When I think about queerness, one of the earliest memories that comes to mind is a character I loved on TV, named Princessa. I remember her primarily because noticed her perky breasts, but beyond that, much of that time in my life is a blur. I was still living a heteronormative life, not fully aware of who I was or could be. However, I do remember being 11, in Class Six, when I realized that I didn’t hate the idea of kissing a girl. In fact, I fantasized about it quite often, though I kept those thoughts to myself. At the same time, I also had crushes on a few boys, which left me feeling very confused.
But that confusion was just one of many problems I had to deal with. I grew up in a violent family where no one ever had a kind word to say about me. So, fantasizing about crushes—whether on girls or boys—became my escape. It was something that was mine, something I could hold onto in the midst of everything else.
By the time I was 14 and in Form One at an all-girls school, my confusion only deepened. I met my first tomboy. Well, not my first—I had seen tomboys before—but this was the first time I had spent so much time around one. I became obsessed, though, of course, in secret. I couldn’t risk getting caught and adding fuel to the fire of my already traumatizing home life.
So, at school, I fantasized a lot. I’d hear stories about people getting caught making out, and I wondered what that would be like. I wanted that too; it made me feel warm inside. As time went by, I grew bolder. Life has a way of making us unique, and I met some amazing people who weren’t afraid to be themselves. This made me think about trying to attract some girls myself. But I didn’t know what they liked. Did I need to be more masculine? The pretty girls seemed out of my league, so I retreated back into my shell, fantasizing and observing.
I learned that even the pretty girls were hooking up. I heard the gossip about these entanglements causing drama in school. I watched as some girls were left hanging by their partners, who moved on to someone else just as quickly as they had started flaunting their new relationship. It felt like 99% of the drama at school was crafted by the queer community.
At home, I had a few crushes too—girls I wouldn’t mind kissing and some boys I didn’t mind being seen with, just to fantasize about. My mom, on the other hand, never missed an opportunity to call me a “malaya” (a slut), despite the fact that I had the strictest dad who would try to beat me to death every time I came home late. I didn’t like being slut-shamed, especially when I didn’t even like men that much. I thought about women far more than I thought about men. I got to the point where I considered coming out, though I didn’t know that’s what it was called. I just wanted to shout, “You keep calling me a slut, but I’m a lesbian!”—or at least that’s how I felt. But I never did it.
I didn’t understand the repercussions of coming out, but I did know that I already felt unloved at home and had spent my whole life trying to earn my family’s love and approval. It hadn’t worked. That’s where my people-pleasing tendencies came from.
They had already embarrassed me in front of the whole community over some guy I didn’t even sleep with, slut-shaming me more, preaching about me, and even tricking me into meeting with a priest to find out if I was pregnant so they could figure out what to do next.
So, I decided to keep my queer life a secret, something that was just mine to enjoy. And that’s how my secret life as a queer woman was solidified.
To answer your question, yes, I’ve kissed boys at this point in my life. Was it memorable? No. Did I enjoy it? Not really, especially when I later found out how much more I enjoyed kissing women.
You know how in the justice system they call certain cases “Romeo and Juliet”? Well, call mine “Juliet and her many Juliets”—the many women who contributed to some of the strongest lessons I’ve learned in life.
From the age of 15 to 18, my experiences with queer women weren’t about recruitment or anything predatory. In fact, I didn’t even know about the existence of queer women outside the school walls. What I’ve come to understand is that just as you expect little girls to have crushes on boys, sometimes those little girls develop crushes on other little girls, and some little boys develop crushes on other little boys. Within the confines of school, they explore these romances, leading to various situationships. This is all while being aware that we come from different backgrounds and families. Most of us just found ourselves in these situations.
My experiences with the “Juliets” of my time were filled with acceptance and happiness. I genuinely believed that I had no business judging what people did with their lives. So, I didn’t judge them, either openly or in silence, and sometimes I even defended them. They were my friends, and I loved them, even though others didn’t agree with what they were doing. Of course, I didn’t enjoy the cheating that was going around; I preferred that someone just pick their partner, live their life, and leave school. I just wanted people to be happy.
Eventually, I had my own experiences. The love bombing, the being shown off, the love letters, the romance, the sneaking around—I had it all. I was living my ultimate lesbian experience, with all the fantasies I had dreamed of and more. I even remember asking one of my many entanglements what the color of my eyes was, just to experience the whole thing. And I got it all, including the heartbreaks.
Lesbian heartbreaks are not easy, my friends. I felt like I could take my heart out and pour cold water on it to numb the pain. Have you ever been ghosted by someone you’re in the same school with? Someone you used to see 24/7, and now you can’t even see them accidentally, just to get a tiny glimpse of what used to be? Living in secret began to haunt the parts of me that I was heavily avoiding—the fact that home wasn’t okay, and instead of the adults in my life solving their issues, they resorted to slut-shaming me and putting me in the middle of their mess. And I didn’t deserve any of it.
Did this make me queer? No. Because there were people in the same school going through worse than I was, and they were boy-crazy. Fortunately, during my time in school, being queer wasn’t shocking. People didn’t care as much. The gossip was there, even to your face, but it never got to the teachers because they all had their own separate lives, and most of them were predators anyway.
At that point in my life, the “Juliets” of the world held me, affirmed me, and loved me. It’s important to mention that homophobia existed. I used to hear horrible stories coming from boys’ schools, and it broke my heart.
Now, I’m 25, and queerness has evolved. It’s no longer just about fantasy; it’s about identity, safety, orientation, trauma, and suppression. And you have to find your place in all the chaos.
1. Identity and Orientation
Remember how I said I liked women but didn’t entirely hate the idea of men romantically? That evolved. I came to learn that different people have different experiences with queerness. Initially, I thought everything was binary—that men were men, women were women, and you either liked men, women, or both. The existence of trans people was unknown to me. I had at least heard of intersex people, but their representation was biased, one-sided, and mostly driven by culture and religion. It seemed like anything people didn’t understand or agree with was labeled demonic and dismissed.
Being queer in the world, outside the confines of school, meant that I had to define who I was. Was I femme? Was I a stud? Was I a bisexual woman? Was I a lesbian? I had to determine and settle on who I was. Sadly, the community didn’t give me a chance to just be me. Everyone desperately needed me to decide who I was, and this wasn’t based on my experience but on their trauma with past people. For me, love didn’t depend on what someone had between their legs. You could be a trans man, a trans woman, or an intersex person, and I’d still love you for who you are. But this wasn’t the case for everyone else, and to some extent, I understood it. What I didn’t agree with was the bullying and discrimination that came with it. The world hated us because we were different, and we started hating people for the same reason instead of judging them based on their integrity, empathy, and other human qualities.
2. Safety and Violence
It became clear to me that the world was cruel, that people didn’t understand love or happiness, so they resorted to the most brutal ways to punish queer people. Mothers were okay with putting their daughters through corrective rape, taking them for prayers, and other insane methods of sexual orientation change, commonly known as conversion therapy. Masculine-presenting women had it rough—they were ridiculed daily, discriminated against, sexually assaulted, undressed in public, questioned about why they wanted to be men, and constantly reminded that no matter how hard they tried, they would still get
pregnant and give birth because they were still women.
We lived in a world that didn’t care about us or our experiences. My experiences with queerness were primarily from a feminine perspective, so I didn’t get the physical backlash that my masculine friends did. However, this didn’t mean that I wasn’t fighting for the rest of us. Even in school, I had to protect and defend the younger queer students, the ones who identified with me and took on my queerness to avoid being bullied. They were like my siblings, and I loved them enough to defend them, both in school and after we left. I wasn’t the loudest, but I stood up for them, even when I was hurting.
3. Suppression and Trauma
A significant part of the queer experience involves the trauma of rejection. After giving your best self to the world and still not being accepted, it’s only natural to develop trauma. For some, it takes the form of bitterness, hate, a sense of superiority, or even hypocrisy.
As I got older and queerness became more than just my life, I started noticing the layers of trauma. The belief that “if they can hate us, we can hate ourselves” was prevalent. Some people felt that the power of love was so overwhelming that you had to harden your heart and believe that everyone was your enemy, even those within the community.
I never understood the superiority complex that some queer people exhibited, thinking they were better than others because they presented their queerness in a more socially acceptable way. I didn’t understand why some people hated bisexuals, thinking they were traitors because they could enjoy the best of both worlds. I couldn’t comprehend the constant projection of trauma that some people engaged in, constantly talking about how they had been hurt, and then using that as an excuse to hurt others.
The trauma didn’t end with my experiences in school; it followed me into adulthood. People who had once been out and proud became bitter and decided that they were the only real lesbians, the only ones who could define queerness. I found myself drawn to the side of queerness that wasn’t based on hatred, but rather on the desire to make the world a better place. A place where queerness wasn’t about competing over who could be the best or the most flamboyant, but rather about creating a safe space for everyone, regardless of their identity, orientation, or experiences.
My journey with queerness is still ongoing, and it’s far from perfect. But I’ve learned that my queerness is about love, acceptance, and the desire to heal the world. I no longer feel the need to prove myself to others. My queerness isn’t about fitting into a box or a label; it’s about living authentically, loving deeply, and fighting for a world where everyone can do the same.