‍The Most Surprising Stage of my Queer Development (so Far)

When I first came out, I hung on every word my family and friends said about my queerness.

I didn’t yet know how I felt about my queerness, so I looked to them to tell me. 

After so much exposure to messaging that queerness is wrong from the evangelical church, I was desperate for permission to be myself — and equally desperate for assurance that my queerness would be welcome. In those early days, my sense of identity understandably lived and died by the words people used when they talked to me about my queerness.

Fast forward five years. I was still hanging on every word, but for new reasons. 

By then, I had built queer community. I’d learned the language — how we talk about queerness, how we talk about ourselves, how we don’t. I became extremely sensitive to whether my family and friends could speak this language, whether they could “hang” with my partners and new community. 

This felt like loyalty to my queer community, maybe even loyalty to truth itself — but if I’m honest, my attunement to their language was often coming from a place of fear. I was afraid of being rejected by the queer people I loved and depended on. I felt uncomfortable being associated with anyone who could be perceived as homophobic or transphobic, for fear that this would reveal something unacceptable about me. 

A couple of years later, I was teaching queerness to hundreds of thousands people on the internet. I taught the “right” words, what not to say, what to say if someone got it wrong. I believed strongly that our straight family and friends shouldn’t expose us to their learning curve or any feelings they had about our coming out except for total, unwavering support. I couldn’t see then what I see so clearly now: there’s a difference between people being abusive and humans adjusting to change.

In 2025, I’m no longer in survival mode around my identities, which gives me the privilege of spaciousness — the ability to let others have their process. I’ve also intentionally built a community that doesn’t monitor my every word for flaws, which means that I can learn, grow and make mistakes without wondering about my loveability. They have spaciousness for my process. Not everyone has these privileges, and I remain fiercely protective over those for whom language is a lifeline…

AND Community is Also a Lifeline

It took me years to feel fluent in “queer-speak” and leftist language—through access to courses, time, money, community, and safety. This access is a privilege I don’t take lightly. Language is powerful and community-building, and it continues to evolve alongside all of us. At the same time, it can also create distance.

For me, over-monitoring language created distance from people I love, and potential allies who share my hopes and desire for justice but simply haven’t been in spaces with the same vocabulary. Language is vital, but so is connection.

Recently, I have started to feel curious about why our grip on queer lingo is so strong. What does it do for us? How does it protect us? How has it been incredibly effective in building community and coalitions? How does it expand our senses of self?

And where has it been limiting? 

My intention here is not to evangelize anyone into loosening their grip on language, but rather to invite curiosity about that grip.

Where does it keep us insulated? How do we fiercely protect one another without making the gate to entry in leftist or queer movements so high that only the most linguistically trained can enter? One of the most ironic things about white queerness, at least in my experience, is how often we champion solidarity with the working class, while simultaneously creating a language barrier that alienates the very people we claim to stand with.

Can we do both? Can we protect our communities, fight for affirming language and healthcare, and stay connected to the broader fight for justice — for healthcare, livable wages, and dignity alongside people who don’t know what polysexual means? I think we can.

Nurturing Imperfect Allies

If what we want is a world where more people can use affirming language, we have to help make it possible, even pleasurable, for them to stay in the room long enough to endure the innately frustrating process of learning.

For those of us interested in being part of others’ learning process, we also must work towards having the nervous system bandwidth to stay in the room with frustrated learners without ourselves getting so frustrated we walk out and slam the door. 

If you’re curious about that process, here are some prompts to help you discern what kind of mindset shifts are available to you:

1. Remind yourself why words matter. Honor that.

When has language been a powerful tool for self-validation, community building, coalition building? Who are the teachers in your life who helped you learn queer language? What qualities did they have that made that learning space possible?

2. Where do you notice yourself feeling the highest sense of urgency and frustration when it comes to language?

It’s worth noting if you feel greater urgency and frustration around people in your closest circles than you do with people who hold power over massive systems. Consider what it might feel like to direct your reform energy less towards those who are in your community and more towards the systems and structures of power that reinforce transphobia and homophobia in school systems, healthcare systems, etc.

3. Reflect on your relationship with “correctness”

Do you know yourself to be someone who grapples with perfectionism? How has that perhaps played a role in the way you relate to queer language for yourself and others.

When someone gets it wrong, what happens in your body?

4. Assess Your Nervous System Bandwidth

If you’re in survival mode around your queerness (or really anything), this may very well not be the time to take on the task of teaching and holding space for people on a learning curve. Let others take on that task, while you tap into other strengths.

But if you do find yourself resourced, consider utilizing that privilege to hold a more gentle learning space.

Ask yourself: Do I have the bandwidth to let someone flail a bit while they try to do better? 

5. Loosen your Grip Strategically

Notice how important language can be, and notice when expecting perfection is getting in the way of connection. Learn how to discern a moment for doubling down versus a moment for loosening up.

One question that helps my discernment: Is my attachment to language at this moment building opportunities for allyship or hindering them?

One Day, your Gay Words will Offend a Queer Person

It’s all too easy to shit on boomers who still use words like “homosexual”, but babe! One day, that will be us!  

Language is constantly evolving and unfolding. The words we feel most comfortable with today will almost certainly not be the words most popular in the queer community in 2060.

What if instead of staking our claim as good queers by learning every right word, we paved the way for a future wherein the next generation is more gentle with us when we inevitably are on our own learning curves? What if we prepared ourselves to be gentle with our future mistakes by being gentler with others’ now?

Language matters. It can save lives. The goal isn’t to “care less,” it’s to broaden your definition of what care means, and who you’re caring for at any given moment; to know when language is a lifeline, and when it’s a learning curve.

To protect what’s sacred — and stay open to new potential and imperfect allies along the way.

Image Credit: Schitts Creek