I kind of always knew I was gay — but not in the dramatic, lightbulb moment way people sometimes talk about identity. There wasn’t an Oscar-worthy realization or a specific day I can point to and say, “That’s when everything clicked.” For me, queerness has always felt less like discovering something and more like growing into something I already knew. The truth is, the defining moments in my queer identity were my first breakups.
I’ve only had two real relationships: The first started in eighth grade and lasted until somewhere around my sophomore or junior year of high school. My first relationship was one of those relationships that becomes part of your life before you even realize it. We grew up together. We spent years navigating school, friendships, and all the awkwardness that comes with being teenagers. For a long time, I genuinely thought we’d always be in each other’s lives.
But around my sophomore and junior years, I started to change. I was thinking more seriously about my future. About the person I wanted to become. About the experiences I wanted to have. And as much as I cared about her, I started realizing we wanted different things. We were growing in different directions, and for the first time, I couldn’t really picture us in the long term. There wasn’t some huge betrayal or dramatic ending. The truth was much simpler: we had outgrown each other. I just outgrew first.
My second relationship taught me something different. It taught me how deeply queer love could shape a person.
For a long time, I considered that relationship one of the defining moments of my teenage years. It became one of those canon events people joke about online — the heartbreak that launched the glow up, the villain origin story, the thing that made me throw myself into becoming a different version of myself. But now, years later, I can hardly remember parts of it. Not because it didn’t matter, but because I didn’t know then what I know now.
My second relationship began during my freshman year of college and lasted through most of my college experience, until around the end of my junior year. Unlike my first relationship, this one existed during a completely different stage of my life: This wasn’t a relationship built around classes, lunch periods, and high school football games. It was built during the years when you’re becoming an adult, figuring out who you are outside of your hometown, and beginning to imagine what your future might actually look like.
This was the person I called after class, the person I spent weekends with, practically every day with, traveled with, the person I planned around. More than that, this was the person I imagined future versions of myself with. Somewhere along the way, loving her stopped being something I did and became something that shaped who I was becoming. Without realizing it, I had started building parts of my life around the assumption that she would be there.
And when that relationship ended, I found myself experiencing something strangely familiar: heartbreak. But this time, it felt different: My first relationship taught me that queer love was possible. It was my first experience building a life with another girl, and at the time, that felt monumental on its own. But my second relationship taught me something different. It taught me how deeply queer love could shape a person.
What surprised me most wasn’t how much I loved her. It was how much I changed because I loved her. Loving another person that deeply forced me to confront parts of myself I had never examined before.
For the first time, I wasn’t just imagining a future for myself; I was imagining a future with someone else in it. I learned what it meant to build routines with another person, to make decisions with another person in mind, and to allow someone to become part of the way I understood myself. The relationship became woven into my everyday life in ways I didn’t fully recognize until it was gone.
What surprised me most wasn’t how much I loved her. It was how much I changed because I loved her. Loving another person that deeply forced me to confront parts of myself I had never examined before. It made me more vulnerable. More intentional. More aware of the kind of partner I wanted to be and the kind of future I wanted to build. In many ways, the relationship became part of my own growth. That’s what I mean when I say my second relationship taught me how deeply queer love could change me.
For a long time, I thought heartbreak was about losing a person. What this relationship taught me is that sometimes heartbreak is about losing a future. And sometimes it’s about learning who you are when the future you imagined no longer exists.
The defining moment in my queer identity wasn’t when I realized I was gay, but the moments that taught me what queer love actually means.
I thought my first heartbreak happened years ago. Now, I think it was an introduction — a preview, a trailer for something I wouldn’t fully understand until later. Because this breakup, for all the hurt it’s caused me, has forced me to confront parts of myself I didn’t know were still there: parts of myself that still fear abandonment, still romanticize potential, and still believe love can save people who aren’t ready to be saved.
Strangely, that’s another example of how queer love changed me. It didn’t just teach me about another person. It taught me about myself. It exposed the parts of me that still needed healing, the parts of me that still sought validation, and the parts of me that still wanted to be chosen.
The defining moment in my queer identity wasn’t when I realized I was gay, but the moments that taught me what queer love actually means. My first relationship taught me that queer love was possible. My second relationship taught me how deeply queer love could change me. Both taught me vulnerability. Both taught me trust. Both taught me what it means to let yourself be known by another person.
And both taught me that heartbreak is not the opposite of love. If anything, heartbreak is proof that love existed in the first place. Proof that I cared. Proof that I risked being known. Proof that I allowed someone to see me fully. And despite everything, despite the grief, disappointment, and uncertainty. I remain open to love. And, for now, I think that’s enough.