I recently had a discussion with a friend who, as she made plans to head home for Christmas, found herself tortured by an annually occurring question: will this be the year she inally comes out to her grandparents?
We – in the UK at least – may be the last “bridging” generation – old enough to have experienced embedded societal homophobia and transphobia, but also young enough to have seen positive momentum towards acceptance. And yet, worries about telling an older relative that you’re queer still linger like a malignant mist, casting doubt and causing heartache. Any discord between our “everyday lives”, wherein we strive to surround ourselves with contemporary attitudes of acceptance, and our “old lives” back home can feel jarring at best, and damagingly toxic at worst.