I’ve never been very good at hiding parts of myself, and my queerness is no exception. From the moment I found out about the community in middle school, I sought out any information I could find and had no qualms about showing it to others. I wanted to know and understand everything about myself and my loved ones and any time I found something out I would proudly put it on display. I rarely felt unsafe and though there were instances of bullying in high school, I could never see it as more than childish antics. I was content in the knowledge that I understood myself better than they ever would and that nothing would take that from me. This does not mean that things were not hard sometimes. After all, rarely doesn’t mean never and I feared more for my friends than for myself. But the pride and happiness I felt when I realized I wasn’t alone was something I would fight for and something I will continue to fight for. I recently joined the oSTEM organization and it has led me to meet many wonderful people and learn how I can make a difference for those in my community. With the knowledge and connections I’ve made there, I aspire to help queer kids near me feel less alone in their skin and protect them from whatever or whoever may try to keep them from being themselves. Organizations like oSTEM and my local LGBTQ SAVES have shown me how queer adults can connect with the kids around them and my own experiences have taught me how important it is to have pride in oneself. Of course, being queer is only one part of me. I’m a software engineer, an advocate, a sister, a writer. I plan to become a foster parent once I’m stable enough and aspire to spread mental health awareness on behalf of myself and those I have lost. The world is constantly changing around us and for the first time in my life, I feel as though I can do something about it all. I am me and that is something worth fighting for.

One year and seven months ago, my younger cousin committed suicide. She was eleven years old, living south of San Antonio with my aunt and grandparents. She was intelligent beyond her years, witty and full of spunk, and although I didn't see her often, I felt a sort of connection to her that I felt with very few others. By this time I had been out as a lesbian for well over three years and as such I was one of the first persons in our family to find out about her own queer identity and struggles. I knew that she had been dealing with issues of internalized homophobia and severe depression but I didn't know how I could help her outside of the reassurance I gave each time we had a family gettogether. To say that I regret not reaching out to her is an understatement. Embree's death affected me in ways I could never begin to describe. It complicated my already complex relationship with religion and spirituality, brought me grief the likes of which I had never experienced before, and caused a well of resentment and fire of change to stay lit within me even now. I was seventeen years old and I had only recently begun treatment for my own depression. I knew through bitter experience what she was going through and I felt an anger towards the world because of it. I hated the system that allowed her to fall through the cracks, my family for not doing more to help her when we all knew she had been struggling, and myself for not being there for her when I had the chance. A year and a half later, I know now that no one person was at fault. My family was doing their best with an issue they did not understand, those people they visited were swamped as it was with patients, and I had been a child. There is no point in berating ourselves for not doing more because the damage has already been done. Instead, we must look toward the future and do better for the children of tomorrow. I'd be lying if I said that it still didn't hurt. I'd be lying if I said that I was no longer angry about what she had to go through. But I don't want to hurt anyone else through my anger. I don't want to be hateful and vengeful because these things do not help and I want more than anything to help. I do not want to turn Embree's death into a lesson to be learned because that would give meaning to a death that was senseless and tragic. Instead, I want to respect the meaning of her life, of her accomplishments and fears and hopes and dreams. I don't want to rid myself of my anger, but instead use it to push kindness. I am angry that the world is the way it is, and that a little girl felt the only option she had left was to die, and I will do my best to ensure this never happens again. Not through more pain but through kindness, raw and unashamed. It is never a bad thing to reach out to others and so long as I am alive, I will do my level best to make sure no child feels alone like that again.

I’d be the first person to admit that I’ve struggled with empathy throughout my life. There have been many instances where I’ve hurt people’s feelings without realizing or meaning to. The first thing that I believe helped me make sure to treat others kindly has been to define the difference between empathy and compassion. Empathy is when a person feels the emotions another is feeling while compassion is the action taken by a person to help others. If your friend is sad and you feel sad because of it, you’re experiencing empathy. But by helping them -- getting them tea, asking them to talk, staying with them, etc. -- you are showing compassion. I differentiate these two things because as someone with naturally low empathy I feel like I’ve often been isolated by our society. I have learned how to empathize, but it’s an actual process I have to go through, not a natural thing. And while learning this ability has certainly helped me, learning how to be compassionate has helped me far more. Empathy is often a good place to start if it can be reached. I tend to use the “put yourself in their shoes” method, meaning I force myself to imagine being in the situation often by comparing it to other situations I have been through. This doesn’t always work, though, because people need different things even in the same situation. So instead, I always try and ask what I can do to help. I offer to listen to their problems, give advice if they want it, and make sure they know they’re supported. Understanding someone is wonderful, but helping them is the best thing you can do and you don’t always have to understand to help.

I’ve been obsessed with books my whole life. I would spend hours in our school library, looking through each book while I hid from the world behind wooden shelves and paper worlds. By middle school, I had begun to create stories of my own, universes I could mold to my liking where any problem could be solved with a quip and heartfelt speech. With so much going on in my life -- divorce, broken relationships, high school looming around the corner -- all I wanted was a place where I could fix all the problems I never could in real life. It was around this time that I discovered another form of writing: fanfiction. With everything that was happening, I tried to hold on to the stories I enjoyed. I didn’t want my favorite show or book to end. I wanted to watch the characters be put into new situations for all eternity. So when the real world failed me, I turned to the online one. Fanfiction gave me exactly what I needed: a constant stream of fresh stories to put my beloved characters in. Even now, my love of writing holds strong. My free time is still spent reading and creating stories, both original and fan content. But I’ve grown too. I no longer have to use books to escape my life. They can still provide an escape, certainly, but not one I need to survive, and my love has grown stronger because of it. Writing allows me to express my creativity, my spirit, while reading allows me to enjoy other worlds without having to give up my own. Stories have stayed with me all these years and I'm so glad they have because my life has been so much better with them.

I don’t like to think of myself as an egotistical person, and I hope to not come across that way now. I have always been an optimistic person but if I’m completely honest, I have no one tangible reason to give you for this belief I hold. I suppose it comes from watching acts of kindness, big and small, real and fictional throughout my childhood. Seeing the ways people come together, protect each other, and support one another, is truly amazing. But that’s not why I opened the way I did. Because while my optimism may be ingrained into my being, the truth is that I am the one who gives myself hope for the future. As I said, I really hope this doesn’t come across as egotistical, but it’s true. I grew up feeling powerless. I was a small, weak child who believed in the goodness of the world the same way I believed adults would never lie to me. That is to say, I didn’t have anything real to point to, I simply believed it because there was no other option in my mind. Things would get better, I thought, simply because they would. They had to. As I’ve grown older, I’ve also grown in my independence and confidence. I’ve seen my friends disappear within themselves, talked them down from edges I hope no one has to see, and found myself standing on the edge of those cliffs too. I’ve watched my little cousin die because she thought no one would believe her, listened as my parents confessed to me the demons they had always hidden from us. I’ve stood as my world caved in around me. And yet, I am here. I don’t know if that’s really all that much of an accomplishment, but it is an undeniable truth. The reason I find hope within myself is because, after everything, all I feel within is the desire to fight. I still believe that people are good and that everything will turn out all right in the end, but I no longer feel like I have to leave it up to fate. I want to fight, for my family and my loved ones and every child just like her. I want them to know that things will get better, not because the strings of fate will make it so, but because we will make it so. I can make it so. Things will get better, I know now, because I will do my part to get us there.