Unfortunately, We Live in a Society

Unfortunately, I Was Born Gay and Sad

The day I realized my struggles with mental health weren’t unique was both comforting and devastating. Comforting, because I wasn’t alone. Devastating, because it meant the pain I’d felt as a queer, Black, neurodivergent, poor person wasn’t just my own—it was systemic. My trauma may be uniquely mine, but the threads that weave it are all too familiar to so many.

From the beginning, I knew I was gay. Not every queer person feels this way; some discover or embrace their queerness later in life, which is entirely valid. But for me, I knew. (Cue Lady Gaga’s Born This Way.) Still, I made a choice that many queer folks understand: I hid. I decided it was safer to seek love and acceptance in a homophobic community than to risk rejection by living as my authentic self.

I was also born ugly. Okay... That is untrue, but that is what I was taught to believe. Growing up in a small Southern town, surrounded by whiteness as the beauty standard and as the social norm, I was entirely excluded. I couldn’t have achieved what I revered as beautiful and good, even if I tried - and I did try. I spent my entire childhood consumed by shame and self-hatred, suppressing my queerness and constantly trying to change myself - constantly trying to get as proximate to whiteness and straightness as I could. Regardless of my best efforts, the game was ultimately rigged against me. I didn’t have the language, or the understanding, to know that it was never actually about needing to be beautiful, it was about needing to be loved.

The cost of that hiding was enormous. Anxiety and depression crept into my life early, around the age of 10. I’d lock myself in my room, crying alone for hours, consumed by social anxiety. I prayed desperately to God, begging to be anyone but who I was: gay, ugly (or so I thought), and unbearably sad. Unconditionally and irrevocably gay and sad (Yes, that was a Twilight reference).

For years, I believed I was cursed. As a queer, Black kid in a community that told me everything about me was wrong, I felt isolated, crushed by the weight I carried - the burden of hiding who I was and feeling like I was never enough.

Unfortunately, I’m Not Alone

As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to see that my experience isn’t unique at all—and that’s both heartbreaking and validating. Far too many queer people, especially those in small, conservative towns, know my story. They’ve lived the isolation, shame, and fear. They’ve felt this depression and anxiety.

But college gave me an opportunity to restart - and I took it. Like many others in their late teens and early twenties, I began to explore who I really was. I started disclosing to people I was gay, experimenting with my gender expression, and speaking openly about my spiritual doubts. I started to do the work of unlearning my internalized racism and educating myself about systemic injustice. For the first time, I tried to live authentically.

I wish I could say this was a cure - that embracing my truth eliminated the sadness. But it didn’t. Because, unfortunately, we live in a society.

The messages we receive and internalize - “You’re bad. You’re sinful. You’re not good enough” - don’t disappear overnight. They burrow deep, shaping how we see ourselves and the world. These messages have real, lasting, dangerous effects on mental health.

Through everything, I’ve learned that mental health doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Sure, brain chemistry and genetics play an important role, but mental health is also shaped by our environment, relationships, and societal norms. The oppression we experience - racism, misogyny, homophobia, ableism - takes a toll. Healing in the context of oppression is complicated. Even as you start living authentically, the scars of hiding and suppressing don’t vanish. The scars of experiencing isolation and marginalization don’t vanish. And as long as systemic injustice persists, healing remains an ongoing process.

But here’s what I’ve learned: choosing to heal anyway is an act of resistance and social liberation is mental health care.

Fortunately, Connection is Everything

Today, I’m still gay and sometimes still sad. But I’ve learned to reframe my sadness. Through therapy, medication, meditation, spiritual exploration, and dismantling internalized prejudice, I’ve come to see that my sadness isn’t a weakness - it’s a deeply human response to systemic forces. My body is trying to protect itself, though sometimes misguided. My body is trying to love itself. That, too, is beautiful.

Now, when sadness comes, I seek the community that I’ve spent years cultivating. I reach out to the people who know, accept, and love me. My sadness no longer isolates me - it connects me. It grounds me. It reminds me that my healing is interconnected to every person I love and every person who has experienced what I have. I found a safe space to be myself, free from judgment and hate. If you take away one piece of advice from this post, let it be this: Create a safe community for yourself. And when it gets challenging to create, don’t give up trying until you have found it.

While personal healing is essential, we also need societal change. Mental health isn’t just an individual issue; it’s a collective one. Liberation for marginalized people - queer folks, people of color, disabled folks, and others—is liberation for everyone. If it were up to me, we’d already live in a world where love and acceptance are abundant, where no one fears being their authentic self. We would live in a world where poverty was eradicated and white supremacy was dismantled. We would live in a world where late capitalism wasn’t crushing our spirits. Everything would be good, and nothing would hurt. We’re not there yet, because unfortunately, we live in a society. But every act of authenticity, every voice raised against oppression, moves us closer to that world.

Love and hope are infinite resources. As long as they endure, so does the possibility of building a more compassionate and healing world. When sadness comes, remember that connection is everything - connection is the lifeline of resilience. Prioritize and seek out connection as much as you can, because there are people who understand your experiences and will cherish even the parts of you that feel hardest to embrace. You are never truly alone.

Sincerely,

[Studio Wesley/Wesley’s Revival Team Member]