When I was a kid, I always knew I was different. I loved Halloween because you could dress in drag. Even beyond the sacred holiday, I played with my mom’s makeup and costume wigs. I hung out mostly with girls and loved musical theater. But then I started to get backlash - I was called “faggot” by high school bullies and “bakla” by extended family members—words loaded with judgment and shame. That fear forced me into the closet, where I stayed for years—partially out of denial, but mostly out of survival. And in that silence, a part of me was slowly dying. 

When I began to explore my sexuality, I’d feel brief moments of pleasure, followed by intense, visceral guilt. So I turned to queer books, films, and magazines—anything that told me I wasn’t alone. Most of this media centered white stories, which made me feel somewhat connected, but not fully understood. Moving to New York changed everything. I finally found queer community, especially with other queer people of color who understood what it meant to carry multiple identities. But for a long time, that life was completely separate from my family and my public self.

When my heart simply couldn’t take it anymore, I began to come out to my friends, then a couple ofcool Ates/ older female cousins, my brothers, and finally my parents. Each encounter was painful but relieving. Some conversations were intensely horrible, but each one was liberating. 

When I finally came out publicly, it wasn’t just for me. It was for every closeted Filipino kid who needed to know that it’s possible to be queer and joyful, successful, and loved. If I could be that proof for even one person, then it was all worth it.

Finally, it’s important to note that some part of my identity is always changing. My relationship with gender has become more fluid over the years, and I’ve learned to decolonize the rigid messages we’ve learned about gender role norms. Every day, I give myself permission to evolve—and in doing so, I hope others feel empowered to do the same.