My name is Alexa. I am 24 years old, and I find myself to be completely ordinary. I went to my town’s public elementary school and high school, and I considered myself to be a pretty good student. I graduated high school like every other senior, and went on to Rutgers College. There, I got my masters in mechanical engineering and graduated at the age of 22, like most college students. Now, at the age of 24, I have a job as an engineer. I grew up with both of my parents and a sister. My sister and I were like any other pair of siblings: we fought sometimes, and at other times, we loved each other more than anything. Together we went on family vacations, hung out with friends, and went to parties. As I said, I was ordinary. The problem is that nobody else could see that. They thought I was as different as possible.

Why? Because of who I love. I am a girl, and I’m not attracted to men. I’m attracted to women, in a society that finds this to be biggest crime since the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. Everyday I hear things on the morning news about the president disapproving of us and gangs that shoot people like me. I walk into the grocery store and I catch a snippet of what someone is saying, “I’ve never even seen her in a dress!” and I know they are talking about people like me. I hear debates about whether same-sex marriage should be legal, listen to people say we deserve nothing but the worst out of life. Some even say we deserve nothing but to die. I read stories about people’s parents disowning them, telling them to leave their homes forever, because they were like me. And for awhile, I didn’t worry about that. Getting disowned, I mean. I didn’t think I would ever tell anyone about who I really am. Who I really love. I knew the danger in that; I knew I would get shunned by society forever. I knew my friends would stare at me weirdly and people would treat me as if I was diseased. I thought that for a long time. It took me until last summer to realize the obvious.

I don’t want to be lonely for the rest of my life. I don’t want to live in the dark, waiting for something to happen, for a loose string to grasp at. And even more importantly, I realized that if everybody like me continues to hide, nothing will change. And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that something needs to change. Right now. The world can’t go on like this forever. We can’t continue to be this hateful society. But if nobody opens that door, these so-called perfections will remain imperfections forever.

I took days to gather my thoughts, to decide how I wanted to go about this. I finally decided that if I really wanted people to understand me, my thoughts, and my feelings, it was best to write it down. Then I could make sure everything I wanted to say was heard. I could make sure I wasn’t ignored. So I wrote this, desperate to still be accepted by my friends and family:

Think about a garden. The beautiful flowers, all different in their own way. Their petals are different, they’re different colors, they grow in different ways, different directions, they attract different insects, they bloom at different times. They are all unique in their own way. And yet they all manage to live in harmony. And as they blossom together, we have the pleasure of seeing something beautiful. As the colors blend, this harmony creates something outstanding. Why can’t our world be like that? Why don’t people see that our differences, they are what make us beautiful? I am different than most people.  I am a girl who doesn’t like men, but other girls. Most people can’t accept this. They don’t get it. But it’s just different. We shouldn’t be afraid of our differences. We should accept one another for who we truly are. Love, Alexa.

I printed this out and left one copy on my mother’s pillow (I was still living with her at the time). I decided to see how this went, then go about telling my friends. My mother had never been super against people like me, but I could always tell that she thought it was weird and unnatural. She wasn’t necessarily unaccepting, but she definitely wasn’t accepting either. She said it didn’t bother her at all, but I could always see through this. I could read her like a book. My mother found my writing at 9:30 that night. At ten I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door. My mother came in, holding my piece of paper. I waited, my heart thumping heavily in my chest, ready to burst out of me. Sweat formed in my hands. I felt chills roll up my spine and I looked at her expectantly. I was 23 years old, but I felt like I was thirteen again. Waiting to be judged, hoping not to be teared apart for who I really was. She sat on the corner of my bed, near where I sat. She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close to her. I allowed myself to rest my head against her chest like I used to when I was a little girl.

“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear. We stayed like that for a long time. My breathing relaxed, my hands dried up. I felt happier than I had felt since I was 17 years old, when I first discovered this about myself. I’d made a change in my mother. And if I could change her, who was stay I couldn’t change the whole world?

“I love you,” my mother said.

“I love you too.”