I don’t think anyone likes growing up — but growing up in Texas, I hated it. As a woman of color, growing up in a red state was hard enough, but being queer added another layer of difficulty to it. For most of my life, I believed that Texas would never change, that Texans would continue to vote in lawmakers who enact policies that negatively impact queer and trans folk. But when Texas turned blue during the 2026 midterm elections, 21-year-old Grace wasn’t the only one who cried: I felt younger Grace — a scared, young girl growing up in Texas, afraid of her queerness and how it affected her — crying tears of hope, too.
I was 10 when I realized that girls gave me the same butterflies that boys did. At that age, you’re blissfully unaware of how cruel the world can be. When I decided to come out and excitedly began to tell everyone around me that I liked boys and girls, I expected to be accepted, but that wasn’t the case. Kids bullied me for my sexuality, they snickered and laughed at me as I passed by, and they made up endless rumors about me liking this girl or that girl. I also noticed that other girls began to get weird around me, afraid that I’d develop a crush on them. Even though I was young, the message was clear: Being queer wasn’t OK, and it was a part of me I had to hide, something to be deeply ashamed of.
Over time, the fear of not being accepted I had as a young girl turned into existential dread about what my life as a queer woman would look like if I stayed in Texas.
At the time, I thought that kids bullied me just because they were mean, but now I realize it’s because of what they were taught. Texas is a very conservative state, and it prides itself on being “traditional” and upholding “family values,” which meant that many of my peers were taught that homosexuality is unnatural, or even bad. I now know that the kids who bullied me aren’t necessarily bad people — they were the product of intolerance that had become culturally ingrained in the fabric of Texas.
I grew up thinking that people would become more open-minded as time passed and that we’d be a lot more progressive by the time I was an adult, but that wasn’t the case — in fact, over the years, Texas politics had gotten more conservative. From attacking trans rights to rolling back work protections for queer people — such as the right to use preferred pronouns to even trying to convince the Supreme Court to overturn Obergefell v. Hodges, it felt like my state’s legislators, and the people who supported them, were relentlessly coming after us. Over time, the fear of not being accepted I had as a young girl turned into existential dread about what my life as a queer woman would look like if I stayed in Texas.
I knew I wasn’t alone in feeling this way. My queer friends and I all shared our worries about whether we were presenting too queer and our anxieties about mentioning our queerness around the wrong people. We talked about how we might not be able to get married in the future, or if the transgender people in our community would be able to live freely as themselves without judgment or violence. We feared simply existing in Texas — a feeling nobody should ever have to feel in the place they call home.
As the 2026 midterm elections rolled around, I felt more and more anxious. I had expected Texas to go red again — because it’s Texas — and prepared myself for things to get worse. But that didn’t happen.
For the first time, I felt hope for Texas, and all of the queer folks who inhabit it.
On Nov. 3, Texas elected Democrats James Talarico and Gina Hinojosa as Senator and Governor, respectively — and it felt like I was dreaming. But when I realized it was real, it felt like Christmas had come early. It was so surreal seeing queer people on social media celebrating — seeing people who looked like me and felt like me crying with joy. For the first time, I felt hope for Texas, and all of the queer folks who inhabit it. And after years of believing that things would never change, seeing my home state elect legislators who hold vastly different views than the conservative lawmakers that came before them, I felt hope that things were finally changing — something I never thought I’d feel living in this state.
The moment was also huge for a younger version of me. I had grown up as a young girl in Texas, ashamed and scared of my queerness. But now? I feel like I can breathe. While there is still a lot of work to be done, I’m no longer terrified of what the future brings me as a queer woman of color living in the state. Texas flipping blue was a reminder that progress often takes time, and that a safe and secure future for queer POC in my state can be a reality — and it’s one worth sticking around to see.