Not the Father’s Day Post You Expected

 

    Disclaimer: This reflection is deeply personal and rooted in my lived experience. It’s not intended to generalize, villainize, or diminish the journeys of others. If your Father’s Day story looks different—lighter, warmer, or heavier—that’s valid too. There’s room for all our stories, even the ones that don’t end in perfect reconciliation. I’m simply sharing mine, in hopes that someone else feels less alone.

For some of us, Father’s Day isn’t simple. It’s not all cookouts and cheesy cards—it’s complex. Layered. Sometimes even silent.

Growing up, my dad and I weren’t especially close. He was the disciplinarian, more focused on rules and order than connection. My brother was his shadow, while I leaned more toward my mom. I learned early that love often came with conditions—and that quiet compliance was expected.

Still, I do appreciate the sacrifices he made. He worked hard to provide for us. We had vacations—ones he didn’t always seem to enjoy, but he made the effort. That matters. And as I got older, I caught glimpses of a softer side, buried under years of military structure and learned masculinity. For a while, I thought we were getting somewhere.

But when I came out as trans, that connection vanished. He didn’t lash out—he just disappeared. No questions. No conversation. Just silence. He let his wife speak for them both. And the door quietly closed.

To be fair, he has stood up for me in the past—but not when it counted most. Not when it really cost something. That’s a truth I still sit with.

He taught me how to work hard, how to push through—but also passed down rigidity and a “my way or the highway” mindset I’ve had to unlearn. I’ve had to find my own balance, my own way to lead and love differently.

So this post isn’t about blame. It’s about truth. It’s for anyone navigating Father’s Day with grief in one hand and gratitude in the other. For those whose fathers were present, but not always emotionally available. For those still healing from the silence.

You’re not alone. And your story matters, even if it doesn’t fit the Hallmark mold.

It Wasn’t Harmless. It Was Dehumanizing.

 

Disclaimer:

   This blog reflects my personal journey, experiences, and growth. While I speak from the perspective of a white, queer, trans woman in America, I do not claim to speak for marginalized communities beyond my own. Instead, I aim to amplify, reflect, and support those whose voices are too often ignored or mocked. I am still learning—and I welcome accountability, dialogue, and growth.

I used to be silent.

Not because I didn’t care—but because I didn’t know how deeply I’d been taught not to. I grew up conservative, evangelical, sheltered, and privileged. I was told to obey, not question. I was taught to listen to pastors and leaders—not my gut. And if something didn’t affect me directly? Stay out of it. Keep the peace. Keep your head down.

But keeping my head down didn’t protect anyone.

It didn’t shield immigrants from being separated from their children.

It didn’t stop queer people like me from being dehumanized or targeted.

It didn’t keep my Black brother-in-law safe when I saw him treated differently right in front of me—just for existing.

And it didn’t keep my wife and me from being disowned by family members who once claimed to love us.

I say this with no pride, but with full honesty: there was a time I might’ve laughed at the wrong joke. I might’ve scrolled past something cruel because I didn’t understand the harm. I was wrapped in an echo chamber that confused obedience for righteousness and cruelty for conviction.

But I’m not that person anymore.

I’ve grown.

And once you know better, you have to do better.

This Isn’t About One Post

Recently, I saw someone joke about ICE raids. Just a “harmless” meme. Just “dark humor.” But it stopped me cold. Because while I’ve never experienced the terror of an ICE raid myself, I’ve known people who have.

A woman I worked with—who had just had a baby and was doing everything right—was nearly deported because of a bureaucratic delay. One expired document, and they were ready to tear her from her family. It wasn’t a story I read online. It was someone I knew. Someone I saw. And it shook me.

You don’t have to look far to see it. Immigrants, people of color, and queer folks being humiliated, detained, erased. Dehumanized. And often by the very systems that claim to be protecting something sacred.

I May Be Privileged, But I’m Not Safe

I’m white—and I know that gives me certain protections. But I’m also queer. I’m a trans woman in a country that increasingly treats people like me as a threat.

So when I see people joke about ICE… I wonder what happens when they get tired of going after immigrants.

Who’s next?

And when that time comes—will the people I love stand up for me?

I already know many won’t. I’ve lost family to their fear and selective theology. I’ve had “I love you, but…” thrown at me more times than I can count. And yet—I’ve also found a chosen family who does show up. Friends who protest, speak out, share, and hold the line when it matters. That’s how I know I’m finding my people.

I Won’t Be Quiet Anymore

I’ve seen enough. I’ve stayed quiet long enough. And here’s the truth I live by now:

Silence is complicity.

I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes. But I’m doing the work—and I invite anyone who’s ever laughed at the wrong thing or stayed quiet out of fear to start doing the work, too. You might feel guilt. You might feel shame. But transformation doesn’t come from sitting in those feelings—it comes from using them to grow.

From now on, if I see something cruel framed as a joke, I will speak up. I might message you privately and ask you to rethink what you’re posting. Depending on your response, I’ll make decisions from there. But I’m done explaining my humanity—or anyone else’s. I will protect it.

Maybe This Post Won’t Go Viral

Maybe it won’t get shared or liked or reposted. But this isn’t about going viral. This is about drawing a line.

This is me saying: I will not let my silence be mistaken for consent ever again.

I used to be quiet.

I’m not anymore.

Resources to Learn and Support:

• ACLU: What You Need to Know About ICE
• United We Dream
• Transgender Law Center
• RAICES Texas

🏳️‍🌈 A Queer Survival Guide to Pride Month (And Things I’m No Longer Apologizing For)

 

✨ 

Disclaimer (for the blog post itself):

This post is equal parts glitter, rage, and radical self-love. If unapologetic queerness offends you more than injustice, I suggest taking that up with a mirror—not me. Comments rooted in homophobia, transphobia, or tired theology will be deleted without response. I am not a debate club. I am a person.

This is only my second Pride Month living fully, loudly, and unapologetically as me—and I plan on being just that: loud. Chaotic. Annoyingly proud. Not because I owe anyone an explanation, but because I finally stopped apologizing for existing.

And to be honest? I’m tired. Tired of the recycled talking points. Tired of the faux concern from people who think their prejudice is holy. Tired of hearing “But I just don’t agree…” as if my life is up for debate.

So in honor of Pride—and in defiance of every person who told me to stay small—here’s my official Queer Survival Guide, ft. Things I Am Absolutely Done Apologizing For.

☁️ 1. Pride Month Energy: Chaotic. Queer. Unbothered.

This year, I’m not going to whisper. I’m not going to shrink. I’m not going to censor myself so fragile egos stay intact.

You don’t get to shame me into silence and then call it “freedom.” That’s not how this works. Not anymore.

🧼 2. Things I’m No Longer Apologizing For:

• Wanting to exist fully and not just in pieces you can digest.
• Being loud about joy after spending years silent in shame.
• Dressing for myself, not for your comfort.
• Having boundaries—even when that means muting “well-meaning” family members.
• Not debating my humanity. (Google is free, Brenda.)

🚩 3. Red Flag of the Month:

“I don’t care what you do, but…”

That “but” is always doing heavy lifting.

Translation: I’m about to tell you why your existence makes me uncomfortable, but I want to pretend it’s coming from love.

Miss me with that. I’ve got parades to attend and lives to live.

💬 4. Clapback Choices (because I’m generous like that):

Pick your fave:

• “Jesus never mentioned queer people, but He had a lot to say about hypocrites. Wanna keep going?”
• “Your discomfort isn’t a crisis. It’s just your worldview being challenged.”
• “If seeing queer joy offends you more than seeing injustice, I don’t need your theology—I need you to log off.”

💖 5. A Pride Permission Slip, Signed by Me:

You are allowed to take up space.

You are allowed to be loud.

You are allowed to be fully you—even if that makes someone else uncomfortable.

(Just maybe not the homophobic bigots. They can sit this one out.)

👗 6. If I Had No Limits…

My Pride fit would be a full slay: bikini top, cute skirt, wedge sandals, big earrings, colorful hair accessories—and a matching fit for Oliver, obviously. Because he’s an ally with style.

🎶 7. Theme Song?

Born This Way by Lady Gaga. Loud. Legendary. On repeat.

🏳️‍⚧️ 8. Final Thoughts (aka the emotional gut punch):

I’m proud of myself. For showing up. For embracing my truth.

I’m proud of my wife, who’s walked with me and loved me through every version of me.

This Pride, I’m not just celebrating who I am now.

I’m celebrating every version of me who didn’t think this kind of joy was possible.

Let them say what they want. Let them fume.

I’m not here to be digestible.

I’m here to be unapologetically free.