As a person under thirty, I believe I have a very different perspective on the word queer than someone older. Let me explain. Not every lesbian is queer, and not every queer person is a lesbian. To me, queer defines something relatively undefinable. It’s the essence of people who live boldly and love one another differently. I’ve met some gay and lesbian people who are very traditional—they hold conventional values and even adopt heteronormative gender roles within their relationships. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s not for me.
Over time, I’ve realized that being gay and being queer aren’t always the same. Being gay describes who you’re attracted to, but for me, being queer is about how you move through the world. It’s a refusal to shrink myself into something expected. To be queer is to be authentically myself—loud, boisterous, flamboyant, and impossible to put into a box.
When I say I’m queer, I’m saying I’m unusual. I don’t quite sync with rhythms that seem to come naturally to others. I’m not looking for a traditional or predictable kind of love; I’m looking for something that matches my specific kind of “strange.” You don’t have to be chaotic to be queer, but anyone who knows me will tell you that I am.
Before coming out, I went on many first dates that revolved around things like favorite colors or five-year plans—the same conversations over and over about things I didn’t care about. But when I’m with someone who understands queerness the way I do, all that stereotypical awkwardness disappears. We skip the fluff and go straight to what’s real: the weird stories, the intense opinions, the parts of ourselves that usually stay hidden for months. When I’m with a queer person, everything feels different. The bond is closer, I laugh louder, and I feel free to show off my funky fashion—the world just feels right in that moment.
Queerness gives me permission to be loud—not just in volume, but in how I take up space. I don’t feel the need to soften my edges or make myself more palatable. My personality is big. I laugh too hard. I’m probably a little too honest. And for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to apologize for it. I’ve been asked questions like, “Do you have a wandering eye?” or “How can you be queer if you’re married to a man?” The truth is, it’s entirely possible to love one person deeply and still appreciate the beauty in others. Who I love now doesn’t erase my capacity to love—it just reflects where I am. (And yes, being married, I hope it’s the same person for all my tomorrows.)
What I love about queerness is the ability to build deep bonds without possession or the expectation of romance. There’s a shared experience—something like queer joy. For me, I feel like I’ve become the little sister of the St. Louis queer community. I’m so loved by the people around me that my cup overflows. I didn’t have that before I came out, and it’s something I treasure deeply.
There’s something powerful about taking a word once used to push people out and turning it into a home. It’s the one space where I don’t have to translate myself into a language others understand. It’s not about being everything. It’s about being exactly who I am, even if that doesn’t make sense to everyone else. And honestly, that’s kind of the point.
