On September 2, 2024, I got a text message that made my heart sink to my stomach.
Just a week earlier, I’d entered into my first-ever relationship with another girl — someone in my sorority. It was new and a little terrifying, but also tender and exciting. We were keeping things quiet and taking it slow, not even holding hands in public. We were going to share it when we were ready, and not a minute before then. Being in your first queer relationship, let alone with someone in the same sorority as you, is the kind of thing you want to tell people on your own terms.
But just one week later, somehow, people found out about us. It started with one text message, then a screenshot, then another, and then another. When we asked people not to spread the news about our relationship around, we were told everybody important already knows. All of a sudden, my extremely private relationship and the identity I hadn’t even fully come to terms with yet felt like they had been shoved under a microscope, and there was nothing I could do about it.
What drew me to my sorority in the first place was how comfortable and accepting everyone seemed to be. During recruitment, I was moved by how committed the sisters were to pushing back against outdated traditions and stereotypes. I’d known I liked girls since the age of 15, and it was comforting to know that wouldn’t be a problem in my chapter. But that night that my relationship went public without my consent, I started to wonder whether I’d been given the wrong idea.
I had always held onto my privacy until my knuckles turned white, but now it felt like I had none.
It wasn’t that people were cruel — only one or two members had something overtly negative to say — but I hated the fact that so many people suddenly knew about something that was so personal to me. Having been raised Catholic and spent my youth in small, tight-knit schools, I had spent years carefully managing who knew what about me. I had always held onto my privacy until my knuckles turned white, but now it felt like I had none.
I spiraled for weeks. Do they feel awkward around me now? What if they don’t like me anymore? Why do they care so much? Should I just walk away? But as the confusion and anxiety persisted, I realized there was one feeling that never made its way into my mind: shame. Though the timing wasn’t my choice, and the spotlight was harsh, not once did I wish I was somebody else. And I realized how powerful that was. I wasn’t going to leave my sorority just because I was uncomfortable.
Slowly, and sometimes awkwardly, I made myself show up: to house meals, to chapter meetings, to recruitment practice. I pushed myself to connect with people outside my usual circle, and I realized quickly that just because I didn’t get to come out on my own terms, that didn’t mean I wasn’t worthy of being proud of who I was. It also didn’t mean that people knew everything about me, or that they weren’t interested in learning more.
Yes, I’m gay. But I’m also funny, thoughtful, and creative. I love music, baking, and sitcoms. My queerness is an important part of who I am, but it’s not the only part, and it certainly doesn’t disqualify me from the same sense of belonging everyone else is entitled to.
That winter, I took a leap. On the last day possible, I decided to throw my name into the hat to be considered for a role as my chapter’s next Vice President.
I had always been interested in a leadership position, but now it felt personal. My role would focus on conflict resolution and member support — the very things I had once needed more than anything. I remembered how essential it was for me to have someone in my corner when I was outed. I wanted to be that person for someone else.
When I found out I got the position, I was beyond excited, but I was also scared. I realized I had thrown myself right back into the spotlight I originally dreaded. But every time I felt my hands clamming up and my mind beginning to race with self-doubt, I reminded myself why I ran in the first place.
I get to help build a community that’s stronger, more empathetic, and more inclusive than before.
Halfway through my term, I can say with certainty that it hasn’t been easy. I’ve had late nights, emotional phone calls, and continued to feel that sneaky self-doubt seep back into my thoughts. But I didn’t choose this path because I thought it would be easy. I chose this because I know first hand what it’s like to read messages about yourself, feel talked about instead of talked to, and wonder if leaving would hurt less than staying.
But I stayed. And now, I get to help build a community that’s stronger, more empathetic, and more inclusive than before — and hopefully, the next version of me won’t feel as alone. I didn’t get to decide how my story started, but I do get to decide where it goes from here.