A Journey In Therapy From Homophobia To Acceptance

Several years ago, an adolescent boy was killed in a hate crime targeting an LGBTQ+ community center. The family set out for a normal day. Instead, their world crashed. “Montford” had never come out to his family members, who were shocked to discover that their 15-year-old son/brother/cousin/nephew had been murdered at a social event for gay teens. 

Montford’s aunt “Kate” and uncle “Stan” lived in a city near me, in a different state from Montford. A mutual friend referred them to my psychology practice.

Struggling with the initial wave of shock, Kate and Stan sat in my office for our first meeting. Before I could say a word, they began to speak. 

“Our friend said you were comfortable with those people,” Kate anxiously.

“Which people?” I asked.

“Gay people,” Stan shifted nervously.

I nodded.

Stan then stated he wanted an objective opinion. 

“An objective opinion about what?” At this point, the tension spiked so high that I asked quietly, “What’s not being said here?”

The floodgates burst open.  

It was “unacceptable” that Montford was gay, Kate stated. “Ridiculous, actually.” 

“He didn’t even like fashion!” Stan added. “He was on the football team!” 

“There was nothing gay about him!” Kate.

“He can’t be gay!” Stan. 

“He must have been at the LGBTQ Center by accident.” Kate.

“Maybe he was lost and asking for directions.” Stan.

“The entire situation makes no sense.” Kate.

As one spoke, the other nodded then jumped in, overlapping. They left no room for discussion as they frantically threw out an avalanche of reasons why Montford couldn’t possibly have been gay. Finally, they paused and looked at me expectantly. I waited a few seconds to see if they’d tolerate a short moment of quiet, but quiet wasn’t on their agenda. Kate leapt in. 

“You believe us, don’t you? He can’t be gay!” 

I listened closely, trying to figure out a path into a productive therapy.

“I can’t think about anything else,” Stan said.

“We can’t even ask Montford about it. We’re stuck with it.” Kate’s eyes filled.

With that comment, she gave me an opening. “I think I understand what you’d like from me — to help you get unstuck, so you can mourn the way you need to.”

They both nodded.

“I want to ask something that you might not expect. Why is it so important that Montford wasn’t gay?”

They talked about their relationship with their nephew, and with Stan’s brother and sister-in-law, Montford’s parents, who also had no idea that he was gay and couldn’t believe it was true. Kate and Stan’s son “Gil,” loved his cousin and was heartbroken to lose him. The boys were the same age and spent two weeks every summer visiting each other, alternating homes.

Stan explained that Gil’s reaction puzzled them. “He doesn’t seem to care whether or not Montford was gay. He’s not focussed on that at all. It’s very strange.” 

I tried again. “Can I say something that may seem even more strange?”

They nodded.

“Let’s substitute the word dead for the word gay.” 

They exchanged a confused glance, so I did it for them.

“Montford can’t be dead. It’s ridiculous that Montford is dead. It must have been an accident that he’s dead. It makes no sense that he’s dead. There’s nothing dead about him.”

There was a long pause and they both began to cry. 

Finally Kate spoke: “It’s much easier to focus on the gay piece than the dead piece.”

Session after session, layer by layer, Kate and Stan grieved. I couldn’t take away their pain, or rush their grieving process. Worst of all, I couldn’t bring Montford back to life. But I could offer them a different path, so that their grieving was, in Kate’s words, “no less painful, but a lot less impossible.”

As they worked through the harsh initial stage of mourning, I wondered if they’d ever be willing to address their homophobia. As it turned out, their son Gil helped the process move forward. Gil’s best friend came out to him. When he told his parents, saying he was so glad his friend felt safe telling him, Kate shook her head.

“Wow,” she said, “I never would have guessed. He always seemed so normal.”

Stan grinned. “Did he try to hit on you? I’ll bet he did. You’re a good looking guy!”

They were completely taken aback when Gil shouted at them and stormed out. 

Kate opened the next session. “Gil thinks we’re homophobic assholes.”

“An exact quote,” Stan said.

“Do you think you’re homophobic assholes?”

They both blinked then laughed, surprised by my language. 

Kate took a deep breath. “I think maybe Gil’s right.”

Stan nodded. “I hate to admit it, but he has a point.”

“Why do you hate to admit it?” I needed to see whether he’d follow through or veer away from this part of himself.

“I don’t want to be an asshole,” Stan looked down. 

“I don’t want to be a bigot,” Kate added.

I held my voice calm. “So you’ve both realized you don’t like a part of yourselves.”

They nodded.

“What do you each want to do about it?” I asked softly, carefully non-confrontational.

This was a turning-point moment in therapy. My job was to show them they had a choice; their job was to choose. Many patients would have chosen to leave the treatment at that point rather than face the painful work ahead. The choice had to belong to them, so I waited. Their eyes locked.

“I feel like a jerk,” Kate said quietly. “I mean, Gil’s best friend is a normal guy. That hasn’t changed one bit. What I said was idiotic.”

“Not as idiotic as making a joke like I did,” Stan winced. 

“When we first met,” I said, “you were both  focussing on Montford’s being gay because it was less painful than focussing on his death. You were using homophobia to protect yourselves from something that felt more painful. Do you think that’s a piece of what’s going on now?”

We then embarked on one of the most difficult phases of their therapy as they confronted the intersection of their grief for Montford and their homophobia.

Kate wondered “why Montford never told anyone he was gay.”

They tossed ideas back and forth until Stan suddenly caught his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Kate turned to her husband.

He cleared his throat. “Montford didn’t tell anyone because the whole family is filled with homophobic assholes. My brother, my sister-in-law, the two of us. He was probably afraid to tell Gil, because of us. It’s our fault.”

“He must have felt so alone,” Kate whispered.

Over the next several sessions, they talked about what that must have been like for Montford to know he was gay and to be surrounded by people he couldn’t safely tell. 

This led to their both talking about their own secrets, the parts of themselves they felt they had to hide. 

As a child, Kate was a talented cellist, but also aced her math and science classes. She held a Ph.D. in biology and taught at a nearby college. She never told anyone how much she missed music, which her family considered “frivolous.” 

Stan grew up in a family of academics, and he taught chemistry at a university. But he had given up his secret dream, to become a chef. “A kitchen is like a lab. A lot of it is chemistry, except unlike in the lab, you create something wonderful to eat and you can share it with people you love. But where I came from…” Stan trailed off as a thought took hold. “Where I came from cooking was for girls, not guys. When I was little, I’d help my mother in the kitchen. But when I was around ten, my parents started making jokes that I was gay.” Stan closed his eyes. “So I stopped cooking, grew up, and did a version of the same thing to Montford and to Gil’s best friend.”

Over time, they both grieved for Montford, for themselves, for the pain they felt as they hid core parts of themselves, for the much greater pain Montford must have felt, for the closeness they might have had with Montford if they had been more accepting.

“It was us and them,” Kate explained. “We were the us, and anyone who was gay was the them.”

I asked why they thought they had focused so much of their us/them mentality on gay folks.

Stan shrugged sadly. “They’re an easy target. I was on the basketball team in high school. My teammates were always hassling the gay kids. I never stepped in, never stopped them, told gay jokes. I was a coward.”

“I was just as bad,” Kate admitted. “I didn’t care. I didn’t bother to notice when someone was being targeted. I let it happen, sometimes right in front of me, and I just walked away like it was nothing. I was a coward, too.”

I could feel their shame permeate the room, threatening to stop them in their tracks, shut down the issue. So I asked if they could acknowledge the courage involved in admitting cowardice.

A long pause followed.

“Maybe we can change,” Stan quietly. “Starting now.”

“For Montford,” Kate didn’t wipe her tears. “And for us. We’ve missed a lot.”

“We can never make it up to Montford,” Stan said sadly.

Kate nodded. “I failed him. But I can learn.”

“It took us too long to get there, but we’re here now.” Stan reached for her hand.

At the end of the treatment, Kate had started “my own little orchestra” — five friends, five instruments, playing together every month in an informal concert for their families. At each gathering, Stan planned the menu and cooked for the event. Anyone who wanted to cook with him was welcome. “Every time we’re in the kitchen and they call me chef, I feel great,” he smiled. In the colleges where they now taught, both Kate and Stan became active in the LGBTQ/Straight alliances. They began hosting an annual social event in their large yard, with Stan flipping burgers and veggies on their outdoor grill, bringing the two college alliances together. 

Two years after our first meeting, we said goodbye. As Kate and Stan walked out of my office for the last time, she turned at the door.

“There’s a path for everyone to become an ally. All you have to do is take the first step. Stan and I will be there, waiting for you.”

“And Montford,” Stan said quietly. “Montford will always be there, too.”

*All identifying information in this essay has been changed.

*This post was first published on Medium, on the platform Prism & Pen.

A Boy Came Out To Me In Elementary School

“Zeke” never lost an argument. 

Whatever anyone said, his answer was the same: “So what!” Any attempts at reason, at fairness, at negotiation were met with the same in-your-face “So what!” Nothing was ever resolved, no progress ever made. Eventually, his classmates gave up and Zeke’s tyranny snowballed.

His strategy worked so well that he launched himself on an intensified So What binge. We were in our final year of elementary school and the entire grade caved under his reign. Who was first in line at the drinking fountain? Who grabbed everyone’s favorite bean bag chair during reading time? Who claimed the best paints in art class? 

Zeke. Always Zeke. 

We all tiptoed around him and as we grew meeker, he grew louder. He became obsessed with Superman, quoted the comic strip at every opportunity, wore a cape to school. 

Standing behind him as we lined up for recess, I asked why he never cared what anyone said or felt. I waited for the expected So What! Instead, he surprised me. “Not caring is my superpower,” he answered with a strikingly un-Zeke-like sincerity. 

“I care,” I said quietly.  

He walked toward the handball court and tossed one word over his shoulder: “Kryptonite” — the fictional material from Superman’s birth planet that sapped his strength and turned him into a pathetic blob of helplessness.  

Our teacher gradually realized that all was not well in her classroom. She sat us down for a firm discussion and walked us through a new set of rules. Zeke was extremely displeased. As expected, he challenged every boundary, his least favorite being You Have To Be Fair. In the wake of his lost dictatorship, he staged several failed coups. Our teacher calmly took away the crayons he snatched from another boy. He shoved our star athlete at recess and was sidelined from the kickball game. Step by step, he learned that So What! had stopped working. Our classroom evolved into a community.

I remember my surprise when Zeke and I reached for the same set of paints in art class. Reflexively, I backed away. To my astonishment, he pushed the box toward me.

“Your turn,” he muttered, eyes on his shoes.

I looked around, expecting to see our teacher glowering at him. Instead, she was helping a student on the other side of the room. I shrugged at Zeke. “Want to share?”

He nodded shyly and I noticed he was no longer wearing his Superman cape. During our next art class, he rushed to sit next to me and we became art buddies.

“You’re nice,” he said a few weeks later as we both dipped our brushes into a carton of stop-in-your-tracks electric blue. 

“You’re funny,” I answered. 

“Really?” 

“Your imitations of cartoons are funny.” 

“Thank you,” in a perfect Donald Duck voice.  

I studied our six cartons of paint. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Bright blue,” sounding exactly like Mickey Mouse. 

“Mine, too.”

About a month later, we were each given a brick of clay. We grinned, realizing we both wore identical bright blue t-shirts.

“I like your shirt,” he said.

“I like yours better.”

“Do you like me?” almost inaudible.

“Yeah.”

“I like you but I don’t like-like you.”

“Well yeah duh!” It would be a few years before I like-liked a boy and the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.

But Zeke was trying to tell me something different. “I like-like boys, not girls.”

“Oh. Okay.” I studied the dog I had sculpted, trying to figure out why it looked like a meatball with a tail.

“Okay? Really okay?”

“Yeah.” I added paws to my meatball. “Okay.”

“You…I mean…you know what I’m talking about?”

I looked at him and nodded. “Lots of my parents’ friends are g—” I saw the alarm on his face and interrupted myself. “Yeah okay.”

On our graduation day, I proudly wore a white dress with scattered pink roses and white patent leather dress-shoes. After the ceremony, I joined my classmates and we signed each other’s yearbooks. Zeke stood at the center. He had become popular, often surrounded at lunchtime while he kept the entire class in hysterics with his cartoon imitations. I caught his eye and he reached for my yearbook. In the upper right corner of the back page, he wrote two words: “I care.” He pulled a bright blue marker out of his blazer pocket and signed his name. He shoved the marker into my hand, muttered “g’bye,” and rushed away. 

The next morning I woke up, looked at my diploma and smiled. Usually, I read in bed for a while on summer mornings. This time, I jumped up and went to the breakfast table with an armful of supplies. An hour later, my mother found me. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Painting.” I reached for the brightest blue I owned.

“Is that a new marker?” pointing to Zeke’s gift which I had placed next to my paints.

I nodded. “Graduation present.”

“Why are you painting instead of reading?”

The words were out of my mouth before I knew they were coming. “Because he cares.”

*All identifying information about “Zeke,”  including his name and the place where we met, has been changed.

This was first published on Medium, by Prism & Pen.

I’m With You: A Moment On Castro Street

From the early 1980s until the early 1990s, my husband and I lived in San Francisco, in a wonderful Victorian cottage near Castro Street. Our little home had the original stained glass window (slightly cracked), a wacky off-kilter cabinet built into the dining room, and no closets. The previous owner had constructed (without a permit) a rickety sunroom where I read articles and wrote papers. I loved every inch of our tiny piece of San Francisco’s architectural history. 

When I stepped into that house, I was in my twenties, entering young adulthood. I shopped at the corner market, a family-owned store the size of our living room. I learned the precise time to show up, just as the baguettes were delivered, still steaming warm in their wrappings. I walked two blocks to a bakery with the finest Irish soda bread I’d ever tasted, a family recipe handed down through generations. Our next door neighbors were an older couple, and we spoke regularly over the picket fence dividing our property, tending our gardens in the San Francisco fog. As I shouldered my way through the ups and downs of psychology grad school, my neighborhood was my sanctuary and I loved my new community.

I also loved Castro Street.

When I had a free hour or two, when I needed to settle down after a monstrous exam, when I wanted to think through a term paper — I’d walk over and explore. The Castro was an area where gay men could stroll holding hands, not needing to pretend they were strangers when they had lived together for years. It was also an area where a woman could walk alone, safe and comfortable. 

One day I found myself on a vibrant block, standing in front of Harvey Milk’s camera store. The Mayor of Castro Street was no longer alive, but his heartbeat was strangely present. I turned still. I breathed deeply, reached out, gently touched the storefront. I realized tears were in my eyes and gave myself a mental shake. Crying in public wasn’t on my color wheel.

I was suddenly aware that a man was standing next to me. He reached out slowly, careful not to startle me, and put his hand on the building next to mine. His hand was large, the color of light caramel. His fingers were long and bony, with a few stray dark hairs. His nails were clipped short. I looked up at him and saw tears in his eyes as well. He said simply, “I’m with you.” 

We stood side by side, looking at our two hands. For just an instant our hands clasped. We smiled quietly and continued walking in opposite directions. I never saw him again. 

Today, decades later, the foundation of my homeland is under attack as we try to maintain our grip on the truths we thought were self evident. LGBTQ+ history now includes Don’t Say Gay, banned books, gender-affirming care blocked, a gag order on discussing same-sex parents in schools, bullying that too many people encourage and enable.

Sometimes the hatred and rage feel insurmountable.

Then I think of Harvey Milk — charismatic, courageous, a trailblazer. He also had a temper, and he’d be furious if I allowed myself to buckle. People’s voices have been taken away, their basic rights denied. So I’m writing my voice.

Going forward, I’ll hold close to my heart, tightly in my open hand, Harvey Milk’s legacy. I’ll remember the proud, harsh, enriched, brutal, beautiful history of the LGBTQ+ community. When I feel overwhelmed, I’ll think of standing outside a modest camera store on Castro Street, of a man’s hand next to mine, two strangers clasping hands in solidarity. I’ll remember the exact timbre of his voice when he said to me, “I’m with you.”

And I’m with you.

*This was first published on Medium, by Prism & Pen.

Stop Targeting LGBTQ+

In a small town in the Midwest, a ninth grader named “Sally” came out to his parents as transgender. He was born with a body people assumed was female, and with the gender identity of a boy. He was anxious when he told his parents, but they were supportive. They figured it out together, every step of the way. His confidence grew. For the first time, he felt steady, knowing he belonged in his own skin. He liked his name, which was part of his identity, but chose to shorten “Sally” to “Sal.” He felt validated every time he heard “him” or “he” tossed in his direction.

In a rural farming area of South Carolina, a 13-year-old boy named “Lisa” put on a dress to go to school. Lisa knows he’s a boy, but nobody else does. He goes to church every Sunday and prays to wake up in a world where everyone understands his gender and supports him as a boy. He spends every day confused, scared, off balance, hiding his core self. Recently, bullies have targeted him. He dreads going to school, going home, going to church. Nowhere feels safe.

In Maine, an 8th-grade boy named Phil pulls on jeans and his favorite sweatshirt. He’s cisgender and straight. Recently, he grew four inches and isn’t yet comfortable with his new height. It hasn’t crossed his mind to be uncomfortable with his gender identity or his sexuality, and he’s too young to understand his inherent privilege. His best friend since kindergarten, Jeremy, came out as gay last weekend as they sipped soda, watching a movie in Phil’s den. Phil told Jeremy it was “cool,” as they devoured popcorn and hot dogs. Phil asked Jeremy if he told his parents; Jeremy said it was “awkward, but they were okay about it.” Then they talked about a matter of huge import. Phil has a crush on Pamela. Jeremy has a crush on Jon. Miraculously, both were assigned to work on a science project with their secret objects of desire. Neither could muster the courage to talk about anything personal to Pamela and Jon, so now they brainstormed ways to broaden the conversation. Finally, they concluded that was too much, too fast. Maybe, possibly, they could get ice cream together after school, to talk about their science projects. Probably not, but they could dream.

Sal’s biggest worry when he transitioned was losing his friends. But his social group, a mixture of boys and girls, accepted him as the same person they had known since kindergarten. Some other students whispered, but they followed his friends’ example and faster than Sal had hoped, it was no big deal. The teachers and administrators were aware of Sal’s transition, and were ready to protect him if necessary. The only “necessary” turned out to be a handful of alarmed parents, who met with the principal, who calmed them down.

Lisa’s biggest worry…well, he has many big worries. He worries his secret will be discovered. He worries he’ll go to Hell. He worries his parents will hate him. His loneliness is searing. He goes through his day, hiding in plain sight, always afraid.

Phil and Jeremy strategized, and decided to face their challenge together. They debated, brainstormed, and hatched a plan. After school, in a stroke of spectacular luck, the two friends walked out of their last class with their lab partners. Phil (as planned) said to Jeremy, “Wanna get ice cream?” Jeremy (as planned) answered, “Sure.” Then as though the idea just struck, Phil turned to Pamela and Jon and asked, “You guys want some, too?” Everyone agreed. They walked together, talking about their teachers and the morning assembly. Then something amazing happened. It turned out Phil and Pamela both liked chocolate ice cream best, while Jeremy and Jon preferred mint chip. Their bonds were established, and everyone smiled shyly. Phil and Jeremy exchanged incredulous glances. Dreams really can come true.

The gender spectrum is complex, nuanced and layered — just like the spectrum of any aspect of being human. Sal’s parents provided a strong role model for helping their son deal with identity issues — gender or otherwise. They listened as Sal explained his gender and at the same time, they remained sensitive to him as a whole person, responsive to the many facets of his coalescing identity. They were caring, supportive, loving. Jeremy found support from both his family and best friend, which helped him move forward with healthy adolescent development. Lisa, alone and unsupported, will have a much more jagged path.

The Trump Era has catapulted the United States into an un-united state. Many people seem to believe that LGBTQ+ children and adolescents are fundamentally different from cis straight children and adolescents. These people have lost track of the common ground that everyone shares. All kids and adolescents — and I mean ALL — need to feel safe physically and emotionally. They all need acceptance and support. They all need their core selves validated and respected. They all need love.

And let’s keep in mind that some of the finest words in the English language have no specified gender, no particular sexuality — which makes them every gender and every sexuality. Parent. Child. Adolescent. Teacher. Principal. Supporter. Friend.

Ice cream.

*All identifying information in this essay has been changed.

Pride Month And Ally Support

Welcome to Pride Month! 

I feel tremendous joy and gratitude about the contributions of the LGBTQ+ community to my personal world and beyond. At the same time, I’m acutely aware that we’re living in a strange and dangerous time. Too many are openly hostile toward the LGBTQ+ community — a hostility sanctioned, endorsed and perpetuated by our country’s previous administration. As Pride Month begins, I’m thinking about the meaning of being a straight, cisgender ally as my country takes its early steps to emerge from the Trump era.  

Entering LGBTQ+ Pride Month, I pledge to treat every month as Pride Month.

While resistance against bigotry is vital, I fully celebrate Pride Month, because the heart and soul of Pride have nothing to do with Donald Trump, Mike Pence, or any of their followers. 

As I celebrate, I’ll respect that Pride Month is not about me or for me. It’s my moment to support others, and their moment to shine.

I offer equal support to those who are completely out, partially out and not out. For those who don’t feel safe coming out, please know that even if we’ve never met, I’m a part of your safe zone of acceptance.

If I see anyone being bullied, I’ll step in. If I’m afraid, I’ll still step in.

I’ll honor the people whose lives have been stolen, with the black trans population at particularly high risk.

I’ll continue to write my resistance against the policies that target people for being themselves, the values that threaten the rights that should be inalienable.

I’ll welcome people who want to become allies, but don’t know how. If you have questions or concerns, feel free to reach out. There’s a place for you.

I’ll remain open to learning. Through the past few years, I’ve become comfortable with the singular pronoun “they.” I’ve expanded my definition of “gender identity” to be much more inclusive. I’ve let go of what I now consider a rigid definition of a “female body” or a “male body.” A body is a body, and how each person defines his/her/their relationship to that body is highly individualized. I no longer view “male anatomy” as strictly male, or “female anatomy” as strictly female. The person owns the body and defines the body, including the gender of the body. I’ve learned to make no assumptions about gender identity based on appearance; I offer my own pronouns, ask for people’s pronouns, and accept without judgment. I’m ready to learn more, and I’m grateful to everyone who has helped me along the way.

If I make a mistake, I’ll apologize. I’ll try to do better. 

I’ll ask questions, starting now: Anyone of any gender and any sexuality — do you want to add something that I’ve missed? Feel free to comment.

Finally — to everyone on the LGBTQ+ spectrum, I see you and accept you. You enrich our world every day. And to my LGBTQ+ friends — I can’t imagine my life without you. 

Happy Pride Month! 

They

I never realized how crucial awkwardness was to being a true LGBTQ+ ally. The pronoun they changed my mind. They has evolved beyond plural, into a singular pronoun for an individual with a non-binary gender identity. For some folks, they works well, while she or he doesn’t. But the word they, used in this way, seems to cause discomfort. I’ve heard many complaints and (in my admittedly limited experience) these are the most common.

The grammar is wrong.

Let’s weigh this issue on the scales of social justice. On one side, let’s place the weight of the traditional Rules of Grammar. On the other side, let’s place a language evolving to match a deeper understanding of the gender identity spectrum. C’mon — although life often presents us with close calls, this isn’t one of them.

I can’t get used to it.

Have you ever been in a relationship with someone who likes classic movies while you prefer sports events, and you get used to it? Have you ever been diagnosed with an allergy, and you can no longer eat your favorite foods, and you get used to it? How about having kids — that’s an average of an adjustment every 10 minutes, for 18 years, and you get used to it. And now you’re saying you can’t get used to a new definition of a pronoun. Really.

It’s not proper English.

Language is continuously evolving. Language — like life — is a dynamic process, not a static state of immobility. And yeah, that even applies to pronouns.

It’s awkward.

I agree, I feel awkward, and I’m still learning how to use they as a singular pronoun in a sentence. But this isn’t about my awkwardness. Actually, this isn’t about me at all. It’s about expanding language, stretching words to match a spectrum of gender identity that wasn’t fully articulated until now. Healthy growing and healthy stretching are often awkward, so maybe feeling awkward is a sign that we’re on a healthy track.

When I’m comfortable, it’s easy to be an ally. However, when I feel awkward, I’ve found that I can turn to the LGBTQ+ community for help. Without fail, 100% of the time, my LGBTQ+ friends have answered my questions with respect. They’ve supported my need to learn, never once disparaging the gaps in my knowledge. If I’ve said I’m uncomfortable but want to grow comfortable, they’ve reached out.

I’ve never formally studied linguistics, but They has shown me how a word can serve as a catalyst, expanding language to promote values of equality. They has also enriched my personal growth, adding another dimension to my definition of myself as an ally. Now, I think LGBTQ+  ally support includes a willingness to stand awkward. Feeling awkward no longer seems negative. Actually, I’m growing more comfortable every day, as I embrace my own awkwardness.

Thank you, They.