#PrideOnThePage Day 5 – FIRST
✨Trace the outline of your first yes. Let the writing live there.✨
What was your first moment of (queer) recognition—of joy, desire, permission? This prompt invites you to write about a threshold. The first kiss, first refusal, first truth spoken aloud. Begin at the moment when something inside you stepped forward.
The First Yes: Stepping Through My Own Doorway
I often think about those moments in life, the ones that feel like a threshold. You know, those points of no return where something inside me just surges forward, unyielding. For me, one such moment wasn't a hushed secret or a quiet acceptance. It was a truth spoken aloud, a clear, resonating "yes" to myself, shared with someone who truly mattered.
Do you ever reflect on your own first moment of profound recognition? Perhaps it was a surge of joy, a rush of desire, or the sweet permission to finally, truly, be yourself?
My first "yes" to being a lesbian didn't happen in that snowy hotel I am going to talk about a little bit later. That was a different kind of first. I had already come out to friends in the summer of 1986, right after high school graduation. I had known for quite some time, and now I understood why I hadn't dared to speak it sooner. Yet, that initial honesty, that open declaration of my truth, came with an unexpected, brutal cost.
I've always had more acquaintances than deep friendships. After I came out, I lost about 75% of them. Some feared lesbianism was contagious, believing they might "catch" it. Others seemed to fear I would make sexual advances they would feel compelled to reject, now that I had bared myself. It was a painful, isolating experience, a stark reminder of the deeply ingrained societal fears around queer identity.
A Different Kind of First Yes: With My Grandmother
So, when March 7, 1987 arrived, and I found myself on the precipice after a suicide attempt, pushed to the edge by that relentless isolation and the suffocating pain of hiding, a different kind of "yes" was brewing. The problem wasn't being a lesbian; the problem was pretending I wasn't. I simply couldn't carry that silence anymore. A fierce, almost reckless clarity ignited within me, insisting: I needed to tell her. Now.
I called my grandmother. She was on holiday in Murnau am Staffelsee, deep down in Bavaria, even without snow a seven hours train ride from Göttingen, where I lived. She stayed at one of those elegant hotels she and her partner enjoyed. "I need to talk to you," I explained, my voice laced with urgency. "In person. It simply can't wait." She didn't hesitate. She just said, "Yes.", I’ll tell the reception we’ll be having a guest.
And so I packed a small bag and began the journey from Göttingen. A snowstorm started to rage, while travelling, reflecting the turmoil swirling inside me. Train delays, the biting cold—each challenge felt like a test. I arrived 12 hours later exhausted, fragile, questioning if this was foolish or entirely necessary. Yet, a part of me had already stepped forward, and there was no turning back.
The next morning, after breakfast, I sat across from her. Amidst the porcelain cups and the quiet stillness of the Alpine setting, I finally spoke the words: "I'm a lesbian."
She smiled softly, her eyes gentle. "Ach Kindchen," she replied, gently amused, "I've always known."
That was a profound "yes." It wasn't just hers; it was profoundly mine. It felt like receiving a permission slip to live authentically within at least a part of my family.
We talked for hours that day, bridging generations. She shared stories of women like her former neighbors, "just friends" who shared their lives and their beds. We explored the coded ways queer women survived during the Third Reich when society offered no language, no space, no recognition. It was then I began to understand that queer history had always existed, a quiet river flowing beneath the surface, even when no one dared to name it.
Her "yes" opened a doorway for me.
Claiming My Ground: The Unyielding Yes to My Mother
Months later, a third "yes" emerged—fiercer, more audacious. I came out to my mother. The experience was truly brutal.
She hurled every insult imaginable. She tried to shame me, erase me, silence me. I even recall her telling me not to park my car near her practice, fearing my existence could tarnish her image.
Still, I stood my ground. My voice, now found, was unwavering.
"You can call me what you want," I told her. "You can reject me. Yet, I will not disappear. I am who I am. And I am not going back."
That moment wasn't tender or gentle. It felt like a battle. And it represented my first act of complete, embodied defiance. I had nothing then—no community, no allies, not even a single friend I could count on unconditionally. Yet, I had myself. And on that day, that was enough.
My grandmother offered me a doorway. My mother tried to slam it shut.
Yet, I walked through anyway. That, to me, was my first powerful, unyielding "yes."
How to show your appreciation…
Consider clicking the heart ❤️ at the top or bottom of the post. It helps others discover this newsletter and brightens my day.
Wild Lion*esses Lookout is a working studio—a space for creative work, vision, and collaboration.
Here, I share poetry, photography, digital art, and design—alongside professional support in editing, ghostwriting, authenticity reads, and consulting. This is a grounded space shaped by lived experience, artistic skill, and care. If this work resonates, consider becoming a paid subscriber for $10/month. You can see what I offer paid subscribers and founding members on my About page
Prefer to give once?
You can leave a one-time donation or buy me a coffee and Monty’s cat food, or just to say “I see you.” Every bit is felt.
Your support keeps this space honest, independent, and alive.
Thank you. 💚
Share this post