honest, honouring her by inviting her to come to special queer spaces with you, and I do not think she is being a good friend back to you. You deserve better.

Q4:

Hi autostraddle, it’s me. I’m writing this because, well, I don’t know why exactly. I feel impossibly lost and confused. Over the past year I’ve gone through both hypomanic and depressed mood states. I’ve been struggling with a serious eating disorder. I’ve started a great new relationship that I still get lovesick over, 9 months in– but it’s long distance, and with my family a 5 hour plane ride away and not many friends in my city, I wonder why I’m here at all. I’ve been on and off and back on again more psych medications than I can count, and they’ve given me insomnia, paranoia, among other things. I never know whether they’re helping. I took a gap year, but I still can’t bring myself to care about any of my classes after covid hit my freshman year– I was already burnt out at 19. I used to want to be a performer, and I guess I still do, but training and practicing doesn’t feel good anymore. I just got ghosted from the only job I’ve ever liked. I feel like a completely different person compared to who I was a year ago, a year before that and a year before that. I can’t tell if I’m better or worse. My therapy goes around in circles– I can’t address a series of sexually traumatic experiences in my late teens. I come from a wealthy, high achieving family that I feel I’m not living up to at all– at the same time I feel ridiculous for all this angst when my parents provide for me financially. I realize not much of this has been a question. My questions repeat in my head like this: who am I? How do I figure it out? Am I too self absorbed? How do I get rid of this distressing confusion? What’s so scary about myself?

A:

Valerie Anne: There are some questions here I can’t answer. I don’t know who you are, or how you can figure that out, or how to rid you of your distress. But I do some things to be true: I know that you are, in fact, different than you were a year ago. And the year before that. And you’ll be different a year from now, and five years from now, and twenty. And that’s a good thing. If you changed for the worse in the past year, that’s okay. You’re constantly changing, so there’s plenty of time to change for the better. Or to just change in a different direction, because what’s ‘worse’ or ‘better’ mean anyway? I also know that depression doesn’t care about logic. Depression doesn’t care that your parents are wealthy, depression doesn’t care if you’re in a great relationship, depression doesn’t care if, on paper, you “should” be happy. Depression takes those things and hides them from you, or covers them in shadows so you can’t see them, or until they look like something else entirely. I think that’s what it’s doing to you, too, maybe. Casting you in so much darkness it’s distorting your own shadow, so the figure you see on the wall is scary and unrecognizable. But you can’t focus on the shadows. Close your eyes and know what’s real and what’s true. You’re alive, and you’re trying. I know you’re trying because you wrote to us for help, and you have a therapist, and you’re taking medication. Keep trying. It won’t happen all at once; the puzzle box of your life has been shaken up, more than once, by your trauma, by the pandemic, by mental illness; and it’s not going to snap back together in one day. It’s going to take work, piece by piece, step by step. Some days it’s going to feel like you have a million pieces left, some days it will feel like you’re still just sorting the edge pieces out, but keep trying, keep going. Enlist your support system for help when you can; your partner, your therapist, any family (born or found) you know will help and not hinder your progress. And then someday, if you keep trying, keep going, you’ll step back and realize you’re making progress. There will be parts of the picture that are starting to make sense again. And maybe they don’t look like what you thought they would look like, maybe it’s not you as a performer or you doing whatever your family wants from you, maybe it looks like something totally new, but it will be clear and it will be yours and it will be what you’ve been working for. So even when it’s hard, even when all you can see is shadows, focus on the next puzzle piece, just one at a time. Just keep trying, keep going.

Q5:

Hi all,

My partner (they/them) and I (she/they) are planning on getting engaged within the next year and are wondering about recommendations for queer (or queer friendly), relatively affordable, ethical engagement rings. We’ve done a good bit of research but can’t seem to find a place that is queer-run AND satisfies all of our needs so thought I would put out feelers on here to see what other queers have found. Thanks!

A:

Vanessa: So funny you ask, I literally just wrote a column about this yesterday! As you may have seen, I’m engaged and getting married in June, and as such I’ve been writing a bi-weekly column (called Blush & Bashful, lol) about all things engagement/weddings! Just yesterday I interviewed two queer jewelers to answer this very question! Check it out!

Nico: Vanessa’s advice is great and I want to just offer a couple more suggestions. If you’re not into stones so much and you maybe want to have your engagement rings also serve as wedding bands (or not, you do you), I’ve seen a neat thing popping up where metalsmiths will offer classes where you can carve your own mold for a lost wax cast ring! Do some searching and you might be able to find someone locally who can help you with this. I feel like it’s pretty romantic!

I have also asked a metalsmith to melt down old jewelry for me to turn into something else, and that is totally something you can do if you want to go the recycled route. (Did I pay a queer metalsmith to melt down and transform my old engagement ring from my divorce into something I actually wanted? YES I DID AND IT WAS VERY CATHARTIC SHE SENT ME VIDEO OF THE GOLD MELTING LOL.)

Almost finally, a commenter recommended automic gold and though I don’t have anything from them I know people who do and love them.

I also want to recommend a Pittsburgh metalsmith shop, Studebaker Metals, which is a lot of fun to go into because it SEEMS TO ME like they employ a majority of women and queers and the whole experience is very friendly. Again, if you get a ring from a place like this, your mileage with gemstones may vary, but you ARE getting something that is relatively affordable (metal work is never cheap, but y’know), shaped by a craftsperson who is local to you, so if that sounds cool to you, I recommend looking around your area! (Also Studebaker has an online store).

Q6:

Dear friendly neighborhood Autostraddle writers,

I need some sex advice! My partner & I (both cis women, both use she/her, both have vulvas) are long-term monogamous, and I’m hoping to spice things up a bit…sort of. Most of the action happens taking turns using a vibrator (magic wand, holla) on each other’s clits with the receiving partner on her back. Is there a better (different? More adventurous? More physically intimate?) position for the giving partner than, like, sitting on her knees in front of the other with a vibe in her hand & adding the occasional other hand to breast/nipple? Assume no interest in penetration or butt stuff at the moment and pretty vanilla. I’m particularly interested in ideas for the placement/location of the giving partner to make it more intimate. So basically, where should the giving partner be aside from just sitting there?

Thank you!

A:

Vanessa: I love using the Magic Wand with my partner and I love this question! I think there are a lot of ways you can “spice up” this particular sex act, and I’d say it especially frees things up if the person receiving stimulation is the one actually holding the wand. Some ideas:

1. Person A sits in Person B’s lap/between her legs. Person A holds the wand against her clit and leans against Person B. This provides closeness (Person A’s back is pushed against Person B’s chest, Person A’s butt is near/on Person’s B’s vulva, etc) and also allows Person B’s hands to roam wherever she pleases — hair, neck, nipples, etc.

2. Person A and Person B lie facing each other and position the wand between both of your vulvas so you can hold each other/grind against the wand at the same time.

3. Person A rides the wand on her stomach (rather than lying on her back) while Person B lies on top of her, getting the added benefit of feeling Person A’s butt grinding into Person B’s vulva while she orgasms/grinds against the wand.

4. Person A can get on all fours and hold the wand against herself while Person B can either stand or sit in front of her (depending on height) and position her vulva in line with Person A’s mouth so she can receive oral sex at the same time.

5. Person A can get on all fours over Person B, who can lie flat on her back, and Person B can hold the wand against Person A’s clit for a slightly different angle/eye contact heavy position.

…These are just some ideas! Another thought I had is that it might be fun to buy different toys to use, even if you want to keep the general theme of “one partner holds a vibe against the other partner’s clit.” A new toy can be really fun, and there are so many options — if you haven’t tried the toys that simulate sucking/oral sex I strongly recommend them! And I do think mutual masturbation is a really underrated sex act, so adding more toys to the bedroom can up the chances of that happening. Hope that helps — have fun!

Q7:

Dear Autostraddle,

I am asking for advice of perhaps the most frivolous kind! Every year around this time in winter, I start to crave a visit to a spa or bathhouse. If you’ve ever seen the Baden Baden episode of Rick Steves’ Europe, that is the idea. As I stand in my own shower at home, I dream of a journey of steam and water, hot and cold and warm and hot again, a delicious sensory experience. Here’s the thing, though: in my dreams it is GAY. And also fat accepting. A queer spa where I as a fat, Black woman, along with my visibly genderqueer wife could feel comfortable, could feel like our bodies are welcomed, even if we are naked or nearly. But, like, maybe not a place where a lot of casual sex is going on? (No judgement! Just not the experience I’m looking for personally.)

Do you know if anything like this exists anywhere in the world?

Signed,
Just another bougie Black lesbian chasing a dream

A:

Vanessa: I wish I knew where you were located, because if the answer is “Portland, Oregon” then yes, that place does exist! There are multiple spas in Portland proper that cater to the exact experience you’re describing. Common Ground and Everett House are two that I’ve personally been to and can sign off on saying they are very queer, very fat accepting, and even have specific evenings for POC and queer/trans people. There are also multiple hot springs around the Portland area (by which I mean anywhere from 1-4 hours away by car) that are less “spa” like and more “outdoor,” but the times I’ve visited those I haven’t been bothered (as a fat, queer, white, cis person) and have often found other queer folks there, too. I realize if you don’t live in Portland this is not helpful to you, but perhaps there are other spots like this elsewhere that other folks will chime in about, or perhaps you’d like to come visit Portland some time to enjoy these spots! (Although, if you’re looking for warmth during the winter, I’d probably suggest a trip to somewhere sunny rather than a vacation to soak in hot springs in the rainy chilly PNW… but who knows what you most desire! I hope your dreams are fulfilled regardless!)

Nico: This isn’t an answer but is just me saying that I really want to go to those PNW hot springs they sound amazing.

Also, while this may not be like SPA experience, I did find this interactive map of thermal springs in the US online. Now I’m thinking…hot springs road trip? But also, I bet you could use this map as a starting point, find a place with a lot of natural hot springs, find a tourist destination nearby, and see if there are spa experiences, find said spa experiences, vet them to see if they are the kind of place you imagine going to, and plan a trip for yourself!

Also, as a general note — send us your “frivolous” (I do not think this nice thing you want to do for yourself sounds frivolous though) advice questions. We love to answer lighter questions, too!!

Q8:

I am a bisexual cis woman in my thirties in a long term hetero relationship (marriage) with a man.

Early 2022 I started crushing on a woman I work with, she’s a lesbian and has a wife. Because I recognised the crush and knew neither of us were available I distanced myself to see if feelings would fade and i distracted myself.

We dont work directly together in the same team so our interactions from a work perspective are few and far between. Towards the end of the year however there were a couple of completly innocent interactions that pulled me back in again and I just thought fuck it stop trying to stay away from her, do what you want.

Since that decision was made we’ve talked consistently on slack and over what’s app there might only be only 1 or 2 days at most out of a full week we don’t talk. We definitely have a connection, the way we think and our tastes in things are very similar, she says I make her laugh and she likes that we have been talking more often. There are definitely flirty moments.

It’s driving me crackers to the point of utter distraction, constant heart burn and restless nights sleep, not knowing if my feelings are reciprocated or not. More than anything however, the rate and the way I think of her makes me feel like I’m being dishonest in our friendship and I wonder if she would feel betrayed if she ever figured/found out about my feelings.

I’m just feeling stuck, I’m crazy about her and don’t want to stay away. Side note, although it’s not a secret I don’t actually know if she knows I’m Bi.

A:

Casey: There is a lot going on here! Okay, my first question is: what are you hoping to get out of this flirtation / friendship / situation with your co-worker? Like, why do you want to know if your feelings are reciprocated? You don’t explicitly say your relationship is monogamous, but I’m going to assume it is, since I think you would have brought it up otherwise. Let’s think through some possible outcomes: 1) she finds out you have a crush on her and doesn’t reciprocate, your new work friendship becomes awkward and dies and you feel like crap; 2) she finds out you have a crush, reciprocates, and wants to have an affair with you; 3) she finds out you have a crush, her relationship is non-monogamous, and she wants to date you, except you’re in a monogamous relationship so she says she can’t do it under those circumstances; 4) she finds out about your crush, she reciprocates, but says you can’t do anything about it because of your respective monogamous relationships so you continue flirting with and pining for her and having these terrible physical symptoms with no end in sight. These are just some possibilities. But, umm, none of these are really great.

What’s going on in your marriage? Are you two going through something right now? Do you still want to be in this relationship? Are you craving a queer connection outside of your marriage, whether it’s friendship or a romantic relationship? Given the potentially negative effects on your relationship and the already negative effects on your health, I think you need to ask yourself why are not “staying away from her.” I think it’s totally normal to have crushes when you’re in a long term monogamous relationship, but it seems like the intensity of this one and the way you’re approaching it — “crazy about her and don’t want to stay away” — are indicative of something that needs looking into in your marriage. This crush and situation are not good for you, as you can see with the horrible physical effects you’re feeling!

Obviously no one but you can decide what the right path for you re: these relationships is, but continuing as you are is a really terrible option. Do you need to have a serious discussion with your partner about your relationship? I think so. My instinct is that this crush means something about your marriage. It might be that you’d be happier getting divorced. It might be that you need your partner to support your queer identity more. It might mean a number of things need to change in your current relationship. This work crush, however intense, might be more a symptom of a larger problem — trouble in your marriage — rather than the problem itself. Good luck fellow bisexual!

Nico: It sounds like you’re definitely going through it and I am sending you first and foremost, some love here! I agree with everything Casey said and also am going to assume you and your friend are both monogamous in your marriages because you brought them up as though (I think and am sorry if I’m wrong!) to imply that is the situation.

Okay, so, I think that this is gonna be brutal, but I also think that your husband deserves to know how you’re feeling. Relationships and life are messy so I’m not going to say that you two shouldn’t end up together if that’s what you both want, if things get to that point, but I think that leaving your partner in the dark until something comes to a head is absolutely wrong. You each respected your partners enough to marry them at some point, so I think you need to show them that respect by having an honest conversation within each of your respective relationships. (Or, here I’m telling your friend what to do if the feelings are mutual, but this is what I think you should do because I think it’s the right thing.) You might disagree with me! I don’t know what’s going on in your marriage. Maybe your husband is terrible. But if he’s not — then you two need to talk before taking any other steps, before telling your crush you’re bi, before cutting yourself off from her, before anything — you gotta have a conversation about your marriage, your mutual fulfillment in that relationship, whether or not you’re still happy and want it to continue exactly as it is (I don’t think this is likely going to be the outcome), whether things need to change, whether you might want to open up your marriage / get counseling / get a divorce / find space within your marriage for you to explore more of your queer identity / decide you never want to date cishet men ever again / some other option I am not seeing. I think this crush could be a very real genuine connection (and humans are messy and it happens but you gotta be the bigger person if it does and be honest with your partner), it could also be the canary in the coal mine like Casey is saying. I really have to leave it up to you to decide, but the ethical thing to do, I think, is to have a conversation with your husband where you are real about where you are and where you give him plenty of space to be honest about how he is doing in the relationship as well, where you both decide where to go from there.

But you know what? I think you’re brave and awesome and that you can handle this even though it’s difficult! Your current state is unsustainable and I don’t want you to have longterm health consequences from all this stress. Getting this out in the open should help…eventually. I think you can do it! You can have the conversation! Sending you so much love!

Q9:

I’ve been dating the same woman for a little more than 2 months. This week, we finally had the “what exactly are you looking for” talk. I want monogamy, something serious; she doesn’t and doesn’t know that she ever will be able to give me what I want, but she does want to keep dating. I like her a lot. I don’t want to stop seeing her, but is it smarter to let her go? I’m afraid that I’ll just keep developing feelings, hoping she’ll change her mind, only to have it go nowhere. I’m lost. Please help.

A:

Vanessa: Honestly, this sucks, but yeah, I would end things. I have been on both sides of this — wanting a serious monogamous relationship with someone who was openly polyamorous, and wanting a casual nonmonogamous connection with someone who openly wanted monogamy — and in both situations it was painful and I wished we’d ended things sooner, seeing as we’d both been honest about our intentions and desires. It’s true that sometimes people change what they want and sometimes it works out, but usually, if both people are being honest about what they want to get out of a connection and those desires do not overlap (as is the case here) I think it’s best to end things sooner than later so you can both be free to find people who want the same things you want and can actually meet your needs. I’m sure the person you’re dating doesn’t have bad intentions (truly!) but it’s unfair to both of you to keep dating if you know you’ll never be satisfied with “casual” and she knows she’ll never be able to show up for more than that. End it now. Good luck to both of you!

Q10:

Anyone have tips to share when it comes to celebrating your own accomplishments/milestones without relying on external validation/affirmation? I have a hard time with affirming myself or feeling proud of myself, but I know it’s valuable to cultivate that relationship with one’s self. Thank you for any insights!!

Ro: This is something I used to struggle with, too. Here are three things I do that help me celebrate my wins:

1. At the beginning of each year (and sometimes at the beginning of each month), I write out a list of goals for myself. Setting those goals doesn’t come with the expectation that I’ll meet every single one — I just try to reach at least half of those goals. I always make sure to include fun goals alongside the serious ones, too (this year I set a goal to visit a museum I’ve never been to before). Then I check my goals off as I meet them. The act of checking something off — and imagining how stoked my former self would be for my current self — has helped me feel proud of my wins.

2. I regularly look back on my life and notice the positive changes I’ve made over time (for example, I used to self-isolate when I got depressed — and now I’ve made a habit of reaching out to friends). Sometimes I even write letters to my younger self sharing the good news. I know it sounds corny, but I promise it feels good.

3. I brag to a therapist. I’m not in therapy right now, but in the past, I’d share all of my wins (even the small ones) with my therapist, and witnessing her excitement helped me celebrate myself.

4. I stopped sharing my wins with people who tear me down. This was a hard habit to break, because for years I wanted to believe that sharing my accomplishments would change the way those people view me, but unfortunately, some folks just aren’t willing to see me for who I am, and they’re only proud of me when my accomplishments fall in line with the person they want me to be.

I hope this helps!

Nico: Haha okay so this is gonna make me sound like Judi Dench in Notes on a Scandal saying “another gold star day…” to myself, but I have been doing this new thing called Keeping a Diary where it is not like a feelings journal, but is in fact a record of events. I have a pretty bad memory (mental health reasons, probably) and so it began as an exercise to help me better remember what all is going on in my life. But you know what else! It’s also really nice to record small wins or good things that happened, or little accomplishments or what I read or who I talked to or even just a funny thing that happened. Sometimes I will add stickers, especially when I do something that I want to celebrate a little. It’s very soothing. Also, I think the regularity of trying to diary every couple of days helps the small wins not to get lost. I really like Ro’s ideas and so just wanted to tack this little one onto the end here. Good luck celebrating yourself, friend!!!

Q11:

This is probably a question for Heather, but of course anyone can answer!

My girlfriend is really into video games. Me, not so much. But during the pandemic she’s been playing a lot of Pokémon, and I got interested because I used to play a lot of Pokémon on my GameBoy as a kid, but pre-pandemic hadn’t played in about 20 years. So the last few years we’ve been playing Pokémon a lot, but now that I’ve finished Violet I’m not sure what else to play. Can you recommend any other games for the Nintendo Switch that are similar to the play style of Pokémon? (Battles, cute creatures, collecting, preferably no murder or crime, and most importantly, set goals which must be completed in sequence and which are achievable in a few weeks.)

A:

Heather: Oh dang I love this question! I’m going to assume you’ve played Scarlet and Violet, Sword and Shield, and Legends of Arceus, since you’ve been playing for a few years! If not, all of those are worth your time. You may have a harder time filling in your full Pokedex on the older games, but those communities are still actually really active! In fact Sword and Shield is even more buzzy than Scarlet and Violet on Reddit. Also, you can always just tweet at me and I’ll send you anything you need. My Pokedex’s are all complete and I love helping! Stardew Valley is the next thing that comes to mind for me for you. It has all of your requirements, including battle! Plus it’s just an adorable and satisfying game that lets you concentrate on whichever aspect you love best. (Don’t write off fishing; it’s tricky to get the hang of, but awesome once you get used to the mechanic.) Animal Crossing is also a great choice here, but no battles. Cozy Grove too, but it’s a little more maudlin and soulful than Animal Crossing. Ni No Kuni: Wrath of the White Witch is a JRPG with a battle style that’s very similar to Pokemon! Yo-Kai Watch is also similar, but you’ll likely need an English-translation guide to help you through. Here’s a great ten-hour walkthrough on YouTube. Finally! A different idea! Replay any of your Pokemon games — but! At the beginning! Draw six Pokemon cards and that’s your team. You have to collect those six and no others and beat the game with them! (Or, you know, five plus your starter.) You can buy Pokemon cards anywhere these days, or just do a random generator online. I hope this helps!

Nico: Also noting that I think Stardew has multiplayer on Switch so you two can play together!

Q12:

Hiiii help me? My partner and I are starting our parenthood journey after a couple years of conversation. We’d already opened a file at a sperm bank, done genetic testing etc.. when a couple dear friends – one gay male, one genderqueer – approached us and proposed joint parenthood.

The idea both intrigues me and stresses me out.
One aspect of the dilemma is that if we used a sperm bank my girlfriend and I could both be legal parents, but if we coparent then two out of four of us won’t have any legal rights. Will we be able to handle the constant struggle? And, are 4 parents too many for one kid? Will my partner and I want the kid with us all the time and resent having agreed to share custody?
We have good communication with these friends, we already share custody of a sweet dog. But how do we all navigate figuring out what each of us want, and whether our wants and needs line up with co-parenting, in order to make this permanent and monumental decision before we have had any actual parenting experience?

help please

A:

Casey: Wow this opportunity of yours is so exciting and I am going to offer a tiny bit of advice based on my experiences of early parenting with one partner / co-parent. I also have a friend who is part of a four parent household with three kids, so I’ll share a bit about what I know about that too. So, basically I have found that the expectation that two people can function well as parents to an infant plus one of them working — even part time, even from home — and have any amount of time for themselves is an impossible task. Plus there’s cooking, laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, etc! What a shock, I know, heteronormative monogamous propaganda is a lie!

Before having a kid, I truly had no idea how much work it would be to care for a baby, how much strain it would put on my relationship, how much sleep deprivation and fragmentation I would go through (and still am, 16 months into my kid’s life), and how much I would miss time alone and my hobbies. I have been so fortunate in having a lot of family help, from my mom, dad, mother-in-law, and aunties, and I still feel this way. I truly do not think four parents, or any kind of loving committed adults, is too much for one child. And four parents would only be even more amazing to have if you decide you want to have more than one kid.

Of course I miss my kid when I’m away from her, and you will too. But just based on the fact that she might be away sometimes I don’t think would necessarily entail a “constant struggle.” You will want to sleep, catch up with friends, spend quality time with your partner, do your hobbies, and then sleep more when your kid is with their other parents, and then you’ll be in a much better place when you have your kid back with you to be a great parent. Of course, everyone is different, but in my experience, I very much value my time without my kid and am happy when she is being cared for by other people who love her and are invested in her well-being.

I am amazed to hear from my friend who had a full night’s sleep is up at 6am playing with her kid while the parents who were up during the night caring for two babies get to sleep in and another parent is working. Amazing!! You could potentially have two lactating parents for your baby, plus other parents to step up and take over other non-feeding tasks. It also could be very beneficial financially for your kid and family to have more than one parent able to work at a time, especially before the kid is school age and needs full time care.

One thing to consider as far as shared custody goes is some kind of shared living situation. Especially when a baby is really little, it’s a 24/7 job that it would be great to share with your co-parents in the middle of the night or any time when you’re really at the end of your rope. The friend I know lives with her partner, her partner’s co-parent, and the co-parent’s partner. Even if you could arrange to live in separate places within walking distance I think that would make a big difference.

I think I would approach figuring out what each of you want out of becoming parents and what your ideas about parenting are the same way you may have already done with your partner. A big sit-down real talk is in order, with questions prepared in advance about what styles of parenting you are thinking about, how you were parented, financial stuff, etc. Do some googling for lists with questions like “What are things you liked from how your parents raised you (and want to repeat)?”and “What do you not want to repeat?” (Beware heterosexual nonsense, though). The outcome of these talks might be that the four of you aren’t suited to being co-parents! But it’s much better to get into the hard stuff and find that out now than later.

I’m Canadian and have zero knowledge of legal stuff anyway, but as I always say when people ask me legal questions at the library: consult a lawyer! Even if the four of you can’t be legal parents, maybe there are some other options to explore.

Okay and just to finish off to be clear: I don’t think having a kid with a friend(s) is inherently better than with a partner, but I also don’t think it’s inherently more risky. Having more than two parents would definitely have drawbacks – I think Sa’iyda makes very good points about decision making and compromises – but I also think there are a lot of positives. Ultimately I’d concentrate on figuring out how compatible you and your partner are with these two people in terms of parenting and discuss in depth likely problems and how you would go about solving them. It sounds like you already have a good communication base with them, so you can build on that. It might even be a good idea to talk to a counselor or therapist to help structure these talks!

Sa’iyda: I am going to take the exact opposite stance than Casey on this one. From my personal experience and the experience of a friend who also entered a complex co-parenting situation.

My son is nine years old now, and I spent his first six years as a single parent co-parenting with his dad. We lived with my parents for almost four years and it was nice to have extra sets of hands around so I could shower or run errands or work. But my son was a high needs baby and only ever wanted to be with me. So having the extra hands around during those first few years was utterly useless a lot of the time. You don’t know before they’re born if you’re going to have a high needs baby, so it’s not something you can prepare for. You can have the most present co-parent(s) in the world, but it won’t matter. In fact, it might create resentment and hurt feelings.

Now, I have a partner (we’re engaged and she’s lived with us since my son was six) and we parent full-time while my son’s dad has been a long distance co-parent but will be moving back to our city soon. It’s a real balancing act to co-parenting! You have to take multiple people’s experiences and beliefs into account and make sure you’re all on the same page, but then you also have to make sure that what you’re doing isn’t just in your best interest, but your kid’s best interests too. The more hands in the pot, the more compromises you’re going to make. And that can be really difficult when it comes to keeping a small person alive.

I have a friend who is a lesbian and decided to have a baby with her gay male best friend. Things were great and fine until the baby was born. Her friend totally did a 180 on things they had previously agreed on, to the point where she had to hire a lawyer because he was trying to take away her legal rights as the child’s mother. Not only is their friendship completely decimated, but they don’t even have a good co-parenting relationship. Not saying that this is what will happen to you, but it’s ALWAYS a possibility, and you really need to think through if it’s worth potentially ruining your current relationship so that you have extra help when the baby comes.

I say, you should go with your original plan, and your friends can be a great support system. If things prove to go well, then maybe you could look into the legality of becoming co-parents. Or maybe if the other couple has a child on their own, you can create some sort of family commune! There doesn’t have to be one path to doing this.

Q13:

Hi! I’m in the process of breaking up with my girlfriend. I don’t want to dive into all that and I don’t want to say negative things about her because outside of the not great stuff she’s done to me recently she’s a good human and I do love her. But the relationship is done. And the stuff she’s done and how she went about ending stuff (or not and then putting me into a situation where I have to be the one to do so) has me so wildly pissed. Pissed to the point I’m not even sad about this ending. Pissed to the point I want to send her on her way and pretend none of this ever existed. And I don’t know what to do with this anger. I’m so wildly angry and I feel pent up and on edge. I want to yell and throw things and rage. Not at her. I’m not talking to her at the moment. Just overall. And I can’t get past this anger. And it’s not that anger is bad. It’s an emotion and I let myself feel it but I can’t get my brain past the rage. It’s like I have bees in my brain. Angry swarming bees ready to fight. I’m fine feeling angry. And it’s justified right now to be honest. But I want to move past the blind rage to something else. Or at least not moving past the anger I guess doing something with it? Working through it? I feel consumed and I want to move past that bit. Tips? Advise? Screaming buddy?
Thanks

A:

Ro: I’m so sorry you’re going through such a difficult breakup. Sitting with and moving through anger can be tough, but I don’t think you’ll be feeling this particular flavor of anger forever — or at least, not to this degree. Anger is my go-to feeling whenever something bad happens. Sometimes it’s actual anger, and sometimes it’s sadness masquerading as anger. I’m not afraid of my anger, but sometimes it’s hard to live with — because you’re right — it totally feels like having bees in your brain!! Here are some things I do that make living with anger a little easier on my mind and body:

1. I vent in space where my venting is welcome. Maybe I’ll journal or talk to a therapist or ask a friend if they’re willing to listen to me rage on for a bit. Saying all of my angry thoughts out loud or writing them down — including the thoughts that might sound unfair or mean — helps me work through my emotions and get to a place of stability.

2. I move my body. You don’t have to do intense movement or go to a gym to get rage out of your system — I usually just go for a walk or ride my bike or aggressively clean my apartment. Afterwards, I usually feel much calmer.

3. I listen to loud music. I know some people like to listen to calming music when they’re angry. I actually prefer to listen to the angry stuff (in your case, this could potentially enhance your anger, so experiment with different types of music to figure out what works for you).

4. I’m going to recommend screaming, although that isn’t part of my personal anger release practice — I live in an apartment in a major city and I don’t have a car, so I don’t have access to screaming locations where I’ll go unnoticed. But if you have a place where you can really yell, give it a shot — I’ve heard it works well.

No matter what, remember that feeling angry after a breakup is normal and expected and okay! Maybe you’ll always feel angry about the things your ex did, but that anger won’t always feel as heavy as it does right now. Good luck.

Q14:

Editor’s Note: The following contains mentions of eating disorders and self harm.

I’ve recently put myself out there again for dating/long term relationships. I have a lot of anxiety about this and spent the past two years hooking up and casually dating, setting very clear boundaries that I’m not looking for anything long term. The reason I’m ready to start dating seriously is because I’ve done a lot of work in therapy to heal myself after going through a five year abusive relationship with my grad school advisor that wrecked every bit of my sense of self and boundaries. During that period, I engaged in self harm and relapsed with a restrictive eating disorder. I still have the visible scars from the former and invisible scars from the latter. During grad school, I was in a relationship with a woman who didn’t understand what an abusive workplace was like, thought if she loved me enough she could take away my behaviors, and engaged heavily in diet culture, which were some of the reasons I knew it wasn’t healthy for me. I need someone who understands that me staying healthy is going to take maintenance from me for likely the rest of my life, that it can’t be healed with just love. And obviously someone who doesn’t participate in diet culture/obsessive exercise (lesbian hikers on tinder are everywhere?). Going on casual dates or hooking up was easier – no need to explain the scars or get into my past. Now that I’m dating with the intention of a long term relationship, I’m struggling about when the best time to bring my history up is. They’ll see the scars early on, as soon as we have sex, but this seems like a heavy conversation for an early relationship. Do you have any advice?

A:

Ro: First, I just want to congratulate you on getting to a more mentally healthy place. That takes a lot of hard work and commitment, and I hope you’re feeling proud of yourself! You are not alone in your history — it sounds like we have a lot in common.

I also have self-harm scars, and like yours, mine are only visible if I get mostly naked. I’ve made decisions about if/how I acknowledge my scars based on how I’m feeling in the moment, and mostly, my scars haven’t been a big deal. There have been times when I’ve said, “Heads up — I have some scars from a long time ago, but I doing okay now” before clothes start coming off or “Heads up — I have some scars there, but I don’t mind if you touch them” if the person was getting close to that area on my body. But most of the time,, I just don’t say anything about my scars at all, and if I don’t say anything, the other person typically doesn’t acknowledge my scars either. And there have been times when I’ve found myself having sex with someone who also has self-harm scars — they’re actually pretty common, especially among LGBTQ+ folks (which is a bummer, but it’s true).

If you’re hooking up with someone and they ask about your scars, I think it’s totally fair to say something like, “Those were from a tough time in my life, but I just want to have fun with you right now” (which a very reasonable request when you’re actively making out and/or fucking). You don’t owe anyone any information about your scars or your past on a certain timeline — you get to share that information if and when you’re ready — and any new date who pushes for that information isn’t worth your time. You deserve to be treated with care and respect.

I also have a history of anorexia. Now I consider myself fully recovered, but there are still some things I do to protect myself and to advocate against a culture that actively promotes eating disorders. That doesn’t mean I bring up my ED history right away when I start dating someone — but it does mean I’m very open about my values and do my best to interrupt diet talk, healthism, and fatphobia whenever I encounter it, whether it’s coming from a relative, a friend, a stranger, or a date (and if it’s coming from a date, then I know the person I’m dating doesn’t share my values). I think those practices have led some folks to gather that I might have an ED history or a history of body dysmorphia without me saying that outright, and most importantly, those practices have also helped the people I date feel safe sharing their own ED histories with me (because just like self-injury, eating disorders are incredibly, painfully common in the LGBTQ+ community).

Overall, I don’t typically disclose detailed information about my ED/self-harm/mental health history with people I’ve just started dating — I usually wait until I get to know them a bit. When I’ve shared that information about my life, the conversation has usually gone pretty well, because it turns out most people have struggled with their mental health and engaged in destructive behaviors at some point. I don’t like to have a big, heavy conversation at first — I like to stick to the facts (“Here are some things I struggled with in the past and here are some ways I take care of myself now”). Most of the time, sharing that information has led others to share their own tough experiences.

Tl;dr — Having scars and being open about your needs and boundaries doesn’t give anyone the right to pry about subjects you’re not comfortable getting into. You get to share this information about yourself if and when you’re ready. When and how you share that information might vary based on the person you’re dating and how comfortable you feel with them. That’s okay! Trust your gut and maintain your support system — dating for the first time in a while can be hard, and it’s important to have folks in your corner who can build you up if a date or a relationship doesn’t go well. Most importantly, remember that you’re not alone. Good luck!

Nico: HELLO just another person here with self-harm scars to say that, yes, they are unfortunately common among LGBTQ folks. I think Ro’s advice is sound, but wanted to just chime in because it might be nice to hear from someone else of similar experience. The thing is, too, that people you date very might well have seen or been intimate with or be friends with someone with self-harm scars, or be aware of the existence of such things, at least. So, while I cannot guarantee this will be the case, I would be willing to bet they will understand what’s going on, and if they are good and chill, they should let you take the lead with what you want to share or not.

I’ve definitely had dates ask about my scars and it has felt weird (like a date I sent a selfie too like…zoomed in on it real close and then asked me about them??? RUDE what are you doing zooming in on my photo ma’am?), but what those experiences told me was that things weren’t going to work out because they weren’t really very respectful right from the start. I hope that things do not go that way for you, though, and I think that you can definitely bring up the scars ahead of clothes coming off in like a “heads up” kind of way and be really clear and firm about the extent to which you want to talk about the scars. The same thing goes for any boundaries you need to put up as you continue to maintain your mental and physical health and relationship to eating and food. Sending you tons of love and good luck with getting out there and dating!!

Alone Together

Practical Magic: How to Cut Ties With Your Family

Feature image photo by Richard Drury via Getty Images

The holidays are almost upon us, which for many people means going back to their hometown to visit family and friends. Navigating airports and other modes of transportation during a pandemic is hard enough — add to that having to navigate familial relationships, especially ones that are fraught, and things can get even trickier.

I haven’t been “home for the holidays” in at least four years. If you follow my writing, you know this is because I don’t speak to most of my family and specifically don’t speak to my parents. A rift in the family like that requires some people to take sides, and most people chose to stay close to my mother and father and ignore me. It used to hurt me to see my whole family gathered together on holidays, but now, I’ve let go of the pain of not being a part of a traditional nuclear family.

I didn’t just cut off my parents because of abuse. I didn’t see that they were changing for the better as people. My parents had spent decades raising kids and still weren’t owning up to their mistakes as caregivers. I still was just a dumping ground for my mother’s pain. My father was still as angry as ever. Their lives were messy, and without going into too much detail, I decided I didn’t want to be a part of it.

One of the last exchanges I had with my mother was her texting me telling me she wanted us to be a real family again. I tried, I really did. She ended up blowing me off, so I stopped trying and decided I would make the kind of family I needed for myself. Her attempts at getting me back in her life were selfish and insincere, so I let go and haven’t looked back since.

If you grew up in an abusive family, or have a family you don’t want to associate with anymore because of their political beliefs, whatever your reasoning, this guide is for you. This is how to cut ties with your family.

Realize you don’t owe your family your presence just because they are family

I’m adopted, and I grew up with messaging that I was “saved” by my adoptive parents: That my biological family didn’t want me, that no other family would take me. That message made me cling to the parental relationship for longer than I should have.

One thing you will likely hear on this journey is that “you only get one mother/father/family.” For me, this was categorically false. I had a biological family, a foster family, then an adoptive family. None of those families existed in a healthy environment to raise a child. For you, you may have one biological mom and dad, but that doesn’t mean your life is void of mother and father figures.

People may pressure you to just come home, keep the peace, and not shake the table. If not talking to your family brings you peace, here is your permission to cut ties with them. You owe yourself peace before anyone else.

You may have mitigating cultural or societal factors that tell you you can’t do what I’m encouraging you to do. Maybe the family is sacred in your culture, or maybe a family member you don’t want in your life is sick or struggling. It sounds insensitive, but if your family is actively causing you harm or contributing to your own struggles, you can let go of the relationship.

Get a support system

My therapist and my close friends were instrumental in my decision to cut off my parents. My therapist back in Pittsburgh was the first person to suggest that I not speak to my mother “for a while.” When my mother had a heart attack, when my grandmother died, I was still not talking to my mother. I didn’t reach out even though it would have been the “correct” thing to do. I talked with my therapist and friends throughout this time. They assured me that I was not heartless, I was just protecting myself.

When I write about my mother, she usually reacts violently. She has harassed me and even the publications I have written for. If you know your family would react in the same harassing way, it’s important that you have a source of love and gentleness in your life to combat it. My friends and sober community rallied around me during this time. You may need your therapists and friends to do the same.

Start by telling whoever you want in your corner that you no longer want to talk to or associate with x, y, z. Ask them — and this is important — to not tell you about this person or persons. You don’t need a play-by-play of what your family is doing or saying about you during this time. If you need a script, here’s one:

“Hey ____, I just wanted to let you know I’ve decided to not speak with my family/____ anymore. I’ve come to this decision after a lot of thinking and meditation, and I hope that you can understand. I want you in my life, and to be a support for me as I go through this process. Please refrain from telling ____ or reporting back to them things that I confide in you. I also don’t want to know what they are doing or saying. Thank you for your support and love during this time.”

As many of you may know, I have two brothers I still talk to, so letting them know that I didn’t want to talk to our parents anymore was a big deal. They eventually understood my decision and are a huge source of support in my life now. If you also have some family members you still wish to talk to, this script will be helpful. If your family members don’t understand, you don’t owe them time to come around. If they’d rather pick a side, let them, and move on for your own sake.

Draft a message, if you feel safe

I didn’t really tell my family I wasn’t talking to them anymore. I just stopped responding to messages and stopped reaching out, and they eventually got the message. If you feel the need to reach out and provide context before moving forward, you can do that and still maintain distance. You don’t owe anyone a message, but sometimes it helps provide clarity.

I didn’t send a message because I know my family, and I know it would only bring more harm my way. If you know that your family or family member is volatile as well, feel free to skip this part.

If you want to send a message and feel safe to do so, here is a template:

“Hi ____, after some careful thought and consideration, I’ve decided that I no longer want a relationship with you. I realize this may be hard to hear, but for my health and yours, I think it’s best that we no longer speak to one another. Your behavior [you can provide specific examples] has been very hurtful to me, which is why I’ve come to this decision. Please do not contact me from this point forward. If you don’t respect my decision I will be forced to block your number/social media. I love you and wish the best for you (optional), but until you change your behavior I no longer see a path forward for us.”

Block, unfriend, unfollow

When cutting ties with anyone, I highly recommend unfollowing and unfriending, with blocking being an option if the person or persons do not respect the boundary you’ve established. There also is the option to mute, but I find unfriending and unfollowing to be the best and most thorough course of action.

I mainly suggest this because it can be hard to see pictures or videos of the person who abused you or who you still love living life and carrying on without you. It can pull on your heartstrings and make you second-guess your decision. To stay steadfast and strong, unfollowing is a great tool.

If the person you are cutting ties with is an abuser, I highly suggest blocking. If blocking will spare you harassing phone calls and messages, please do it. It hurts and feels like a step too far sometimes, but it can be extremely necessary for your well-being and safety.

Restraining orders

This is for extreme situations where the person you are cutting ties with is your abuser, particularly if you find that unfriending, unfollowing, and blocking does not stop the harassment. If this person knows where you live, is showing up to your place of residence or employment, or if they are sending others to do their bidding, you can explore restraining orders as an option.

I’ve only had a restraining order against one person and they weren’t in my family, so I can’t totally speak on the emotional effect this may have on you. You may think that it’s just a piece of paper, but it might also help you if later legal action needs to be taken. Getting courts involved is a messy process that doesn’t always yield the results you want, and I know getting the police involved can make things monumentally worse. If you want to avoid legal action, there are ways to do that as well.

If you do get a restraining order, bring someone you trust along for emotional support. It will be good to have someone you care about beside you during this time.

If you don’t want to go through this course of action, have a protector on hand. This is someone you can call if this person does show up or continues to harass you. They can serve as a mediator or a barrier between you and this person.

Have an outlet

When I was in the midst of cutting off my family and sorting through other abuse I had gone through, I took a self-defense class. This helped me feel like I could defend myself against my abusers if I needed to. For you, an outlet might be something physical like training or going on long bike rides. It might be something soothing like needlework or journaling. Whatever you decide on, it will be super helpful to have something to keep yourself busy when feelings of guilt or remorse come up.

Recognize that dreams, flashbacks, or memories are normal

I still have nightmares about my family. I just had one last night. In the nightmare, my mother convinced the courts that I was unstable and had me committed to a mental health facility. Most of the dreams I have about my parents are violent. In them, we fight. I stand up for the girl who couldn’t, and punch and kick my way to safety. This is all normal. If you keep having memories of the good times or the bad times, that is normal too.

I spent 17 years in the house I grew up in. I’ve only been out of it for 13 years, and have only been safely away from my abusers for almost five years. Carving out time and space where you can feel safe and justified in your decision takes time. It’s important that you don’t backslide when you feel these memories come on. Have a friend you can text instead, write a poem or journal, do anything but cross that boundary you made.

Have grace for yourself

This can be a long and arduous process, it is painful as well. You might find yourself more emotional than you thought you’d be over it all. In these moments, it is important to give yourself grace. You are doing what you need to do for your own health. You’re taking care of yourself above others, and that can be lonely. Know that there are people who do love you, and who love you in the ways you need and deserve to be loved. It could be a family member, a friend, or a partner. These relationships, the mutually loving ones in your life, are the ones you should lean on and cling to.

If you have any other questions, please feel free to comment below and I’ll do my best to respond. Sending you love and well wishes this holiday season!

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Practical Magic is a new column that curates how-to articles for living your best queer life, edited by Meg Jones Wall.

Queer Co-parenting Helped Me Unlearn Everything TV Taught Me About Family

I don’t know what idiosyncratic coping mechanism got you through your divorce, but I turned to “A Milhouse Divided” for every stage of grief. In this episode of The Simpsons, Luann Van Houten demands a divorce from her wet noodle husband Kirk right in the middle of Marge Simpson’s dinner party.

Each time I watched, I laughed. And I cried. Then I cried some more. Because that episode sums up everything TV taught me about marriage and family: divorce is for losers.

There’s no room in pop culture narratives for divorce to be positive or productive. It’s all about ending, destruction, separation and failure. I believed this because I also believed all the other tropes about marriage and family that TV taught me, like “good moms put everyone else’s needs first” and “it’s normal for married couples to hate each other a little bit.”

For most of our marriage, my husband and I treated my bisexuality like a party trick — a fun fact we shared when we wanted to feel like a cool, edgy couple. But the jokes about my “lesbian content” wore on me, and I didn’t want my identity to be a punchline anymore. I wanted to find space for queer identity in my straight-passing marriage, so I reached out to friends who found solutions to this problem in their own marriages. They introduced me to relationship structures beyond monogamy like polyamory, ethical non-monogamy and relationship anarchy. At the same time, I used my therapy sessions to explore how I learned and why I still believed the stories about what it means to be a good wife and mother. All that combined with learning a new relational vocabulary around communication, boundaries and self-expression led me to a realization: I didn’t have to destroy my family to thrive. I had to rewrite the oppressive, heteronormative stories that were destroying us.

It turned out that divorce was the best way that my husband and I could thrive as individuals and as parents. But our new story of divorce started as a reconfiguration. Divorce in pop culture carries a stigma based on assumptions of division, conflict and destruction, so it’s unusual — queer, even — to approach parenting-after-divorce with a baseline of cooperation, multiplicity and mutual support. We strive to live by the first principle outlined in Andie Nordgren’s manifesto on relationship anarchy: “Love is abundant, and every relationship is unique.” Divorce made space for the boundaries that allowed us to focus on being the best friends and parents that we could be. We’re clear the roles we want to play in each other’s lives and what we can each offer to meet our shared parenting goals. We’ve become each other’s chosen family.

If you Google “co-parenting,” you’ll learn that it’s defined as a popular modern method of raising children post-divorce. You’re likely to see news of celebrity parents handling their split with as much chill as they can muster. Advice for successful co-parenting includes having clear boundaries, respecting each other and sticking to a schedule. When I read these articles for the first time, I thought, “Huh. Sounds like every non-monogamous relationship I’ve ever known.” In fact, except for the references to divorce, we were already doing everything the articles suggested. We were co-parenting before it was cool!

Because my ex and I separated during the early pandemic, our first months as co-parents happened under the same roof. Many people asked me how I could possibly stand to live with my ex, and honestly, it was a relief. We each had solo parenting time and we also spent time with our child together. Instead of me taking full responsibility for our child’s day-to-day needs (meals, school activities, doctor’s appointments) as TV taught me to do, we started sharing the work. Now we’re honest about our needs instead of silently seething with resentment.

Of course, there are days when co-parenting feels less than euphoric. Now that my ex and I live in separate houses, we deal with a lot more jealousy when it comes to not being able to see our son every day. Divorce didn’t make us perfect parents —issues about schedule snafus, financial decisions and clashing parenting styles still pop up. But, ironically, we now have a stronger sense of shared goals as a family than we did as a married couple, and that allows us to handle conflict with more grace.

I want to acknowledge that the fact that I did not have to consider parenting outside a straight, heteronormative context until my divorce an incredible privilege. When we were married, my ex and I had institutional support as white, cishet, married parents, so our motivations and struggles were rarely questioned. It was expected that our child would be parented primarily by two individuals rather than a support structure that included extended family and friends. There was no domestic violence in our relationship and were not significantly impacted by poverty. The ecosystem of privilege surrounding my family shielded us from having to think critically about co-parenting until now.

Looking back on what led to our divorce and all the new skills we built individually and as a family, I wonder if co-parenting would have the same cool factor if it weren’t tied to divorce. What would happen if we normalized the idea of partnered and unpartnered parents taking care of their own needs, working cooperatively and practicing good communication? Heteronormative parenting relies on the assumption that raising a family is an inherently painful obligation that a father and a mother begrudgingly share. Queer parenting resists that trope by insisting that parenting is a verb, an action and identity available to any and all adults who take on a shared responsibility to care for a child.

I have been lucky enough to be able to test this theory as a partnered and an unpartnered parent. My ex stood next to our child as I married my spouse at our wedding last year, expanding our co-parenting circle even more. We talk to our child openly about grief, jealousy and how much it hurts to leave each house. But we also talk about how having two moms and a dad means more love and more ways to experience the world and how our family connection expands far beyond any four walls. In fact, we intentionally reference each other’s living spaces by their street names rather than “dad’s house” or “moms’ house” to reinforce that multiplicity.

Sometimes I wonder what a sitcom about our life would look like. Instead of nosy neighbors and meddling mothers-in-law barging in, my ex and his partner would be late for their movie date because we all spent too much time chatting at drop-off. Our son would come home from school upset that he has to do twice as much work as other kids on his Mother’s Day project because he has two moms (true story!). Our queer family is ready for primetime, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I Was Ready for Parenthood — Then the Pandemic Struck

This journal is not the kind I usually buy. I stopped at CVS on the way home, telling myself they’d have the perfect thing, talking myself out of a drive across town in evening traffic to pick up a Moleskine at Barnes and Noble. And they did have the perfect thing. In the far back corner, beyond the calendars and folios: One singular hardcover notebook with clean, thin lines. Enormous. Outlandish. Almost girly. DREAM BIG is stamped onto a cover I can barely hide under my arm. This is not an unassuming notebook. I’ve never bought one like it.

But then, I’ve never had a dream this big.

I wrote those words in 2019, when I finally discovered the answer to a question I’d been asking on and off for a decade: was I going to try and become a parent?

The question had eaten away at me for ages, especially after I came out at 30. It lurked in the corners of my mind as my straight friends married and began to have babies. It popped happily into my daydreams when things in my life were going well — and crept into my nightmares when things were going badly. I’d known since I was eight years old that I wanted to have kids someday, but I’d known for even longer that the world is a strange, uncertain place. And so for years, I’d asked my loved ones: How do you decide? How do you know it will be okay? How can we keep our babies safe?

It was my mom who told me, over and over again: You don’t know. You can’t know. You do your best. Things in the world have looked dire so many times. No one in history has ever had guarantees. It will be okay.

She also said one thing that I absolutely knew was true: You’ll be so good at this.

I trust her. And so, by the time I bought the notebook, I was ready. The answer was yes. I was going to try to have a baby.

The notebook was the easy part, of course. Many parts were not easy. There was the alarming gynecologist with the Bibles in her waiting room. The referral to the fertility clinic, two hours out of town because I live in rural Northern California. There was a kind doctor with an ultrasound, who noted my slightly heart-shaped uterus, but said it would probably be fine. I started searching online for a donor, a terrifying process in its own right, but I was doing it. I was ready.

And then it was March 2020.

Living in your hometown is a funny sort of time travel. When I imagined having a baby without a co-parent, I imagined my kid might have a childhood not so different from my own. I imagined giving birth down the hall from a hospital waiting room teeming with family. I imagined getting the dishes done while my child was bathed in love and care by their grandparents. Later, there would be long afternoons spent playing with their cousins. I grew up encircled by my family, and I knew my child would do the same.

But then the pandemic turned everything I thought I knew completely upside down.

In the long spring of that year, family members who lived just miles away became floating heads on a Zoom call. My mom and I could go for walks, ten feet apart, but we couldn’t hug or share a meal. I read books to my niece over Face-Time. We were all marooned in a sea of social distance, and no one so much as my friends with children.

Then there were the hospitals, which had suddenly become very scary places. Triage tents were erected in front of our local ER overnight. My worst nightmare, the thing that kept me careful, was the idea that I might have to drive a parent with Covid up to the doors of the hospital — and that I might never see them again.

Everything I’d feared about the world in my most uncertain moments — that it could change on a dime, that unspeakable things could happen, and probably would — all seemed true.

What room was there, in this new world, for a baby?

The question was never, did I want you. The question was always, could I keep you safe.

I was a kid who paid attention. When my grandpa watched the news, I hid behind him in the doorway, soaking up all the ways the world could hurt me. At the age of five, I developed my own evacuation plan for a house fire. At ten, my friends and I discussed what we would do if we were kidnapped like Polly Klaas.

Becoming a teenager did not staunch my imagination for how things could go wrong, but that sixth sense for catastrophe made me a terrific babysitter. It was my whole job to make sure that the kids on my watch were safe and loved. I was the one with a first-aid kit in my backpack, the babysitter who was great at pretend play and would always suggest bubbles over bikes. I could predict and prevent almost any accident. Once, when a dad asked me if I could “try to get his toddler on her skateboard today,” I laughed in his face.

Parenting, of course, is a very different gig. It’s a parent’s job to foster independence, to allow minor accidents to happen. I’d always known that becoming a parent would mean lesson after lesson in letting go. It would mean seeing what could happen, and then letting it happen anyway, skinned knees and all. I had tried to prepare for that. But then the pandemic happened, and all the ways I thought I’d prepared flew directly out the window. What would it be to bring a new person into that? How would it be for them? What would it do to me?

Make no mistake. I doubt the world; I doubt myself. But please know that I have, that I have always had, all the faith in you.

On the day in January that I got my first dose of the COVID-19 vaccine, my appointment was scheduled for 6:30 am. I rose in the dark, drove to the clinic in disbelief. Nobody knew where to line up. Everyone looked somehow both tired and giddy. It had been ages since I’d been around that many people. I got my shot, waited my 15 minutes, and drove to the park just in time to catch the sunrise. It was a mild morning. Hiking up the hill to that memorial bench with my coffee, such a heaviness lifted from my shoulders. All things felt possible, or like they might be, soon.

All things did not end up being possible, of course. The vaccine was not everything. But it did help my life to open back up in important ways. I got to hug my mom again. Hospitalizations for COVID-19 dropped, at least in between waves, and certain visitors were allowed in the hospitals again. Some days, even with all that had changed, even with all that hadn’t, I could see a way forward. Some days I could see a path to parenthood again, in a way that I hadn’t in that horrible first spring of the pandemic.

You may ask about your conception over breakfast, or on the way to school, and it won’t be the hardest question to answer. But what about when you ask me why your heart hurts? What if you ask me about the state of mine?

One warm night last week, I put on a 1997 playlist and did something I hadn’t done since high school: I got in my car and started driving just to drive, just to think, just to feel like I was going somewhere. I turned toward home — not where I live now, but the house in the canyon where I grew up — and I stopped having to think about the road. Something deep within me knew every hairpin, every s-curve. The playlist stalled out when my reception went down to one bar, and I started singing Meredith Brooks, badly, out the open window. The thinking parts of my brain were free to wonder why everything looked so different, so airy, why there were fewer houses, why the houses that did line the street were new. I shouldn’t have been able to see the creek from here, but there it was, water tumbling over rocks.

I saw some trees still standing, trunks black with telltale char, and I remembered: this all burned. Was it the Camp Fire in 2018, or the smaller ones in the years after? I’m not sure anymore. But the houses I remember, the thick woods that hid and cooled the creek, were gone.

Everything changes. Even as I write this — even since I pitched this — everything has changed again. When was it that we got the news about Roe Vs. Wade, about the Supreme Court? Was it two weeks ago? Was it three? How time stretches in adulthood, and in a pandemic, doubly so. How long since Florida passed the bill making life harder for LGBTQ+ kids in Florida? How long since Texas made it harder for kids to get gender-affirming health care? How long since the last tragedy involving a gun? How long ago was high school, when I’d get in my car, filled with the gas I paid for, and felt free for the very first time, the world stretching out in front of me, as full of promise as the deepest breath?

I’m not the same person that I was when I first drove this road as a teenager. I’m not even the same person who decided I was ready to have a kid in 2019. Is the version of me that said I can do this still even in there?

I hope that I am.

Dear baby: This is not a kind world, but there is kindness in it. This is not a just world, but there are moments of great joy. I do not have hope for the world, but I have hope for you.

Maybe that’s enough.

Are All the Queer Moms Hanging Out Without Me?

You don’t know how desperate you are for adult friends until you try to make them. As a newly out queer adult at 32, I was mostly interested in dating and figuring out how I as an individual woman fit into the larger world of queer women. Being a single mom, I was less interested in making mom friends of any kind, honestly. When you’re a single mom, having mom friends who are married is kind of exhausting. You’re at two different places in your lives — while you have the commonality of motherhood and maybe friendship outside of that, your priorities are different. They have a spouse: someone to pick up the slack, to watch the kids, to bitch about. And it’s hard to make single mom friends because…who has the time to socialize?

It wasn’t until I entered a relationship with my now fianceé that I even began to think about what making queer mom friends would look like. The pandemic was still raging, so it wasn’t easy. And it’s not like there are many meetups advertised that are geared specifically for queer moms — even in Los Angeles. I was finally ready to build my two-mom squad, and then I was stumped. Where are all the queer moms hanging out? Are they hanging out without me? Soon, I found my answer — they’re on social media.

Well shit, I thought to myself.

Let me be abundantly clear: I am EXTREMELY online. Social media is definitely my thing. It’s my job; it’s where I live; it’s where I feel comfortable. So it’s not that making friends on social media feels particularly hard — most of my friendships started online. But the thing I noticed is that to create a community of friends as a “social media queer mom,” you need to create content. Basically, you need to become an influencer. Which I most certainly am not.

I have nothing against queer mom influencers — I think they’re great. I am truly awed and amazed by the amount of time they put into cultivating their pages. And I understand why they do it. For them, creating content is a way to bring visibility to LGBTQ families. We absolutely need it. It just sucks that the most visible way to exist online as a queer parent is to be an influencer. What about those of us who don’t fit that mold?

Let me tell you, I am no influencer. For someone who is extremely online, I take a very passive stance to being visible. I barely remember to update my Instagram. I posted something recently and realized it had been months since I posted my own face on my feed. The idea of having to constantly create content makes me exhausted. Mainly because I’m not clever or consistent enough, but also, I have the most uncooperative family. My partner will yuck it up sometimes, but it’s out of her comfort zone. And my son? For a kid who wants to go viral, he sure is camera shy. When I ask him to take a picture, he’s like “absolutely not.”

I like talking about my family. My son is a really smart and funny eight-year-old. He likes Legos and Minecraft. He’s good at math and loves music, and he’s so freaking cute — I literally can’t stand it. And my partner Beth is amazing. She’s kind and loving and truly the best person to complete our family. We have the cutest puppy, and our cats are so lovely. In theory, we’d make excellent content creators. But the truth is: being a content creator is time consuming! You have to constantly make content to stay ahead of the algorithm. I don’t have the energy to work a full-time job and then corral everyone into making a bunch of videos that involve costume changes, lip-synching, or learning dances. Plus, my video editing skills suck. I’m not paying someone to edit 30-second videos.

Recently, I was talking to my therapist about this. Where do those of us moms who just want to make friends with other two-mom families go? I don’t want to use TikTok dances to try to make friends. I just want to awkwardly go up to another mom and say: “I see you also have a child and a wife. Do you want to come over for dinner?” Surely there have to be other queer moms who love Target, leggings, and Golden Girls reruns? Can they please announce themselves? Bueller? We live in Los Angeles — there have to be plenty of two-mom families in this city! But the only two-mom families I know live in different states, so they’re not people we can see with any sort of regularity. We have become IRL friends with one two-mom family I met on Instagram through work, but their kiddos are a lot younger than mine, so trying to coordinate time for playdates is tricky.

And I know I can just slide into the DMs of one of the queer mom influencers I see and strike up a friendship. I’ve done it before! (It was mainly for work, but still.) But most of them aren’t local, and while I love having pocket friends, I want to have another family I can call on a Friday and say “want to come over for pizza and a movie tonight?” I see some of these influencer moms plan trips to visit each other, and I can’t help but have FOMO. Where is my queer mom squad damnit?

Queer mom influencers are open about a lot of things in their lives: relationship struggles, motherhood stuff, and the pressure of being an out family. (Another reason I know that influencer life isn’t for me — I don’t want to invite negativity into my social media feed.) But none of them talk about how hard it is to find other queer moms IRL. Creating a community online is great, and I’m happy they all have managed to do that, but what about their immediate communities? Since I am indeed very online™, I know what you see on social media isn’t the whole story. So what is the whole story?

I wish more queer mom influencers talked about the struggle of creating community IRL. Maybe I’d feel less FOMO if I knew they were struggling the same way I am. If you’re a queer mom without an online presence, are you even a queer mom? (Yes, obviously.) Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it. As we start to shift the narrative about raw honesty online about motherhood, I wish that queer moms opened up more about how hard it is to create their inner circle.

I’m hoping that as we begin to do more things outside the house, my partner and I will be able to try to make some more two-mom family friends. Until then, I’ll just scroll through Instagram and whine, because FOMO is real. And I don’t like knowing people are having fun without me.

“Wait, Is This a Date?” Podcast Episode 201: Mommi Culture

The year: 2017. The day: the beginning of Pride Month. Big Little Lies and The Good Fight had recently released their first seasons. Rihanna had an album out the previous year. Images from Carol still danced across our feeds with a swooning urgency. The air was hot with the sparkle of new life. June 1, 2017: Mommi was born.

Former Autostraddle writer Erin Sullivan and current Autostraddle managing editor Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya co-wrote an article titled, “Mommi Is the New Daddy” and our lives were never the same.

I had only come out a couple months prior so it’s safe to say I’ve never really known a gay world without mommi. And why would I want to? Whether you are a mommi, like to date mommis, or are just an admirer from afar, we all have reasons to appreciate this gay archetype named a mere five years ago.

But amid all this mommi madness, I started to think of the actual moms. Some moms are mommis, but, of course, not all. And while we love to discuss mommis, moms — like people with actual children — are sometimes left out of the gay dating convo. And that’s why we’re so excited that for our season two premiere we have Autostraddle’s director of operations — and real-life mom — Laneia Jones to talk to Christina and I about all things dating as a mom. And before that great convo, we have mommi co-creator Kayla on to play a little mommi game!

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SHOW NOTES

+ I am once again sharing the seminal mommi piece.

+ “All Star” is about climate change and my mind is blown. “It’s a cool place and they say it gets colder. You’re bundled up now, wait ‘til you get older. But the meteor men beg to differ judging by the whole in the satellite picture. The ice we skate is getting pretty thin. The water’s getting warm so we might as well swim. My world’s on fire, how ‘bout yours?” I mean, just read for yourself.

+ If you want more on my decision not to have kids and my feelings about it, check out this essay I wrote about the movie Good Manners as part of my series, aptly titled, “Monsters and Mommis.”

+ Read Laneia’s interview with her girlfriend Amanda!!

+ Read my Tahara review and then go see it as soon as you can.

+ Kristen Stewart really is starting a ghost hunting show.

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Laneia: And that did feel awkward. And that did feel like it was putting me in a specific type of dating. Not very hookup, not that sexy to date, for brunch only.

Christina: You’re saying Wednesday brunch isn’t the hottest time to get a date? Good to know.

Laneia: It is not. I would not recommend it.

[theme song plays]

Drew: Hi, I’m Drew.

Christina: And I’m Christina.

Drew: And welcome to Wait, Is This A Date?

Christina: (singing) Season two, baby.

Drew: This is when you say what Wait, Is This a Date is? Traditionally.

Christina: Okay. But what if I chose to give it like a sparkly new vocal? Like what about that?

Drew: I support that.

Christina: Wait, Is This A Date? Is an Autostraddle podcast dedicated to dating and sex, and all things fun. And of course, the perennial question, wait, is this a date?

Drew: Correct.

Christina: Whoo. Got it.

Drew: And I guess now we say— God, it’s been a long time.

Christina: It’s been a minute.

Drew: It’s been like six months since our special episode. And like almost a year since our regular episodes.

Christina: It’s been truly a long time since we have rocked. And some might even say rolled.

Drew: Yeah, we’re on like a TV schedule, but like an HBO or like something prestigious.

Christina: Yeah. Excuse me. I’m getting like big channel dollars. I’m no network. I’m not getting like network money. This is not an NBC Production. Thank you very much.

Drew: I do remember that we say who we are. And since this is a new season, maybe we have new people coming who don’t know. So, I’m Drew Gregory, I’m a writer and a filmmaker. I write for Autostraddle where I do like film and TV criticism, personal essays, dating stuff. I’m trans. I’m queer. I’m a trans woman. Should I say that? Should I clarify that? And I like— I don’t know why I was about to say that I like the idea of someone thinking that I was like transmasculine, but that’s something I’ve been unpacking for several years now.

Christina: I also like the idea of you asking me for permission about like, how you should identify yourself as if I’m going to come down with the correct ruling like, baby, live your life. Who am I to say?

Drew: I think where I’m at is queer trans woman and labels are what they are. What about you?

Christina: That’s really gorgeous. I’m Christina Tucker. I’m also a writer at Autostraddle, and at the internet at large, a podcaster. Yeah. Some sort of like queer Black woman who just kind of like vibes, will accept all labels of any kind of gay sexuality. But I’m also like very bored by the labels’ conversation, perhaps because it is, I am over 24, and it does not feel important to me anymore, who can say? I’m gay, like let’s vibe, let’s fucking party. Wow…

Drew: I love that.

Christina: Simply the greatest intro to myself I’ve ever given.

Drew: Should we party? Should we get into it?

Christina: Let’s party.

Drew: Great.

Christina: How are we defining party in this moment?

Drew:Well, how we’re defining party in this moment is that our first episode of the season is all about Mommi Culture. So, we have a very special guest that we will introduce later for our main conversation, but we also have another very special guest. Yeah, that’s right. Premiere episode. Two, very special guests. We have a returning guest to play a little game with us.

Kayla: Hi, everyone. I’m Kayla Kumari Upadhyaya. I am the managing editor of Autostraddle, which I think is new, since the last time I was here. Last time I came to you as a writer, and now I’m a full-time editor here. Growth.

Christina: We love Kayla.

Drew: Also, I do think of you as like something of an expert of like Mommi with an i culture.

Christina: Absolutely.

Drew: And so, I’m wondering, what does that mean to you?

Kayla: Well, I was the co-founder of mommi at autostraddle.com. It was Erin Sullivan and I coined the term originally for the website in maybe 2015, I want to say. And we wrote a piece together called, “Mommi Is the New Daddy”. And honestly started a cultural revolution.

Christina: Yeah. My life’s never been the same. I’ll say that.

Kayla: The reputation certainly precedes us. I mean, most people don’t even know that I wrote that term for Autostraddle. So, your children outgrow you, and they have their life of their own. Like, that is how I view Mommi now, because also honestly, sometimes people will tag me into conversations about Mommi. And I’m like, “I don’t actually know what you’re talking about.” I feel like maybe I’m not an expert anymore, because it has grown and expanded so much. But yeah, I don’t know. It’s still part of my identity. Talking about labels earlier. Yeah. I’m not a Mommi myself, but an appreciator of.

Christina: Yes. Yes.

Drew: I mean, by all means, I would never want to put anything on you, but I feel like you’re approaching, like you definitely are getting into a new level where you’re close. Like, now you’re in your 30s, I think like 35, maybe you could get there.

Kayla: Yeah. You’re not wrong. And I’ve always kind of skirted the line between the things that I like and the things that I want to become, a deeply queer thing. But yeah, that has definitely always been a part of my identity crisis journey. And I think you’re correct. I think something about living in Miami in particular has brought that Momminess to the surface.

Christina: I was really going to say, I think in the year that we have been much closer, I have just seen such a gorgeous growth of Mommi energy. Truly the condo has a very incredible Mommi energy that simply the amount of coffee you can make at that home really is incredibly Mommi Culture.

Kayla: Truly any style. Yeah. All the ways, we have every coffee machine that you can imagine.

Christina: Yes. Yes.

Drew: Should we jump into this game, Christina? Do you want to describe it and name it—

Christina: Whoo-hoo.

Drew: —off the top of your head?

Christina: Simply no way I’m going to be able to name it off the top of my head. Absolutely not one of my strengths, but Drew and I were banding around just like the idea of things that can be quantified as Mommi, despite them perhaps having no real connection to Mommi Culture. So, we just figured it would be just like a fun, silly time of us saying things. And let’s be honest, being a little bit charmed by our own cleverness with regard to a bunch of things that are similar, but very different. And then, Kayla will choose, which is the most Mommi of the options that are given to her.

Drew: Yeah. You need to justify it.

Kayla: Okay.

Christina: Yes.

Drew: Should I start us off?

Christina: Start us off.

Drew: Okay. So, the first one is eagles, the bird, Philadelphia Eagles, the football team, and The Eagles, the band.

Kayla: I’m going to go eagles, the bird. They have a very specific haircut, a very specific look. They like to keep it consistent too. I feel like there’s something very Mommi about like, I’m going to have the same hairdo every day. Yeah.

Drew: I love that.

Christina: I will accept that. I also think, yeah, eagles have the haircut of like what my friends and I call the accidental mom butch, where you’re like, “I think that’s just a straight mom, but she’s accidentally cut her hair in the way that she looks like a butch lesbian, like what’s happening here.” And that is very an eagle look, I accept this answer. All right. For you, I have King Triton, Kings of Leon, and “King” by Florence and the Machine.

Kayla: I’m going to go King Triton, because I do feel like he is—

Christina: I’m loving this.

Kayla: I hope I’m only picking unexpected answers. I do think King Triton is like often trying to upstage his own daughter in terms of drama, in terms of look. And it’s like, there’s nothing more Mommi than that than somebody who’s like, “No, it’s me. It’s not my daughter’s day or my daughter’s time.” Like, “Sure. The movie’s named after her or whatever, but I’m here. I have my little outfit.”

Christina: I love calling his tail and shirtlessness an outfit.

Kayla: Yeah. He’s definitely topless.

Christina: He’s quite literally just in his body.

Drew: Look, nipples are the best accessories, so…

Kayla: There we go.

Drew: Okay. Next one. The Wild West, Wild Wild Country, the limited series, and Olivia Wilde.

Kayla: Oh, I feel like I’m being baited into saying Olivia Wilde, and I’m not going to go Olivia Wilde. I think I’m going to go The Wild Wild West, which you just mean as like a concept, right?

Drew: Yeah, yeah.

Kayla: I think it’s not a specific…

Christina: Well, Drew would’ve given you the year that movie came out.

Drew: That’s true.

Kayla: Yeah. I will say the first thing I thought of when I heard Wild Wild West is the seminal Mary-Kate and Ashley movie film, How the West Was Fun. Not necessarily a Mommi film, but definitely Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen today, veering into Mommi Culture, for sure. And I don’t know, there’s an unpredictability there. It is wild, Wild Wild West. I just mostly don’t think Olivia Wilde is very Mommi at all, so…

Drew: Yeah. I mean, that was the point of the game is that the things aren’t necessarily.

Kayla: Yeah. There’s a real lack of Mommi there.

Drew: Great.

Christina: Yeah. I love you finding the Mommi in these things that are just simply unwell.

Drew: I will say her like current age gap relationship with Harry Styles feels like the most Mommi thing she’s done yet, but that’s my answer, and that’s not your answer. And you’re the person playing this game. So, Christina?

Christina: All right. We have RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars’ all winners, Smash Mouth’s “All Star,” and Cap’n Crunch’s OOPS! All Berries.

Kayla: I’m going to go Smash Mouth’s “All Star,” which I performed at karaoke for the first time ever a matter of weeks ago.

Christina: Wow. Can’t believe I missed that inaugural performance. What a bummer.

Kayla: It was in my own home, because I do have an at-home karaoke machine. Yes, the more I’m talking, the more I am becoming Mommi, but…

Christina: Okay, good. I was going to say it, if you didn’t, babe.

Kayla: Because I was like, I don’t want to wait in a line, wait in the queue to do karaoke. I want to do it in my own home. Go as many times as I want, try out new things. And one of those things was “All Star,” and I did not know that that song was about climate change.

Christina: What?

Kayla: I had never noticed. It’s very obvious actually. I just hadn’t sang it since I was a child. But when I was singing out loud, I had a realization mid singing. I was like, “Is this about climate change?” I said it out loud to my girlfriend. And she was like, “Oh, my God.” But that type of realization, that kind of like rocked my world is on the same level as when I created the term Mommi. It was like life changing. Yeah. I can never go back to before.

Christina: I mean, as they said, “It is a cool place, and they say it gets colder.” So, that’s—

Drew: Whoa.

Christina: —really something to think about up there.

Drew: Wow. My mind is blown.

Christina: Gorgeous answer.

Kayla: Go read the lyrics, go read the lyrics after this because it’s like all of them.

Christina: Treat yourself.

Drew: I will. Okay. Monster trucks, the concepts or the thing, Monster Energy drink, and Monster, the film from 2003 with Charlize Theron and Christina Ricci.

Kayla: Oh, yeah. I got to go Monster, the film. This feels like the easiest one. And it’s one where I’m like, “No, I can’t even avoid it, because it’s the obvious one.” Like, “I have to pick it. That’s the one.”

Drew: So, yeah, like murder Mommi, I guess. Aileen Wuornos is Mommi Culture.

Kayla: Yeah, obviously.

Drew: You said it here on the podcast.

Kayla: Actually. Yeah. Erin Sullivan would agree, honestly. Yeah. Mommi stay up for approval right there. Mommis can murder too.

Drew: Great.

Christina: Yeah. I mean, listen, it’s a whole genre of film. I’ve seen White Oleander. Come on now. All right. For my final, You’ve Got Mail, the film, You Got Served, the other film, and “You’ve Got The Love” by Candi Staton.

Kayla: This is the hardest one, because none of these things are pinging as Mommi, for me personally.

Christina: We came to test you.

Kayla: Yeah. Yeah. Finishing with a real stumper, because that is like You’ve Got Mail is probably like the least Mommi of those rom-coms.

Christina: Mm-hmm.

Kayla: Wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. Like three-way tie, nothing’s Mommi. I don’t know.

Christina: I love it.

Kayla: Is it a cop out?

Christina: No, it’s not a cop out. You’ve argued strongly for every other one. And if you have one where you say a three-way tie, I can fully support you.

Kayla: Yeah. There’s a lack of Mommi there. And honestly, some of why I feel like when I get brought into Mommi conversations. And I’m like, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” is because sometimes Mommi gets thrown around a little too much.

Christina: Mm-hmm. Say that, girl. Say that.

Kayla: It’s like, sure, Mommi is a spectrum, but not everything can be Mommi.

Christina: Not everything can fit on a spectrum.

Drew: Not everything is King Triton.

Kayla: Not everything. That one felt obvious to me.

Christina: I simply love your mind. And I think it’s so gorgeous that we’re opening this second season with this like unbridled, Gemini chaos. I think it’s so lovely of us.

Drew: Well, thank you so much for coming back to play this game with us, and for reminding everyone where the term Mommi comes from.

Kayla: Yeah, no problem. Thanks for having me.

Drew: Do you want to say where people can find you?

Kayla: I am Kayla Kumari — that’s K-U-M-A-R-I — on everything, every single… If there’s a social media that exists, I’m on there and that is my name on it. And then also just on autostraddle.com, where I write about everything from tinned fish to like my life. I don’t know.

Christina: Yeah, those are the big two really. Always a delight. Now, go do something incredibly Mommi like throw on, I don’t know, light a candle and put on an album.

Kayla: I was wearing macramé earlier. So, just—

Christina: Well, and there she is, folks.

Kayla: And with that.

Christina: (singing) And now, it’s time for part two. Why am I so vocal today? What is going on with me?

Drew: I love it. I want you to sing this entire season.

Christina: Very surprising.

Drew: We should have a special musical episode where we have to sing the entire time.

Christina: See, I give you an inch. You run a mile. You run a ding dang mile.

Drew: Well, we are going from a one air sign to another, from a Mommi Culture to an actual mom. Would our guest like to introduce herself?

Laneia: Yeah. Hi, I’m Laneia Jones. I am the director of operations at Autostraddle where I’ve been for, I think somewhere around the past 78 years of my life.

Christina: Yeah. That math checks out.

Laneia: Yeah. Mm-hmm. I am qualified to have this discussion, I believe because I have two children of my very own, and I think that’s about it. I’m a lesbian.

Christina: Great. Love that.

Laneia: I’m 41. That’s probably important to this as well. Yeah.

Christina: I love all of this. Thank you so much for joining us to really drill down into that delineation between like someone can be a mom, but not necessarily have a Mommi feeling, like that is part of their identity, or culture, or even really care to understand it. And I think we’re going to have a fun little chitchat here today, I hope.

Laneia: Thank you for having me.

Drew: What is your relationship to like Mommi Culture in queer community?

Laneia: Honestly, I think when the term was coined, I felt like I was at least close or orbiting that definition. Honestly, there’s something about Mommi that I feel is like in a specific age range, and it’s like I’m between the young version of it, and the older version of it right now. And I’m in this weird in between place where it’s like, I’m not sure I’m there. I think I’m like on the outskirts at this time.

Christina: Skirting Mommi. Wow. That’s an erotica book.

Laneia: I think it’s the hair, to be honest. I think it’s the haircut right now is doing a lot to get me out of it.

Christina: Interesting.

Drew: Interesting.

Christina: Interesting.

Drew: I mean, I’d also just love to talk about like dating as a mom, because that’s something that I don’t have any experience with and Christina doesn’t. And that I assume has a lot of specifics. And a lot of specifics that a lot of people can relate to. I feel like I’ve met a lot of people in queer community who have kids, who will bring up like specifics of dating while a mom. So, I definitely like want to sort of dive into that. So, in queer community, when you’ve dated, do people ever have an issue that you have kids or has that been something that gets, that comes up?

Laneia: Not that like I have been made aware of. God, let’s see. I’ve been doing this for a bit, I guess. So, I started off on OkCupid.

Christina: Ah, I see.

Laneia: And did make it very clear there that I had children in an effort to like, if someone’s not interested in that, they don’t need to bother me.

Drew: Right.

Laneia: And since that was… again, like around 50 years ago, I was at that time, my children were younger. And so, if I were going to be entering a long-term relationship, like I think at that time I was looking for a co-parent to build a family around that. And I tried that. That is over. That experiment has ended, and it has ended at a time when the kids that I have are essentially not actually kids anymore. My oldest is 23, and my youngest is 17, because I got started very young. I was like, “Let’s get this out of the way.” And so, now, it’s like, I’m not looking for a co-parent, and I think that has made this third now round of dating as a mom a little bit more chill and I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t really have to worry as much now that they’re older. So, that has been nice. But I haven’t really encountered that. I was worried in the beginning that people would have a problem with it. And then, it actually turned out that the people, that reached out, the people I did go on dates with, were into it. I think to them it sort of was like, “Oh, great.” Like an instant family. Like, we’ll just add water and this is fine, which it is not that easy obviously. It is a whole different thing. But yeah, I think some people appreciated it.

Christina: Yeah. I think that’s interesting that delineation between like, when my kids are young, I’m going to have to think about like what involving a co-parent into their life means. And now, that they’re a little older being like, I get to kind of have a little bit more flexibility when I want to disclose this. Like, do you have a moment where you’re like, “Oh, I’m going to start upfront with everybody about that I have kids,” or like are you getting to know somebody and then, you’re like, “And by the way, I have kids,” or you’re on a date, maybe. Maybe it gets like you’re in person and then, it’s like the moment where you’re like, “Oh, I have two kids.” Or Is it just based on vibes, like the person’s vibe?

Laneia: Yeah. It’s very vibe based.

Christina: Mm-hmm. As much as dating is very vibe based.

Laneia: Yeah. This last round again was like, I wasn’t looking for a relationship at all. So, the whole thing was like, they didn’t need to know. I didn’t need to disclose that I had children in order to just go on some dates, have some sex, have some drinks. Like, there was no reason to talk about that. And so, I didn’t bring it up, and my kids aren’t like on my social media. Well, I talk about them, but they’re not like on Instagram with me. And the person that I’m dating now, like the very first date, she was like, “You have four photos on Instagram, what’s going on?” And I was like, “Well, nothing. What are you talking about?” And then, just really quickly had to disclose pretty much everything, which was fine. But I am the first parent that she has seriously dated. So, that has been interesting.

Christina: I also just love the idea of like, we are all so on socials, and you see someone socials who do not necessarily reflect a life that you think that they would be living. And you’re like, “All right, what’s your deal? What are you hiding? What’s going on? What’s skeletons are in that closet? What’s going on here?”

Laneia: That was exactly it. Yeah.

Drew: As it’s changed over the years of looking for a co-parent versus not has the timeline in which you would bring the person you’re dating into your kids’ lives also changed?

Laneia: Yeah. It did this time. I felt no real push to do that this time for a while. I think it had to happen eventually, because she was coming over during the daytime. But it wasn’t like, “Okay, I hope you like this person, and I hope this goes well.” I pretty much was like, “This is who I’m dating.” Like, meet this person, you meet this person. And they hang out on the couch and watch TV sometimes. But no one’s needing to impart any sort of life lesson, or punishments, or help with homework, or anything like that. So it was just like, if they don’t like each other, that’s probably going to be fine. Or like that’s how I thought about it in the beginning was like, “Nah, I don’t care. Not really.”

Christina: I love that. It’ll be a different kind of challenge, but like we’ll get over it.

Laneia: Yeah. We’ll get over it. Yeah.

Drew: Do you feel like it’s a lot. I mean, maybe you don’t have any knowledge of this, but do you presume that among people, dating as a mom is a lot different than for straight people? Is there stuff that comes up that feels very unique to being queer?

Laneia: I would assume that it is extremely different, just because a lot of things are extremely different about that.

Drew: Sure.

Laneia: I think if you’re a queer person, chances are at least that you haven’t really, like in your own mind, socialized yourself to believe that at some point eventually you will probably be a parent. I think it’s just out there as an option, unless obviously that is your whole thing. And which in case that’s totally fine. But most of the time, I think it’s sort of like if it happens, it happens or it’ll happen like 10 years from now. So, I think there’s not an inherent, like feeling of immediate responsibility or immediate like, “Oh, God, they’re going to want me to step in, and do this, and do that.” I feel like that would be a heavy weight in straight dating, because I think it would be presumed that you would date, get married. Like, there’s a timeline. And then, for queer people, there’s really not. There’s just like a field, and you just roam around in that field. Yeah.

Christina: Yeah. I feel like my gut is like… and again, having famously no kids and simply not being straight, I feel very comfortable pontificating on this, about straight people and their marriages. But it does kind of feel like if you are straight and you are married and you want kids, like that’s your end goal. And to be a person coming into a relationship that already has kids, I feel like I have certainly experienced straight women who feel like, “Well, then, what does that mean for me if this guy I’m dating already has kids? Like, “Where does that put me and my eventual future children?” “Do we not? Does he not want to have more kids? How do I feel about these kids versus like biological kids that I would have?” That just seems complicated and hard.

Laneia: Yeah. That seems fraught.

Christina: And deeply fraught.

Laneia: Yeah. Fraught as hell.

Christina: And not great. I don’t know. Everybody maybe needs to chill out by what we mean by family. Just like a little bit, maybe. Tap the breaks.

Laneia: Yeah. I agree. Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.

Drew: Christina, have you dated anyone with kids?

Christina: I have not.

Drew: That’s interesting.

Laneia: Would you? Do you think that’s something you would want to do, like if it happened?

Christina: It’s a tough road for me to walk with my obvious love of Mommis and my not dislike of children, sounds incredibly rude, and as does disinterest, which was the other word I was going to choose. My lack of desire to be a parent in any real way. Happy to be the cool gay auntie who pops in every now and then. I think I certainly could date someone who had grown children, a co-parenting situation where things are perhaps sticky. I won’t be joining that. That would be a real struggle for old CT. I have two adult children in their 30s that I live with and that feels like enough for me, child wise.

Laneia: That’s extremely valid.

Christina: What about you, Drew?

Drew: I’ve hooked up with and casually dated some people who have young kids, and it was never from a place of like, it was never serious enough that there was ever a feeling of potential future responsibility, or meeting them, or anything like that. I would definitely be open to it, though. If I was like single and dating, I mean, when I was single and dating, there were some people who had kids who like I actively did at some point want to date, and it didn’t work out. But something that was interesting going back to the straight people versus queer people thing is that, I’m thinking of two people in particular, were talking about it in— were mostly coming from straight dating world, and were like sort of entering a new queerness, and it felt very much like, “Oh, I have kids. I can’t date.” And I was like, “I don’t think it’s going to have issues.” And they did. They brought up a lot of the stuff we were saying about the way that straight men react. I was like, “I can only speak for myself, but I don’t think that that’s going to be an issue for queer people.” So, it makes sense that you’re confirming that, that it hasn’t ever come up for you.

Laneia: It really hasn’t. And also, just the idea of casual dating that is also still meaningful. Like, it’s not something that’s looked down on here. I don’t know. There’s just like a lot less pressure. And I think that makes it a little bit more of a chill situation where it’s like, “That’s fine.” But yeah, if my children were extremely young right now, I don’t think I would have dated as quickly as I did. I think I would’ve honestly given that maybe a couple years, but they can make their own dinner. I had a free Saturday. I was like, “What are we waiting for? There’s no reason to put this off.” Yeah.

Drew: Yeah. When your kids were younger, what was it like? Like, not from a dating — I know this is a dating podcast, but I am curious about this — just like general socializing, did that play into it? Like, as far as… I don’t know, like going out and just being a young queer person? And in environments where I think a lot of people, like you mentioned going on OkCupid when your kids were young, do you feel like you had to rely more on a dating app, dating site more than like going out in the world and like a gay clubs and whatever.

Laneia: Yeah. Oh, yeah. Definitely. Also, I had been married to a man, and then ended that after realizing I was gay. And it was the idea of like going out into the gay culture with no one, with no friends, no community. Literally no. There was no way that was going to happen. One time I did take myself to a gay bar, and it was top to bottom, the most humiliating experience I have ever put myself through. And I was like, “That is never happening again.”

Christina: Wait. Yeah. I’m sorry. We’re going to have to take a quick detour to talk about why this is so upsetting for you. This does sound like the beginning of a film, just so you know.

Laneia: Oh, God, it was horrible. It was very much like Tai at that party in Clueless. Just like trying to figure out how to stand. I wore the wrong outfit. It was like a sweater. It was so, so bad. I got there way too early. The other thing, it just could not have been worse. And luckily, there was a table of queer women types, at least that invited me over, to sit with them, and had conversations with me. And that was nice, extremely nice of them. But yeah, I was like, this is not going to be how I meet people, obviously. And then, also just being extremely online, made it just so much easier to keep being online, doing what I was doing. But the other thing about me, since I did have children so young is that when I was dating like that second round, I was an anomaly in that way. Nobody else had children. I had to make sure that I had day dates. It was all brunches for a while, like during the week, because that’s when they were in a classroom, and it was free childcare. And that did feel awkward. And that did feel like it was putting me in a specific type of dating. Not very hookup, not that sexy to date, for brunch only.

Christina: You’re saying Wednesday brunch isn’t the hottest time to get a date? Good to know.

Laneia: It is not. I would not recommend it, maybe in a larger city, but yeah, not in Phoenix. But that was… I think the hardest part was that I knew that I would be the only person that most of these people had dated that had children, just simply because who at that age would have quite so many kids, and still not be in a relationship yet. So, yeah.

Christina: Yeah. I think that makes sense.

Drew: Was like A-Camp then, like the first time that you were just like… I assume you never brought your kids to A-Camp. So, was that—

Laneia: No.

Drew: —like the first time that you were immersed in just like chaotic queer partying?

Laneia: Unfortunately, it was not. My first immersion in that was Dinah Shore.

Drew: Incredible.

Christina: Gorgeous.

Laneia: Got a couple of Dinah Shores. I went to New York for a while. That was the first time that I was around that many people. And I was like, this is literal chaos. At that point, I was like, “I don’t know if I can actually date, and have kids if this is what it looks like.” But luckily that was just typical New York, like debauchery type stuff. So, that wasn’t everywhere. But yeah, Dinah Shore was crazy. But even there, I was like, “These are just not my people.” I just knew that. So, A-Camp was the first place I went where I was like, “Oh, okay.” Like, “Here we are.” Like, “This feels normal.” Which makes sense, because it was our camp. So, very self-selecting.

Christina: Right. Right. Everyone said, “Yeah, girl, put that sweater on and head to the club.”

Laneia: Exactly. Exactly. Yeah. Mm-hmm.

Drew: At what age did you… Sorry, I’m fully interviewing you. I’m just—

Christina: I know, I’m loving Drew as a journalist.

Laneia: No, I love it.

Christina: Drew said, “Journalism, baby.”

Drew: What age did you first connect with other queer moms and queer parents?

Laneia: Damn, I don’t know if I—

Drew: Or if you ever did.

Laneia: —really would say that I have. It’s been a really weird situation for me specifically, because I did have my first kid when I was in high school. And so, none of my friends at that time had kids. And then, as I got older, I was surrounded by straight people. And so, they were having some kids, but mine were always older. I just never had like a peer group there. And then, coming out, forget it. Absolutely no peer group. I’ve met some parents through Autostraddle and have talked with them, either on social media or in comments, definitely at A-Camp. There’s a lot of parents there, not a lot, but more than I would’ve expected, to be honest.

Drew: Sure. Yeah.

Laneia: And that was fun, but it’s like, I just never have felt super connected to other moms. And I do think that is, because I was exposed to air quotes other moms when I thought I was straight. So, I think I was just like, “This is probably not for me.” Because, God, I don’t want to like talk shit about straight people, but it was… I truly was like—

Drew: This is a safe space for that.

Christina: Yeah. The space literally couldn’t be safer if we tried.

Laneia: I was like this cannot be your only interest. Like you have got to be kidding me. Like don’t you have anything else to do? It just was very centered around like, being a mother was their identity, and being a wife was their identity, which is fine if that’s your thing. But for me, I immediately was like I’m going to go. Like that’s not going to work for me.

Christina: Well, Yeah. And to be surrounded by that fully, and not have anyone who was even approaching your level of like, oh, I also have other interests.

Laneia: Exactly.

Christina: I would feel very Stepford wife in that scenario.

Laneia: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Yeah. That was it. So I just really— there’s someone else at work who we were discussing, she also has kids, and she’s a few years older than me, I think just a couple. And was also like, yeah, I cannot understand, like identifying specifically and singularly as a mom, like that just would never happen. And that’s how I feel. And I did struggle with that for a bit. Just being like, “Am I a horrible parent that I have other interests outside of my children?” But it was really just for a bit, because then I was like, no, this is me. I don’t really just identify as that. And so, I’m not finding my own community there among other parents.

Christina: That’s like an impressive ability, I feel. To be able to feel like that’s not bad parenting, because I feel like so much of media will tell you that that is definitively bad parenting, especially God forbid, if you are a mother. Like, what you should be interested in is your children first and foremost.

Laneia: Just your children. Right.

Christina: And then, maybe your husband, second.

Laneia: Yeah.

Christina: And I think it kind of whips that you were able to be like, “Nope. That’s actually not my failing. That is y’all’s issue, I’m out of here.”

Laneia: I definitely did try it for a while and was just like, “I can’t do this.” And then, honestly, I think coming out of that was around the time that I was like, “And I’m gay?” Like, so, these two might go hand in hand.

Christina: Yeah. That tracks, that really tracks.

Laneia: I am going to need to do more things like be gay. So, yeah.

Christina: This is not an interview question. Well, I guess it is, but it’s for Drew, which is a plot twist.

Drew: Oh.

Christina: Well, just thinking about dating and wanting to be parents, or dating people with parents. Do you have any interest in having children? I think listeners can probably assume by the fact that I went between disgusted and disinterested on children that like I’m all set. But Drew as a person, is that something that when you’re dating, you think about like, “Oh, could I make a family with this person?” Like, “Am I interested in doing that?”

Drew: I would like to have children, but I don’t necessarily think that it’s in the cards for me, which I do think is interesting. I think when I’ve dated people who have kids, the thought has definitely crossed my mind of being like, oh. Like, I wouldn’t be their kid’s parent, but if they were young, I would be like a major role in their life. And that could be really nice. But I also want to check that, because I would never want to assume anything about what they would want. And I mean, maybe if I was dating someone for like six months, I would like start to think about it or like several years, but early on, it crosses my mind that like, “Oh, that’s probably one of the only ways that I would ever have kids in my life in that way.” I’m just like I can’t biologically have kids, because I decided to not freeze my sperm when I started transitioning. And it’s pretty challenging to go back and detransition to get viable sperm. It’s like pretty unlikely. It’s not impossible, but it’s just tricky. And it just was too expensive. And I just wanted to spend that money on… I don’t know. It’s weird to be 23, and having to decide if you ever want to have kids or not. But I just knew in that moment that like, yeah. But it’s definitely something I think about to a certain extent. But I also am okay with the thought that kids would be in my life, because my sister has kids or my friends have kids. Though, most of my friends don’t want kids and it’s annoying to me. I wish that more of them would want to have kids. So, I could like be a gay aunt. But yeah, I don’t know. It still feels like a little fraught to me, because I think I went through a journey of like, “Of course, I’m going to have kids because I’m straight, and that’s what we do.” And then, I went to like, “No, I’m gay. And I do things differently, and I don’t even think I want kids, and whatever.” And then, sort of like settling on a place of being like, “Oh, yeah. It’s something I’d be open to happening. And I don’t really know what scenario it would happen.” I also tend to date people who don’t want kids. All my serious relationships have been with people who it’s either like, “Oh, maybe someday.” Or it’s not. I’ve never dated anyone, who’s like, “I just want to get pregnant.” So, yeah. That’s my long-winded answer. I like kids, though. I really hope that I find ways throughout my life that I’m around kids. And I’ve volunteered tutored before, and things like that. And I always enjoy interacting with kids. Though, I obviously assume that being a parent is very different when it’s 24/7.

Christina: Yeah. Yeah. It’s interesting that like, I do have kids in my life who I love and support dearly, but none of them are from one group of straight friends that I still have. I don’t have a ton of queer folks in my life who have young kids. I have some friends who have older kids who are in that kind of like 23, 24-ish range. But there’s not a ton of people in my immediate circle who are like, “Oh, and we’re getting married, and thinking about kids. And this kind of queer way.” I’m like, well, thank God for those couple straights I let hang on these many years. Because their weird little kids are really getting me through, and I’m going to turn all of them gay, and I can’t wait.

Laneia: That’s a wonderful service, honestly. Thank you for doing that.

Christina: Just introducing four-year-olds to many tattoos and watching their eyes get wide with wonder, and being like, “Sorry, mom.”

Laneia: Yeah, I was exposed. I was exposed. That sounds insane. But there was another child that was around the same age as my children, in the family that I was married into a few years ago. And they always were fascinated by me and my partner at that time. And then, ended up coming out as non-binary later. I don’t know how that’s gone since then, but I was like, “Fuck. Yes.” I was thrilled to learn that. Also, you can just tell when a kid is just a little bit more interested in you than the other kids are. There’s something there, they’re picking up on something, they’re studying something, because kids do just study everything. And so, that was really cool to watch, and have it around me in that way. Those are really the only children that I’ve been around, likehat family stuff, that weren’t my own, or weren’t related to me immediately. And I think it’s cool as a queer person who does not have kids, and who’s maybe not in on that journey. I think it’s cool that queer people have, I think a little bit more of an ability to be imaginative about how you could be involved in children’s lives and how you could make a difference, whatever that means. But how you could give back somehow to, like the human race, in that way. I don’t know. I think straight people could do with a little bit of an imagination when it came to things like that.

Christina: I think straight people could do with a little bit of an imagination. It was a really beautiful takeaway, kind of just period.

Laneia: Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm.

Christina: Drew, you’ve got your thoughtful face on.

Drew: Yeah. Well, now, I’m just thinking about the fact that, Laneia, when you’re talking about your experience of having kids young and being in a straight marriage, and you’re talking about it like it’s, I don’t know, like the not sort of regular way of queer parenthood. And I was thinking about the fact that most of the people who have kids who I’ve met in dating, and maybe it’s because it’s in a space of dating, and they’re closer to my age or whatever, but that is the scenario of most of the people I meet have kids is, they were in a straight relationship, and had kids young. And then realize that they were a queer and now are dating. And it’s just something that we don’t see in media, like almost ever. And maybe that’s because I think there’s a lot of reasons, one of which is that even queer media is often like sort of trying to fit into like a straight cultural way of being. And also, I think there’s a class element to it of like it’s so expensive to have kids through ways that are, I don’t know, you know what I’m saying. So—

Laneia: Yeah, definitely.

Drew: —it’s interesting that we don’t really have a lot of portrayals of that, but out in the world, that’s the primary way people who I meet, who have kids, had kids.

Christina: Yeah, absolutely.

Laneia: That’s really interesting. I knew I think one or two other people who that was also their experience. Well, two, yeah, that I’m thinking of that they, I believe got pregnant in college, early, early college. And yeah, learning that about somebody will immediately endear me to them. Because it is truly like, it’s either you were in a place where you hadn’t had a chance to be yourself yet, or you did have a chance, and you were trying to maybe talk yourself out of it, or you were trying to figure out if there was any escape patch there. And that is a very specific trajectory. And it is, not to bring this down, it’s like painful really to think that something so huge could happen to you at a time when you’re barely even formed all the way. And so, anytime I ever meet another person who got pregnant super, super young, I am just like, “Oh, my God.” Like, “I love you. How are you doing? How has it been?” But that is really cool. And this is in LA that you’re seeing like a lot of that? That’s so cool. That makes me really happy.

Drew: I don’t want to say a lot, but I would say like two. But those are the experience of like… Yeah…

Laneia: That seems like a lot.

Drew: Yeah.

Christina: Yeah. Yeah. I think the same, like the two, or three people I can think of that have kids, and had a similar experience of were either in a marriage or had kids really young. And then, later were like, “Oh, actually very gay is what’s happening here. It’s like a very gay thing that’s happening here.” Yeah. Because I don’t see a ton of people who have come together as a queer couple and decided to do like, “We are making our family in some way.” I haven’t seen a ton of that in my personal experience.

Laneia: It is also probably like a different age bracket doing that, because like you said, Drew, I can’t imagine how costly that would actually be. And it’s expensive enough to have them after the fact, like, that’s just so much money. So, you’re already pricing out so many queer people.

Christina: Exactly.

Laneia: Just by virtue of that. Yeah. Which sucks.

Christina: Whoo.

Drew: Well…

Christina: Gosh, I feel like I learned some stuff.

Drew: I really did.

Christina: It’s just like a nice conversation to have. That is something that I don’t think about a lot, something I don’t have experience with. And I love having a little brain tease moment and getting to know people. I think that’s gorgeous.

Laneia: Yeah. This was really fun. Thank you so much.

Drew: Yeah. I just read your interview with your partner. And so, today has been a Laneia day. I feel like I’ve—

Christina: Got Laneia on the old brain.

Laneia: You’re like basically in our relationship right now. If you just read it, and you talk to me today, then I think that means we’re in a throuple. Yeah.

Drew: It’s a really nice relationship to be in.

Christina: It was a very sweet interview.

Laneia: Thank you. Yeah. She’s really cool.

Drew: Let’s move on then to our crush of the week segment. Crush corner, is that what we called it last season?

Christina: Crush corner.

Drew: Crush corner.

Christina: But crush of the week is a funny twist on it. Yeah.

Drew: Christina, do you want to start?

Christina: Yeah. My crush corner this week. One, Margaret Cho, she’s just having a year. She was popped up on The Flight Attendant. She popped up on Hacks. She’s delightful in Fire Island. She’s just every which where. I think we should give her many more flowers, and get her in all of the damn projects. I’m always happy to see her. I’m always happy to hear her. More Margaret Cho forever. And she really was living the life that her in Fire Island. I was like, this is going to be me in very few years. This is really actually quite staggering. This lesbian scammer who has a house full of young gays.” Yeah, that tracks.

Drew: That’s beautiful. I want that for you.

Christina: Margaret Cho, celebrate her love her. Drew, who you got?

Drew: Mine is the creative team behind Tahara, which is a new queer movie that is takes place at a Jewish funeral, and is hilarious, and brilliant. And I reviewed it, and that review will be out by the time this podcast comes out. So, I’ll link to it. So I don’t have to spend 10 minutes gushing about it here. But it’s really good. And it’s probably because it’s independent. It’s going to have a slow rollout. So, I don’t know where it will be at theater wise or streaming wise when this comes out. But it’s just so, so good. It’s so special. And I think everyone should see it. And that’s T-A-H-A-R-A for people who aren’t Jewish.

Christina: I was going to say for the gentiles among us.

Drew: Yeah. Laneia, do you have a crush this week?

Laneia: Yeah. I thought long and hard about this. And I think my crush this week is going to have to be all of the ghost hunters that Kristen Stewart is currently rounding up. I have a crush on every one of them. I haven’t seen them. I don’t know anything about them, but I know in my heart that I’m going to have big feelings for them once I do meet them. So, I’m excited about that show.

Drew: I’m really excited for you, and for all of us, really.

Christina: Hunting ghosts, that absolutely whips. And it’s very gay. It’s very gay to want to talk to a ghost.

Laneia: It’s very gay.

Christina: Very gay.

Laneia: Yeah.

Drew: Yeah. Well, Laneia, can you tell people where they can find you if you want them to find you?

Laneia: Oh, yeah. So, on Twitter, I am @grrreen, and that’s green with three Rs. Otherwise, it’s spelled normally. And then, I’m private on Instagram, but if you look even remotely queer, I’m adding you, and that is @laneia, L-A-N-E-I-A.

Drew: Great.

Christina: Yes. With that single name Instagram handle.

Laneia: I got in there early.

Christina: That’s hot girl shit, for sure. Absolute sure. Hot.

Drew: Thank you so much, Laneia.

Laneia: Thank you. This was really fun. Thank you, guys.

Christina: This was a ding dang delight.

Drew: Thank you so much for listening to Wait, Is This a Date. You can find us on Twitter and Instagram @waitisthisadate. And you can email us at waitisthisadate@gmail.com.

Christina: Our theme was written by Lauren Klein. Our logo is by Maanya Dhar. And this podcast was produced, edited and mixed by Lauren Klein.

Drew: You can find me on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok @draw_gregory.

Christina: You can find me on Twitter @C_GraceT. And on Instagram @christina_gracet. And you can find Autostraddle, of course @autostraddle.

Drew: And you can find Autostraddle at autostraddle.com. The reason we’re all here today. Thank you so much, and see you next week. Christina, what is the difference between a date and a podcast?

Christina: Oh, actually, that’s really interesting that you asked that because scientists are at this very moment, horridly trying to figure this out. We have some of our best scholars on this. On the case here, we don’t have an answer, but I think every day we journey closer to understanding.

Drew: I wish them and us, the greatest luck.

Drew (voice memo): It’s a bummer. I was such a prude before I transitioned, because there’s no chance that I’m going to have like a Transamerica situation where I find out that I have a secret kid somewhere. It’d be really, really unlikely considering how little sex I had with how few people. Maybe.

“I’m Angry and Sad and Scared and I Know Nothing is Going to Change”

feature image photo by Brandon Bell/Getty Images

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We thought, naively in retrospect, that things might change after Sandy Hook — that the literal mass murder of small children might impact even the coldest, most NRA-lined heart in Washington. We were wrong. Since the Columbine shooting in 1999, little has been done to prevent the reality so many teachers, students and parents have been forced to accept about the kind of violence and bloodshed this country is willing to tolerate in our schools in the name of our white supremacy-rooted “second amendment rights.”

Merely ten days after the horrific mass shooting of 10 Black residents of Buffalo by a white supremacist in a grocery store — what was then the deadliest shooting of the year so far — another mass shooting took place in Uvalde, Texas, a close-knit community of 15,000. It was every parent, student and teacher’s nightmare: a gunman, armed with an assault weapon, his pathway of destruction uninterrupted by the armed officers outside the school, entered a fourth-grade classroom and killed 19 children between the ages of 9 and 11 and two teachers. An hour elapsed between him entering the school and his eventual execution by a tactical team, during which time cops waited outside, doing nothing. This has not stopped Republican lawmakers insisting more school “security,” rather than gun control measures, is what will stop future tragedies from occurring. 

In the aftermath of this horror, we wanted to hold space here on our little gay website for the feelings so many parents and educators have been feeling. What are we stuck on? What actions are we planning? How have we talked to our kids about this and how has that conversation changed over the course of our children’s lifetime? What can we do — to feel better or even just cope, to help, to escape — in the face of the compounded hell we’re trying to move through? We invite you to share your answers to these questions  — these are ours.

– Riese & Laneia

Things That Have Mothered Me That Are Not My Mothers

When I was young, I worshiped my adoptive mother. I thought she was infallible, strong, unconquerable. Even as she hurt me, I adjusted and decided it was on me to be a better daughter. I failed at that. I would often respond to questions from her with “I don’t know” even when I did know the answer because being in her presence wiped my brain, I stuttered and couldn’t make sense of my own thoughts. I was met with ridicule and violence when this happened, which only furthered my speechlessness.

In the times that she was most cruel to me, I turned to a vision of my biological mother, who I had never met, and hoped to be saved by her. My biological mother, in my mind, was tall and statuesque, she was well-read and could play the piano. I had always heard that I had “piano-playing fingers,” and that coupled with my favorite song “Maybe” in the musical Annie, helped me craft a vision of my biological mother that was worldly, talented, and kind.

On the day I turned 18, I woke up on my college campus and called the adoption agency I had been placed through. I left a message asking to speak with someone that could help me find my mother. After about a year and a half of searching and coming up with nothing, my investigator found her, and she agreed to meet me.

It didn’t take long for that to fall apart. My mother’s daughter told her that she didn’t believe I was “family” and that meeting me would be a mistake. So she called the whole thing off.

I’ve never felt mothered by the women who were entrusted with mothering me. Instead, I felt abandoned, neglected, and ridiculed. In my own way though, I have been mothered. Just not by the traditional modes and means. I believe that mothering is a loving act still, despite how I’ve been treated. I think of all the things that have taught me lessons and made me the woman I am and feel that, even if my mothers didn’t care for me the way I wanted them to, I still came out on the other side, not unscathed, but survived.

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Anger

My parents’ anger, but especially the anger of my adoptive mother, scared me for years. I thought that being angry meant you always used your fist or your tongue to lash out and harm someone else. I couldn’t access my own anger for a long time, and instead defaulted to intense despair or, eventually, numbness brought on by the use of alcohol and drugs.

I didn’t really start reckoning with my anger until I was sexually assaulted and facing down a trial against the man that did it. I had violent dreams of beating him to a pulp. I bought a sharp tool to defend myself after long days at work and ended up stabbing a pillow with it 50 times. I felt marbled with anger, like it had completely embedded itself within me.

Once I got control of that anger, it taught me a lot, namely what I would and wouldn’t allow to happen to my body. From my mother’s unprovoked assaults to being raped, I realized after years that my body was mine and my anger was mine and I could harness it into something useful. I started training Krav Maga and taking self-defense classes. I learned that anger could come with a sense of empowerment and control.

Anger is not a burden. Anger is like a small fruit with a hard core. It has tough and bitter skin. You have to stretch your hands through thorns to pick it. It is a protective measure as much as it is an emotion. I had to learn that the long way, with lots of therapy and through the help of my trainer who was always there when I needed to punch something.

Anger can be nourishing, if you use it the right way, and if you are patient. You have to know how to handle it so you don’t get hurt. Handling anger, you have to bypass the thorns, dig your nails into the thick skin, and reveal the ripe fruit beneath. What you do with the tender fruit is up to you.

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Autumn

I was born in October at the end of the month, on the day before Halloween. This has always come with a sense of allure for me. Autumn is my favorite time of year not only because I was born in its magnetic color, but because it houses so much of the energy I find central to my personality. Autumn isn’t afraid of the dark, isn’t afraid to get dirt under its nails, to get shadowy and reflective. Every year, in autumn, I feel a pull toward something greater than me. I look at the moon more. I write more. I’m constantly grappling with the question of why am I here, why was I born, and what do I do with my one life? I have in varying degrees begun to answer these questions, and when I ask what I am to do with my life the answer is always clear: write.

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Solitude

I was about five weeks premature, which could have been caused by anything but was likely caused by my biological mother’s drug use. I was underweight and not very healthy at birth. I don’t know much about the days following my birth, but I imagine they were eclipsed by the loss of my mother. I was told by foster parents that I didn’t tolerate being held. I came into the world alone, and that lonesomeness carries with me today.

As a kid in my adoptive home, I also spent most of my time alone. Either I was reading, writing, or — in later years — chatting with friends on the internet. Solitude was the time I got to spend with myself and often away from the cruelty of my mother. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t cruel to myself. I often mirrored behavior exhibited toward me when I was young. I cursed at myself, insisted that I was stupid and worthless, hit myself.

There were of course very heavy times in my life, but I like to think of the things that made me feel light as well. Like storytelling, immersing myself in song lyrics, in poetry, and in fiction. In my solitude, I created surrogates for myself that were all-powerful. They were witches and vampires, they were loved and revered. I got to exist in a world that was much kinder to me than the real one.

Solitude is my companion, which I know sounds strange. There is something comforting in silence. Sometimes when I am alone in my apartment, which is often, I just sit in silence with my eyes closed, head titled back on a chair. Learning to be alone without harming myself, trusting myself enough to not be a danger when I was my only company, that was powerful.

If anger is a fruit then solitude is a sea. It washes over everything, pulls at your core, and washes you clean after a day spent among others. If solitude is the sea then the stars reflected in its waters are dreams. The capacity to dream is so important to my mental and physical health. If I can dream, I am at peace. If I can dream, I know that I am alive, and that is a gift after so many years spent wishing I wasn’t.

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Purple

I have been drawn to purple as a color for as long as I can remember, in all of its shades. At some point in elementary school, we learned about the Phoenicians, and I began to associate purple with regality and royalty. When my mother and I got into arguments, or when she beat me out of anger, she would sometimes come to me after with a gift instead of an apology, and that gift was often lavender. Lavender scented soaps, lotions, and perfumes. I would swath myself in lavender to ease the pain of being rejected by the woman whose approval I wanted the most.

When I moved into my first solo apartment, I asked that the landlord paint the bedroom a cool lavender shade. My bedroom is my safe space and my sanctuary, and the color is half the reason. I’ve crafted a life that is much gentler now than it ever was before and as trivial as it sounds, I still come to the color purple when I need comfort, or when I need to feel confident and protected.

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Birdsong

The first thing I remember being very curious about was bird song. Hearing the sounds, trying to track the bird down, wondering what it looked like and how it found itself in my city. My family lived in a neighborhood that, before gentrification, wasn’t a place that people visited unless they had to. My younger brother and I used to joke that when you crossed the border from our neighborhood, Garfield, to an adjacent one, Shadyside, the sidewalks suddenly leveled out beneath your feet, the sun came out, and the birds had color on their wings.

Seeing my first robin, my first cardinal, my first blue jay, all were monumental moments. Listening to the way they communicated with each other and asking questions about what certain calls meant, all of it opened up a window into the natural world for me. My curiosity was mostly relegated to the world of books and science, but when it came to birds, I was always in a state of wonder at their song and wanted to know more.

More often than not, the thing that wakes me up in the morning is the birds outside my window. They are loud and brash, but also sweet. My landlord recently cut down the trees outside my window so the noises have lessened, but I can still hear the crows and the sparrows when I listen. The first woodpecker I ever heard taught me to ask questions, a thing I was once very afraid of.

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Disappointment

I’m a writer, primarily a poet, so my life is filled with 70% rejection. I submit to journals, I pitch to publications, and ultimately, more than half of them say no. Disappointment might sound like a cruel mother, but I have found that there is some solace in it. Disappointment taught me that people say no, and by extension, I can say no myself. I can reject lowball job offers, potential lovers, or any situation that I don’t feel fits my needs or desires. The power to say no has meant the world to me as an adult who has survived trauma, my “no’s” are loud and self-assured now whereas in the past they were a whisper, or not there at all.

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Literature

The first time I ever saw myself truly reflected in a story was reading Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit by Jeanette Winterson. I started a tradition of re-reading the book every year after my first read. There are many things that set me apart from the main character in the novel, and many things that bind us. I explicitly remember crying when a church member confronts Jeanette about her relationship with Melanie and tells Jeanette that Melanie never loved her at all. There was so much in that moment for me, as I had just gone through a heartbreak myself.

Of course, there was also the complicated mother-daughter relationship that is central to the book that made me feel seen albeit devastated. My mom was not there when I had my heart broken by a woman for the first time, she wasn’t there because I didn’t trust that she would care about it, that she had the capacity to talk about it with me.

Reading Oranges also compelled me to read Winterson’s memoir, and that experience brought with it even more tears. Her reflections on the loss at the center of adoption so eloquently put what I had been trying to say my whole life into words. Literature is good for that, making you feel like every pain you have felt in your life can be summed up in one paragraph written by an expert writer.

I have found mothering in the words of so many authors, poets, and fiction writers alike. I have had wounds tended to, fears assuaged, and triumphs lifted in the words of other writers. It’s the beauty in what we do as people who write. That hope that someone who is at a low point, or who is lost, will find direction in your words.

This is just a shortlist, but every Mother’s Day I find myself reflecting on these things, and being grateful for the mothers I have had. If this is a hard holiday for you, for whatever reason, I’m sending you love and wishing you healing.

I Wish I’d Medically Transitioned Before Giving Birth

This Trans Day of Visibility, we’re publishing a series of essays from trans writers who pose questions about what being visible has meant for us. Who is seeing us? How do we want to be seen? And at what cost? You can read all essays from the series here.

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The moment I realized I wanted to have a baby, I was also coming to terms with the fact that I am transgender. I had just changed my name and started using gender-neutral pronouns, and the possibilities of who I could become were overwhelming. I couldn’t stop thinking about starting Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT). Everything was new to me: the language around being nonbinary, how testosterone actually changed a body, the thought of living past my twenties.

I called a local clinic and quietly asked if they had any doctors accepting new patients. When they asked me why I needed to schedule an appointment, my throat became an empty church—my sins exposed. I thought, going into that appointment, that I was certain about starting testosterone. But, when my doctor recommended I also find a back up birth control method like an IUD, I realized how much I had been holding onto the desire to have a baby.

Existing as a person who wants to have a baby in a world where the representation of pregnancy is mostly for cis women is exhausting. My community then was rock climbers and yoga teachers. Not the most trans-inclusive (or aware) groups of people. I didn’t know who to turn to for support with my unique experience of both wanting to transition and have a baby.

I decided to wait to medically transition. Sometimes I think I waited out of fear of what the people in my life would think of me. For years, I preached self-love and acceptance, exactly the way you were. I didn’t realize how much I needed to physically change before I could love myself.

A year into my decision to wait, the pandemic reached the United States. Days later, I got a positive pregnancy result. I remember watching myself pee on the stick, astral projecting into the tiny studio apartment bathroom where the clawfoot tub took up most of the space. I saw the range of emotions play on my face: fear, excitement, the idea that this meant I could have a baby and then transition.

Having a baby was by far one of the most badass and amazing things I’ve done in my life, but I did it all with a body that didn’t feel like mine. Pregnancy was rough. My body was changing at a rate most people would be uncomfortable with. I would stand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom and stare from every angle. At my chest that wouldn’t flatten anymore. At my stomach that I secretly hoped people saw as a beer belly. At my hips widening, possibly forever.

My mom used to complain that having four kids ruined her body—her reason for getting a breast augmentation. My entire pregnancy I thought about the possibility that having a baby would completely deflate my chest. I hoped.

When it was time to give birth, I once again watched from the outside. I stood by the hospital bed, watching this other person push for three hours, incapable of opening their eyes. I whispered promises to this rented body: the sooner they are out, the sooner you can begin your own life.

My baby was born on January 6th, 2021. My partner and I stared at the freshness of this new living, breathing being. Hours after delivery, my doctor came in to check on us. “Well,” she sighed, “Democracy has failed us today.” We turned on our phones for the first time, abruptly losing the moment we’d waited nine months for, to see the white supremacist insurrection at the Capitol. Being a parent has been an overwhelming amount of feeling guilty. My therapist asks what I’m feeling guilty about and I recite: for letting my kid watch TV sometimes, for feeding them french fries, for bringing them into a world that is full of violence and climate catastrophe.

Following my doctor was the lactation consultant. She asked how I was feeling about breastfeeding, how the baby was latching. There had been no issues so far, and it was nice to feel like my chest had a job. But I knew I didn’t want this to be long term. I wanted to chestfeed for three to six months, but the lactation consultant pushed for a full year, and I didn’t want to deprive my baby of something that seemed so urgently necessary for their health.

As the months went on, I found myself dreading feeding sessions. I knew that weaning was a possibility, there was always formula, but everyone kept telling me how great I was doing, feeding them only my milk. I once again bought into the rhetoric of there being just one good way to have a baby. Around six months in, the depression and thoughts of self-harm were taking over my every breath. I knew my medical transition couldn’t be paused for much longer.

Finally, I would begin the process of weaning my baby off so that I could begin my own growth. It happened when they were 10 months old. I began testosterone on my 27th birthday, almost a year after giving birth. I wish it had been sooner. I wish I had started transitioning before I even got pregnant, so that I could have gone through pregnancy more comfortable in my weird body. I wish it was me giving birth that day.

Having a baby was by far one of the most badass and amazing things I’ve done in my life, but I did it all with a body that didn’t feel like mine.

Since starting testosterone, everything has changed. The cloud of dysphoria is beginning to clear. Despite the new challenges that come with a second puberty in my late twenties, getting up in the morning is no longer an act of resilience. I’ve been exploring my sexuality in a completely new way—where I used to avoid touch, I now lean into comfortably. I am starting to understand my body. Communicating my needs and desires to my partner has been a revelation, and the possibilities we can now discover together have invigorated a relationship where I’ve mostly felt absent. In the mirror, I recognize myself looking back. When I move, touch, breathe, I feel it happening in my body and my mind. I’m no longer watching myself exist, but coming into an existence of my own.

I don’t regret my choices around medically transitioning, but knowing now what I didn’t know then, I never would have waited. Transitioning has allowed me to prioritize my own mental health, something that pregnancy and parenting often kicks to the side. I’ve found empowerment through putting myself first, so that I can have the confidence to show up as a parent and a partner.

My therapist asks what I’m proud of, and I say, I’m proud that my kid can see someone every day who isn’t afraid of being the truest version of themselves.

Foolish Child #103: After School Pick Up

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Nursing as a Nonbinary Person Was Hard; Getting Back to my Binder Was Harder

For two years, between the spring of 2019 and the spring of 2021, the top drawer of my dresser was haunted.

The ghost of my flat-chested self, who bought their first binder five years ago and experienced a nonbinary euphoria that I’d previously thought only existed in Tumblr posts, spent season after season in that cramped, dark drawer. The ghost was anchored to my binders, which lived in a little cloth organizer, safely separated out from sports bras and the very rarely visited special occasion bras.

I put my binders away a week after I got a positive pregnancy test, when my chest went from “occasional cause of dysphoria but more often just a part of my body that messes with the line of my shirts” to “place full of swollen, miserable pain that reacts to pressure with crocodile tears on the train.” My doctor, when I brought that up at a prenatal appointment, said that wearing a binder during pregnancy probably wasn’t ideal anyway, so, with some regret, I tucked them into my drawer and switched to sports bras and, later, nursing bras through the end of my pregnancy.

My intention was always to go back to my binders as soon as I was done nursing my son. But the longer I waited, and the longer they sat there in my drawer, tucked in with my socks and underwear, the more they became less a sense of self that waited to be reclaimed and more a lurking, almost ominous presence that filled me with anxiety every time I thought about going to put one on. The more my anxiety swelled, the more it felt like putting a binder back on represented a huge, terrifying barrier–a million miles from what was once just the simple act of getting dressed.

I missed that simplicity. And everything that it represented.

I bought my first binder in 2016, about three weeks after I came out to my partner as nonbinary. Queerness had been a known quantity in our relationship since we got together in college, but gender, for the most part, had always been taken for granted. The sailing of that coming-out wasn’t perfectly smooth, but the boat made it through more or less intact, and he measured me for my first binder with the relative comfort of someone who, if not totally grasping the concept of why binding was important to me, at least had a secure handle on how to take an accurate shoulder measurement.

When my GC2B package finally arrived and I wiggled my way into the binder for the first time and then tossed a henley and a flannel over it–it was fall, so obviously it was henley-and-flannel season, as opposed to summer, which would be Hawaiian-dad-shirt season, and to this day I am stunned that no one saw this gender awakening coming–I felt, despite the unfamiliar pressure around my chest, a sudden swell of air inside me, like the first inhale after spending too long underwater.

I never wore a binder daily–usually three or four days out of a given week–but I loved having the choice. With my particular fat, ample-chested body, I was never going to really pull of the androgynous aesthetic perfectly, but it was still gave me a feeling of control of my presentation that made me feel safer and more comfortable in my skin than I had since before puberty. When I had to stop binding earlier in my pregnancy than I expected, it felt like losing yet another piece, in an already-dwindling pile of pieces, of control over my body and the way my gender was perceived. I had already–and with great joy, though I’m sure it doesn’t sound like it; I was excited by this much-awaited pregnancy–resigned myself to a default of feminine language, to strangers touching my body and mentally writing woman all over it, to the pastel-pink walls of my OB-GYN’s office and vaginal ultrasounds and the truly horrific process of finding pregnancy clothes that weren’t covered in ruffles.

Giving up the freedom of how I presented my chest, so much earlier than I thought I’d have to, just felt like a kick to the metaphorical nuts.

I’ve never been able to determine if giving up binding so early in my pregnancy was made better or worse by my desire to breastfeed my potential kids. Even before my understanding of my gender identity was a twinkle in my eye, I’d put off the idea of breast reduction surgery on my back-breaking chest because nursing was something I wanted to experience, even when I researched it as an adult and found that having a reduction wasn’t necessarily a dealbreaker for breastfeeding. And when I eventually had a traumatic birth experience and had to struggle to even establish breastfeeding, spending hour after hour strapped to my pump while we worked with my son and his tongue-tie and our lactation consultant, nursing went from a wouldn’t that be nice to something I almost needed. I needed, very desperately, for one thing about this process of pregnancy and birth and feeding to feel like it was going to happen the way I wanted it to. And since pregnancy and birth didn’t do it, well, nursing it was.

The first time my son properly latched and took a full feeding at my chest–no supplemental pumped milk in a bottle, no nipple shield, just my body and his–I had an absolute sobbing breakdown. Granted, it was after a month of chronic exhaustion and an overwhelming swell of hormones, but I think that it was mostly just the feeling of relief. That I’d finally gotten something right.

I nursed for over a year, and, to my surprise, had the best relationship with my breasts in that time that I can honestly remember. I wore a bra nonstop, even to sleep–pour one out to the geniuses over at Kindred Bravely, I owe those people my life and my sanity–but always thought, at least in the back of my mind, that as soon as my son stopped nursing and my chest was no longer communal property, I’d dig my binders out of my drawer and get back to feeling like myself.

Only my son weaned himself in February, just before hitting the fourteen-month mark, and I didn’t, in fact, take my binders out of the drawer. Instead, I started coming up with reasons not to. The pandemic! The weather! My pre-existing back pain! The humidity in my house! The weird tendency my skin had developed to become incredibly sensitive to pressure for seemingly no reason at all! (Yeah, that was cool. Loved that. Thanks, pregnancy!)

And my binders lurked, and lurked, and lurked.

The realization that the uncertainty I was feeling was about my own perceptions of what it means to be nonbinary than anything else came slowly, with no real lightbulb moment. What I had mistaken for anxiety about the act of pulling a binder over my head for the first time in two years was really about having gotten to a place where I’d convinced myself that by getting to a place of comfort with my unbound chest, I’d somehow forfeited my right to nonbinary identity. And despite the community rallying cry that nonbinary people don’t owe the world androgyny, pushing past what I can now recognize as basically nonbinary imposter syndrome was a lot.

And weirdly, it was my son who pushed me past it, when he used his newfound height–height! On a toddler! Horrific!–to open my haunted drawer and proceeded to cheerfully toss things out as he found them. Three mismatched, partnerless socks. A pair of polka-dot boxer briefs. And then, standing on his tiptoes, he reached in and pulled out a binder. He held it up to me and gave me the world’s biggest smile when I took it from him. He declared, very cheerfully, “Yay!” and resumed systematically throwing my socks on the floor while I held a universe of gender identity symbolism in my hands.

A few hours later, after I put the baby down for a nap and went to clean up the carnage of my underwear drawer, I picked up the binder again. On a whim, I pulled it over my head, and muscle memory kicked in with the familiar motions of squirming my breasts into place. And suddenly it wasn’t a universe anymore. It was just a piece of clothing, nylon and spandex and cotton, stretchy and worn to softness.

But the sensation was the same, as simple and meaningful as it was the first time. A filling of the lungs. Not something to be deserved or earned with a certain number of ticks in the nonbinary presentation column. But comfort and pressure and warmth. Like a chubby-armed toddler hug. Like a breath of air.

Nudity, Kink, and Safe Spaces for Kids Can All Coexist at Pride

We’re taking some time this Pride to look out for ourselves and each other, with the intentionality and respect we all deserve. What do we really need right now? How can we show up for each other? How can we celebrate the resilience of this community while still making space for our own rest? How do we honestly feel about Pride?

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The first time I went to a Pride event, I was 22, fully grown, and very recently visibly out. I had been vocally out for five years already, but because I had a boyfriend, hadn’t fully allowed myself to enter LGBTQ spaces due to internalized biphobia mixed with actual biphobia. However, at Syracuse Pride 2005, I had, for the first time, a queer partner who was very visibly queer. Being together transferred that visibility to me. Pride was my first experience with queer normative space outside of the small LGBTQ student club on our campus. It was my first queer normative space outside in the world, not shrouded in a windowless room, not mixed with the general populace, a place where I was assumed to be queer by all the other queers who I also assumed to be queer. Taking it all in casually, as though it was not a big deal, I held tight to the quiet thrill of being not just visible, but seen.

The first time I took my child to a Pride event, she was in a stroller. Waffle, Remi, and I were walking with my then-employer, the ACLU of NY, in our local upstate NY Pride parade. It was 2017, the year that ACLU affiliates all over the U.S. were being named as grand marshalls of Pride parades. We were a small walking contingent and Remi was the only kid in our group. Walking in our local parade in our medium-size city, the city we’d lived for over a decade, I saw friends, acquaintances, community connections, former students and former coworkers–our community waving and cheering us on from the sidewalk. Whether we would bring Remi, our then-one-year-old, to Pride was never a question for my family.

As a parent, I have a lot of grievances about Pride and the related marches, parades, festivals, and events. Not one of them is about bare body parts or floats packed with dancers in skimpy underwear or drag performers or leather dykes and daddies. It took me 22 years to discover queer- and trans-affirming spaces. I don’t want Remi to wait for even one year. Pride is already for family, our LGBTQ families and communities, so of course, I would bring my family to Pride. Now, will I bring Remi into a beer tent or a sweaty gay bar? No. (At least not until she’s of legal drinking age or moved out, then she can do whatever she wants.)

Already, I worry that Remi hasn’t been exposed to enough queer culture. Yes, she has a queer family, but we go by “mommy” and “daddy” and we’re just starting to really get a full comprehension of non-binary gender. Though she has gazillions of books about LGBTQ families, she is most interested in reading the books about her favorite TV shows or National Geographic books about ocean animals. That said, she has a non-binary dad and a bisexual mom and we frequently encourage her to engage with media or discussion of gay and lesbian people even if she turns the conversation back to sharks. Remi may not be particularly interested in learning all the terminology and types of families in the world because this is all very typical to her. Sure, kids can have two moms. Sure, people can be neither a boy nor a girl. Sure, people determine their own gender. Normal stuff.

Most kid’s spaces are actually heteronormative spaces, deeply entrenched in “mom culture” and the strict gender binary. It’s near impossible to fight it unless you want to live off the grid in queer-only space. Maybe that’s possible in some places. Where I live, Rochester, NY, I’d have to curate that space from scratch if I wanted it. I don’t have time for that. If you’re sending your kid to daycare or school or to playgroup or even the playground, the world will forcefully press binary gender into your kid’s head. So all that messaging we’re doing at home gets challenged and sometimes reversed by other powerful people in Remi’s life: her teachers, classmates, friends, and the characters in the mainstream media she consumes.

For all its imperfections, Pride is one of the only places I can take Remi that reinforces the messages we try to convey at home, that all bodies are good bodies, that gender is expansive and individual, that clothes have no gender, that there are other people like her parents and other families like ours. I want Remi to be comfortable with bodies and with boundaries, to know what queer and trans joy looks like. She needs it to counter all the negative messages she’ll receive outside our home. I want her to know our rich, diverse histories and, when she’s old enough, dive deep into unlearning the false narratives about gay liberation and bi culture and trans existence. I want her to feel proud of who she is and have a strong foundation in learning about sexuality and gender to better understand herself as she grows older. I want her to feel that we are part of something bigger than us or than her individually, a community.

Pride events don’t need to change a thing to be family-friendly. My queer family feels welcome, and if you don’t feel welcome, you’re probably not part of the family. In which case, go to literally any other summer event made and paid for by heterosexual people.

If anything, I wish more Pride events were getting back to their roots of being radical marches and demonstrations that don’t fuck with corporations and that push the boundaries of the status quo. I wish Pride events centered on Black trans women and BIPOC queer and trans communities and de-centered white men. I wish for fewer police officers and more freedom. I want Pride to be a place where people can feel that sense of belonging I felt at my first Pride 16 years ago, no matter their race, age, gender, size, ability, or how much money they have.

Pride isn’t perfect. In fact, Pride isn’t even happening in my city this year in the traditional way. The local org that took over Pride after the last org that ran Pride folded, has also folded in on itself. Members of the community are picking up the pieces and organizing community events at the beach, the amusement park, a BYO picnic in the park, and other free or subsidized summer activities. Frankly, I think this is more the spirit of Pride in the first place, caring for each other when no one else is paying attention or paying for our attention, demanding space in a world not always safe for us, and ensuring our spaces represent the world we hope to create together. Those are the safe spaces I want to bring Remi to and I hope they’re filled with crop tops, booty shorts, leather, drag, people of all sizes and races and genders flaunting their beauty, queer kissing, and, of course, rainbows. Lots of rainbows.

You Need Help: How Do I Get Through Living With My Homophobic Parents?

Q:

I’m a half Brazilian sixteen year old cis lesbian who’s living out in the boonies of Alaska. I CAN’T STAND IT. I love this place, but I feel so tremendously isolated, and I don’t have any friends, it’s flooded with small minded white conservatives. I wouldn’t say I’m suffering, I have a decent family, a roof above my head, clean water and clean air. I pass as white. (Though I wish that didn’t have to be a privilege.) But I’m lonely. I’ve hardly even kissed a girl. I survive on cinema, and literature and decent television.

Thankfully I have a good imagination. Writing helps. (I want to be a screenwriter and a director someday.) My parents aren’t religious extremists, or even Republicans for that matter, but my Dad feels uncomfortable talking about those sorts of things and my Mamãe has a whole bunch of internalized homophobia because her mother used to call her a dyke when she was little. (Even though she wasn’t.) My Mamãe has said a lot of bitter things about queer people. And they hurt. But I can’t say anything. I don’t know how to say anything because she’ll say I’m not even like that. She always says that “People are lovable” But that she doesn’t “Believe in the gay.” WHAT THE HELL IS THAT EVEN SUPPOSED TO MEAN?

I guess in short my real question is how do I not explode? How do I approach all this? How the hell do I make it till I’m in film school over at San Fran?

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A:

I am sorry you feel so isolated and lonely, and I am sorry your parents have created an environment in which it does not feel like you can be your most authentic self. You deserve to have a fulfilling and happy life outside of your imagination — though I do think it’s a good thing you’ve figured out writing and art are effective coping mechanisms. Before I get into some of the harsh realities of your situation, I want to address something that really stands out in your letter and gently push back on it. You do not need to diminish your own pain.

Much of your letter includes reasons you’re lucky. You make a point to say you’re not suffering and your parents are not “religious extremists.” I do think the language we use to describe pain and harm should be specific and up to the individual. But I also think your impulse to insist you’re not suffering stems from insecurity and guilt. You do not need to feel guilty about the ways you’re hurting. Homophobia does not need to be overt or obvious or extreme in order to be harmful. I grew up with lots of mostly well meaning liberal family members who still managed to say things that kept me in the closet around them for years. It’s clear your parents’ words have affected you, and you do not need to couch those feelings at all. They are valid! You are valid.

I say all this because I think it’s important to grant yourself some kindness as you tackle the difficult decision of how to interact with your family before you’re able to leave for school. Please do not feel like you need to undercut your own feelings. In fact, it’s time to really, really listen to yourself. The bitter things your mother has said about queer people are not a reflection of you, but they’re obviously words that will hurt you. And you feel like you can’t say anything, and that’s a very, very tough position to be in.

You could try setting a boundary with your mother without outing yourself by responding to her homophobic statements with something like “I don’t appreciate when you talk that way about people.” But I also understand that might get tricky and could lead to her asking invasive questions about yourself. It sounds like you want to navigate all this without outing yourself, and I just want to say emphatically that that is absolutely okay. Coming out is not always the solution to these situations. Coming out won’t necessarily change how you feel around your parents. I am not trying to be cynical or dissuade you from making other choices, but I just do feel like the option of not coming out when it comes to homophobic family members does not get as much attention as coming out does. I often think about this sentiment from an Autostraddle essay from a few years back: “I’d heard about the relief that came with coming out from everybody. If TV was to be believed, I would feel free even as my parents stopped looking me in the eye.” Film/TV does often peddle the message that coming out is always a relief, is always an it-gets-better situation. But that’s not always true, and I think that message can sometimes be actively harmful. Your current situation is hurting you, and coming out won’t necessarily “fix” it.

I also highly recommend this previous You Need Help.

If you do decide you want to tell your parents, some of the most widely applicable coming out advice is to set clear boundaries, keep your expectations as realistic as possible, and prepare for any extreme scenarios. But all that widely applicable advice is kind of abstract and also, if we’re being realistic, harder to enact as a minor.

Regardless of what she knows or doesn’t know about you, you can’t really control the way your mother thinks or talks about gay people. All you can do is try to protect yourself as much as possible from it. You can leave the room if they start saying hurtful things—an imperfect and short-term solution but still something that can help mentally in the moment. Your mother has said she doesn’t “believe in the gay,” and I think you were being rhetorical by asking what it means, but I do hope you don’t dwell too much on the meaning of that sentiment and instead focus on the fact that you know who you are even if your parents don’t. You can keep turning to TV and film and your own writing. There’s a very long tradition of queer folks relying on art to escape homophobia and seize control of our lives/selves (I did it for many years!). I know you don’t feel like you have friends where you live, but you can try to find community online. I also did that—I was out on Tumblr way before I was out in “real life,” and I connecting with those long-distance friends had a profound impact on my life. Having other people to talk to can help so much. Exploring online queer spaces—and/or online film spaces—can help your world feel more expansive.

In the meantime, don’t be hard on yourself for struggling with any of this. Your queerness is valid, and your feelings are valid.

Foolish Child #91: Your Child IS Evil

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