It wasn’t always this way. In my early years as a purple-haired, punky teenager, I wore my “weird girl” status on my sleeve. I colored my fingernails with black Sharpies and instigated debates in class. Inside, I struggled with repeated rejection, so embodying disruption was the easiest way to register complaints. Plus, it distracted from my loneliness.

As the school outcast, I had nothing to lose. Coming out (then, as bisexual) both confirmed and signified other elements of my misfit existence. I was "alternative," “marginalized,” and "liberal." My coming out sent the message that, despite my white middle-class background, I didn’t want to be typecast as mainstream.

It was only after finding other LBGTQs in college that I considered the possibility of living both with difference and without shame. In the queer community, I had permission to be loud and proud. I aligned myself with activists and others that could relate to the less visible aspects of my experience, like surviving abuse or dealing with depression.

Claiming queer identity gave voice to some of my more deeply hidden experiences. My queerness became emblematic of a larger personal history, and I wanted that to be seen by the outside world.

Of course, the option to “be seen” is a privilege within itself. I owe a lot to the generations before me who risked far more coming out of the closet, and others who don’t have the luxury of contemplating how they might share their identity. Part of the benefit of passing as straight is that I get to choose when I identify as queer, and to whom.

So along with that advantage, I’ve come to work with the unfortunate side effects. I’m sometimes distanced from close relationships, less recognizable to other LBGTQs, or less “real” with acquaintances. I’m a different kind of outsider, both within the queer community, and beyond.

These were just a few of the thoughts coursing through my brain when I caught a glance of Wylie and Milton’s chase, which had transitioned to a mostly friendly wrestling match. The dogs collided at Jen’s feet, then took off again, sideswiping my shins on the way. They are a good match, I thought. I hope they keep playing together.

I looked back at Jen and considered how to approach this conversation without seeming like a self-important tool.

I had a split second to weigh my options. Jen and I are essentially neighbors (at least by city common law), so I have some investment in the relationship. I want to connect with her authentically, but I already felt myself shrinking back.

If I came out as queer, that might raise questions about James, and while neither of us are in the closet intentionally, I feel unsure about how Jen will receive intel on his gender identity. And how would James feel about me breaking the news?

His story isn’t mine to tell. But he is a part of my story. And though my story continues to evolve, I committed a long time ago to keeping it loud and proud.

I drew a breath, and thought: Here goes…