I have to use the bathroom, so I excuse myself from the table and head toward the nearest restroom. Finally, relief. I linger at the sink, letting the water run over my hands a little longer than needed. It’s my favorite socially acceptable escape when my battery is low.
A woman and her daughter walk in. She sees me, freezes, then frantically scans the room, clearly wondering if she’s in the right place. Her daughter clutches her leg. I give a small smile.
“You’re in the right bathroom,” I say with an amused chuckle. “It’s the haircut.”
She lets out a laugh, the kind that’s part nervous, part relieved, then scurries her child into the stall, still apologizing.
This happens a lot. Sometimes women walk in, look at me, and immediately walk back out. I silently count to three, waiting for them to re-enter after confirming that they are female. Some return with embarrassed smiles or overcompensating stories about their gay cousin or their “fabulous” aunt who
basically raised them. Others never come back, and I imagine them awkwardly stepping into “the other men’s room,” confused and panicked.
Once, I tried pulling my oversized shirt tighter and arching my back slightly to emphasize the fact that, yes, I have curves. It seemed to make them more uncomfortable than the lineup on my fade. Because what is standing at the sink, if not a woman? And what defines one?
I wish I could tell the women who hesitate or do a double-take: I’m just gay. I love my body exactly as it was born, and that includes my gayness, both are part of the same beautiful design. I’m standing here like any other woman and nothing about me is a threat. In this moment, in this bathroom, I belong.
Bathrooms have been part of my journey for as long as I can remember. They’ve held my secrets, witnessed my transitions, and mirrored my fears. I was in junior high when my closet, literal and emotional, got too cramped. I couldn’t keep hiding. So I got a job, saved my money, and bought clothes that matched how I felt inside. I snuck them to school in my backpack, changing in the bathroom before first period.
I remember that first time: sliding into my baggy jeans and exhaling like I hadn’t breathed in years. My hands trembled as I stepped out of the stall. I was comfortable, but terrified. I sat down in class, holding my breath. One girl looked at me and said simply, “Finally.”
Later that day, I found my best friend. “Nisha,” I said, heart pounding, “I’m gay.” She smiled and shrugged. “I know.”
Just like that, the world didn’t collapse. I felt seen. But it wasn’t always that easy.
I dressed like myself at school, but at home, I was still hiding. Changing clothes in bathrooms became routine for nearly a year. Eventually, it became too exhausting. I had to tell my mom.
So I wrote her a letter, in all cursive, deliberate, vulnerable, and desperate for love. As I handed it over, it hit me: we’d never actually talked about sexuality. Not once. We were a Baptist, conservative, Christian family. In other words, “they don’t play that gay stuff.”
She read it quietly, folded it up, tossed it onto her nightstand, and said:
“It’s just a phase.”
She read it quietly, folded it up, tossed it onto her nightstand, and said:
“It’s just a phase.”
Those four words haunted me for over a decade.
I don’t think my mother meant to dismiss me. She just didn’t know how to show up. But I was 14, and those words cracked something inside me. I knew who I was before I told her. But when the people who raised you don’t accept what you already know about yourself, it makes you question everything.
Still, I kept wearing the clothes that felt right. I even wore button-downs and slacks to church. One Sunday, my grandmother frowned and said, “You need to put a damn skirt on.”
Our pastor would preach fire and brimstone against homosexuality. I sat in those pews wondering: How could a God who created every cell in my body accidentally make me gay?
Our pastor would preach fire and brimstone against homosexuality. I sat in those pews wondering: How could a God who created every cell in my body accidentally make me gay?
I didn’t choose this. I just… was. My crushes were on Ashley and Miss Holly long before I knew that wasn’t “normal.” My parents thought I was going to be a boy, so they dressed me in blue for the first two years of my life. Did God mess up? Or was my gayness part of the blueprint?
For years, I avoided God because I believed He was disappointed in me. I thought loving women made me sinful. I loved the Lord so much that, in my twenties, I tried to give “straight” a shot. I threw away my clothes again, curled my hair, wore earrings, and tried to attract men.
It nearly broke me.
I forced myself into situations that made my skin crawl. I tried being with a man, believing that maybe if I could push past the discomfort, God would be proud of me.
But instead, I spiraled. I fell into depression. I felt dirty. I felt fake. And I wondered, is this what God wants from me? A life where I live a lie for His approval?
I couldn’t do it anymore.
One day, it hit me: God doesn’t want me to suffer to earn His love. He gave me this life, this identity, this body, this voice. The God I know is not ashamed of me. He’s not confused. He’s not surprised.
God made me intentionally.
Even if the world couldn’t accept me, even if my mom couldn’t, or my pastor wouldn’t, I realized I didn’t need to choose between my queerness and my faith. God’s love isn’t conditional. It doesn’t vanish when I dress differently or love differently. It was there before I ever named my truth.
I stopped trying to be someone else. I stopped hiding.
And when I did, I could feel God more clearly than ever.
I’m not broken. I’m not defective. I’m not a phase.
I am a woman who loves women. I am a believer. I am God’s child.
I smile. Because I know exactly who I am. And more importantly, so does God.
He knew the number of hairs on my head, the rhythm of my laugh, the gender I’d be drawn to, and the spiritual gifts He’d place in me before I was born. He designed me not despite my queerness, but through it.
He knew I’d walk this complicated, beautiful, painful, spirit-shaping path and He trusted me with it.
If I hadn’t dressed like this, talked like this, walked like this, loved like this, I wouldn’t be able to reach the people He needed me to reach. I wouldn’t be able to speak this truth. I wouldn’t be able to help someone else believe they are not a mistake either.
So now, when I stand at the bathroom sink and someone gives me a double-take, I don’t shrink. I smile. Because I know exactly who I am. And more importantly, so does God.
Charnice Nelson, originally from Baltimore, is a writer and airborne photojournalist, documenting history through photos and multimedia projects in the Army. She crafts stories across print, digital, and film, often exploring themes of identity shaped by her experiences in both military and civilian life. She approaches every story with authenticity, transparency, and heart, guided by her philosophy that finding your center prepares you for any direction life takes you.”
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