Queer identity and connection — whether you’re still figuring it out or have lived it for years

Alex H.

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

Coming out later in life

Brianna F.

I grew up in a conservative Catholic community where exploring my identity wasn't an option. I married twice to men and lived much of my early adulthood according to expectations that never truly fit. It wasn't until later, through a lot of therapy and personal work, that I realized I was a lesbian. Coming out wasn't easy—it meant redefining my relationships, facing family expectations, and learning to live more authentically. I’m now happily married to a woman and raising our beautiful five-year-old daughter, with a lot of pride in the journey it took to get here. Therapy, supportive friendships, and staying committed to my mental health helped me embrace who I am. I've helped others find the courage to live authentically too, whether it’s young LGBTQ+ coworkers facing unsupportive environments or friends making life-changing decisions. I would be honored to be a listening ear for anyone navigating the complex and emotional path of coming out later in life.

Parenting a neurodivergent child as a neurodivergent parent

Cassi c.

Becoming a parent completely shifted my world. Before my son was born, I was just living life moment-to-moment, but parenting pushed me to grow in ways I hadn’t imagined. Diagnosed as autistic in adulthood, I had to learn how to advocate not just for myself but also for my child, who is autistic and has ADHD. Our journey hasn’t always been smooth, especially when navigating systems or other adults who had negative views about neurodivergency. I’ve learned to set aside traditional expectations and instead celebrate my son’s unique way of being in the world. Through our gentle parenting approach, I’ve developed strategies for communication, collaboration, and skill-building that respect both of our needs. Parenting helped me find my voice and deepen my empathy, both for myself and others. I know how isolating and overwhelming this path can feel, and I’m here to offer support, validation, and real-world tools to anyone walking a similar journey.

trauma from psychiatric hospitalization.

Cristine “Talin” K.

For over 15 years, I was in and out of psychiatric hospitals—places that left me with trauma, nightmares, and deep shame. I was restrained, forcibly medicated, silenced, and treated as less than human. Many of the facilities were dirty, cold, and run by staff who ignored my autonomy and voice. These experiences shattered my trust in the mental health system. But through the pain, I found a fire for advocacy. I became a peer support specialist and started Unlock the Psych Ward Doors, a support group for survivors like me. I still carry the wounds, but I’ve found strength in speaking my truth. I hold space for others to process and heal from the dehumanization of forced treatment. I offer a safe space free of judgment, where pain is honored and voices are heard. I know what it’s like to feel voiceless—and I’m here to listen, believe, and walk beside anyone ready to reclaim their power.

Rebuilding your life after divorce tied to health struggles

Debra H.

I got married at 20, and by 21 I was pregnant and facing devastating news: I had a rare vascular disease, and carrying a child could kill me. I had to make the painful decision to have a total hysterectomy, and not long after, my husband left. He couldn’t handle my health issues, and I was left grieving the loss of both a relationship and the future I had imagined. I’ve had over 55 surgeries in my life, and that period was one of the lowest. But I wasn’t done. I started my own transportation business—before Uber even existed—and threw myself into peer support work, helping others find their way through the dark. I’ve also lived through sexual assault, family mental illness, and the loss of a child, and I still continue my own therapy. My life hasn’t been easy, but I’ve rebuilt it on my own terms. If you’re feeling broken or abandoned because of something you never asked for, I’d love to talk.

Suicidal ideation and how to live a life worth fighting for

Hannah S.

When I was younger, I didn’t know if I wanted to keep living. Childhood trauma left deep wounds, and I carried them alone for a long time. I was hospitalized in early high school after struggling with suicidal thoughts, but even then, I didn’t feel like I had a safe space to speak honestly. The shame and silence were overwhelming. Over time, with support from therapists and a few trusted people, I started to open up and slowly rebuild. I began to understand my pain instead of hiding from it. I started to believe maybe I wasn’t too broken to heal. In recent years, I lost two people I loved deeply to suicide, one in 2015 and another in 2024. I’d lived those dark thoughts myself, but now I also knew what it felt like to lose someone to them. That grief changed me. It reminded me how much it matters to be heard, to not feel invisible. I’m still here, and I’ve learned how to build a life that feels worth staying for. If you’re struggling with those heavy thoughts, I see you. I’ve been there. And I’ve loved people who’ve been there too. You don’t have to carry it alone.

Embracing your mistakes and using them as stepping stones, not life sentences

Holley B.

I used to carry my past like a chain — every mistake, every bad relationship, every moment I wasn’t proud of. I let those moments shape how I saw myself. I let the opinions of others — especially the ones who hurt me — convince me I wasn’t enough, or that I was too damaged to ever rise above what I’d been through. But over time, recovery taught me something life-changing: my mistakes don’t define me — how I grow from them does. Every stumble held a lesson. Every failure shaped the strength I carry today. And the very things I once hid in shame? They’ve become the foundation of the wisdom and compassion I now offer others. I am not my lowest moment. You are not your worst day. You are not the version of you that didn’t know better yet. You’re growing. You’re learning. Vulnerability is key. And that is brave. If you’ve been letting your past define your worth, your identity, or your future, let’s talk. You deserve to see your journey through the lens of growth, not judgment.

Navigating postpartum depression, anxiety, and healing after abuse

Margarida V.

I’ve struggled with anxiety and depression for much of my life, but nothing prepared me for the depths of postpartum depression after the birth of my son. It hit me hard—different from anything I had experienced before—and it took a long time to realize that fear and guilt were shaping every part of my early parenting journey. Learning that I could only control so much, and that doing my best was truly enough, was one of the hardest but most freeing lessons. In my personal life, I also have experience supporting others through deeply difficult times, including helping a close friend leave a dangerous and abusive relationship. I know firsthand that true healing often starts by simply having someone willing to listen without judgment. Today, I’m passionate about offering that same space for others: whether you need resources, a sounding board, or simply someone to sit with you while you figure it out, I’m here.

Finding your own path to recovery from opioid addiction

Melissa S.

I became addicted to prescription opioids after surgery to remove a cyst from my right ovary. At first, the pills were for legitimate pain relief, but within a few months, I found myself physically dependent. When my prescriptions ran out, I started buying pills off the street, and my entire life began to revolve around getting more. I lost so much—relationships, trust, stability—and eventually found myself in legal trouble. That was my wake-up call. I went to inpatient treatment and started taking Suboxone, which I truly believe saved my life. I stayed on Suboxone for two years while building the foundation of my recovery. Along the way, I realized that traditional "one-size-fits-all" treatment programs didn’t fully meet my needs. I relapsed a few times, but I never gave up. I got mental health support, made my own recovery plan, and today, I'm proud to say I’ve been sober for nine years. Now, as a certified peer recovery specialist, I offer unconditional, judgment-free support to others who are finding their own way forward.

Learning you're neurodivergent and navigating life with OCD

Micah L.

When I was diagnosed with OCD in 2019, I didn’t even know what that really meant. Like many people, I assumed OCD was all about being obsessively clean or organized, which don’t reflect my experience at all. Instead, I discovered that my OCD falls into other lesser-talked-about subtypes. Learning about these opened up an entirely new way of understanding myself. For a while, I didn’t think the term “neurodivergent” applied to me. I had only heard it used in reference to autism, which I haven’t been diagnosed with (though friends have sometimes speculated). But once I started working with an OCD therapist who specializes in Exposure and Response Prevention (ERP), she pointed out the very real neurological differences that come with OCD, plus how those differences shape the way I think, feel, and process the world. It took me a while to accept, but eventually, I realized that I am neurodivergent. Since then, I’ve stopped judging myself so harshly. I now understand why I intellectualize my emotions, why I sometimes feel misunderstood, and how my brain just works differently. I’d love to support others who are just beginning to explore their neurodivergence, especially if they’re navigating an OCD diagnosis or questioning what it all means.

Healing the quiet voice of shame

Peter L.

Shame was a constant companion for me long before I even knew its name. It showed up as a quiet, insidious voice telling me I wasn’t enough — not smart enough, strong enough, or worthy enough to be fully seen. For years, I tried to outrun it by hiding, performing, or numbing out. But shame doesn’t disappear; it lives in the body and shapes how we relate to ourselves and others. What changed everything for me was learning to recognize shame as a normal human experience — not a flaw or failure, but a signal that parts of me needed kindness and understanding. The work I do now is about creating a space where shame can be met with curiosity and compassion, where it can loosen its grip so you can step into more freedom and presence.

Navigating single parenting with strength and self-trust

Sarita B.

Becoming a mother was unexpected, but stepping into the role was a conscious choice, even knowing I would be doing it alone. For the past 6½ years, I’ve raised my son as a solo parent, learning how to carry both the beauty and the burden of parenting without a partner. The early days were especially difficult. I often felt isolated from family, friends, and even society as I confronted the stigmas and the sheer weight of responsibility. Time, resources, and support felt limited, and the emotional load was heavy. But single parenting has also transformed me. I’ve learned to advocate for myself in ways I never did before - at work, in my family, and in my relationships. I’ve made hard decisions that reflect my values, not others’ expectations, and that shift has made me stronger and more focused. In the process, I’ve discovered a deeper love; one that gives me the strength to push through even the most stressful moments. Some of the biggest turning points came when I stopped trying to live up to outside standards of “good parenting.” I took time away to reflect on what I truly wanted from this life and decided to pursue a path that reflected who we are, not what we were told to be. One of those moments came when I saw my son being left out on a school playground. That was when I knew we had to do things differently. Since then, we’ve embraced our unique rhythm as a family. This rhythm is one that includes rituals, values, nature, chosen family, and plenty of honesty. I’ve learned that single parenting doesn’t have to mean doing everything alone - it can mean doing it intentionally, and together.