Hey everyone. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I feel like I need to share something important. It’s been a long time coming. If you’ve been following my posts, you know I love sharing snapshots of my life: my morning coffee, the sunset walks, the little things. I guess today is about the little things too, one little thing in particular.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out my late grandmother’s attic. I was there with my brother, sorting through old clothes and forgotten toys. It was a dusty, nostalgic mess. I was fine until I came across a small, worn-out book tucked inside a wooden box. It was my childhood journal — something I hadn’t seen in years.
As soon as I touched it, I felt a jolt of memory, a twinge of something buried deep. I had forgotten about this journal, but it was like my younger self had been waiting in that dusty box, waiting to be rediscovered. My grandmother had kept it all these years. I was hesitant to open it at first, but curiosity got the better of me.
The pages were filled with naive dreams of my ten-year-old self: adventures yet to be had, friends I cherished, secrets I had kept even from myself. But there was one entry that caught my attention. It was surprising, even to me today. It talked about a moment I had long forgotten but that now loomed large.
There was a day when I overheard my parents talking in hushed voices. They were discussing my uncle, who had passed away when I was eight. They mentioned how he had struggled with who he was, how he had hidden parts of himself because he feared judgment. I remember finding this confusing at the time but didn’t ask questions. Instead, I wrote about it, in what now seems like a very innocent way.
Reading those words now, as an adult, I understand them so much better. It hit me hard — the realization of how fear can tether us, how the silence weighs people down. I realized I had done something similar with my own identity.
For years, I pushed aside questions about myself, packed them away in the attic of my mind. But that day with my journal, something shifted. I saw, with a kind of clarity, the path I had been stumbling down: the fear I had felt about embracing who I truly was, the parts of me that I had locked away.
I’m not going to lie, opening up about this isn’t easy. It feels like stepping into the light after being in the shadows for so long. But reading those entries, feeling the weight of my uncle’s hidden struggles, I found the courage to unearth my own truth.
So here it is: I am bisexual. For years, I’ve hidden this part of myself, unsure, afraid of judgment like my uncle. It’s a strange feeling, sharing this with the world, but it feels strangely right too.
I wish I could tell my younger self that it’s okay to be different, that it’s okay to be me. I realize now that the small moments, the little clues we tuck away, hold so much power. They whisper truths we might not be ready to hear until the time comes.
Thank you for reading, for being a part of this journey. I hope, if anything, it encourages someone else out there to listen to their own whispers, to find their truth hidden beneath the surface.