Growing up in a conservative, religious community, I always had the sense that something about me was quietly different. I didn’t have the words for it at first, but as I reached adolescence, I began to understand that I was queer—specifically, bisexual. For a long time, that word felt like a secret I had to hold tightly, as if saying it out loud would shatter the life I’d built around me. The first struggle I faced was internal. I questioned myself constantly. Was I really bisexual or just confused? Was I betraying my faith, my family, my culture? These questions haunted me at night and bled into my daily life. I spent years pretending, dating people I wasn’t attracted to, laughing at jokes that made me uncomfortable, staying silent when friends said things that hurt. It took a toll on my mental health. I developed anxiety and often isolated myself, afraid that any vulnerability would expose me. In high school, I finally came out to a close friend. I remember rehearsing what I’d say in front of the mirror, trying to make it sound casual. But when I told her, her smile faded. She didn't say much—just nodded, said “okay,” and slowly drifted away in the following weeks. That was the first time I experienced the quiet erasure of friendship because of my identity. It wasn’t dramatic. It just hurt. College was both a reprieve and a new battlefield. I found people like me—queer folks who were open, vibrant, and unapologetically themselves. For the first time, I felt like I could breathe. But even in those safer spaces, I encountered other struggles. People often questioned the validity of my bisexuality, especially when I was dating someone of the opposite sex. “Are you sure you’re not just straight?” they'd ask. I felt like I had to constantly prove I was "queer enough" to belong in the LGBTQ+ community, while also hiding parts of myself from family and old friends back home. The intersection of identity and visibility is complicated. I’ve learned that being out isn’t a one-time thing—it’s something you do over and over, in small and big ways, every day. I’ve come to accept that some people may never fully understand or embrace me. But I've also discovered my own strength. I’ve become someone who can stand in a room, say who I am, and not flinch when others don’t approve. My journey with my sexual identity has been filled with confusion, heartbreak, and growth. But every struggle has shaped me. I’ve learned empathy, resilience, and the deep, liberating power of living authentically. Being queer isn't always easy, but it’s something I now carry with pride—not as a burden, but as a beautiful, complicated part of who I am.