Botswana: The quiet light

I was twelve years old when my mother looked at me with disgust. I had been trying on her red lipstick, smiling at the reflection that finally felt like mine. But when she saw me, her face darkened. She screamed at me to wash it off, insisting I was “not one of them” and would “never be.” 

What she didn’t understand was that, for the first time, I had seen a version of myself that felt true, and happy. 

In the years that followed, silence became my shield. I poured my feelings into a private notebook filled with poems, words I couldn’t say out loud. Music became another refuge. The singers whose voices carried stories like mine reminded me I wasn’t alone. 

Over time, I found something I thought I’d never have: safety. I learned that family is not defined only by blood but by love. Friends at school, chosen family, and people who accepted me without hesitation created a world where I finally belonged. Discovering Pride changed everything. In that bright, loud, defiant space, I reclaimed all the parts of myself shame once stole. I stopped hiding. 

Still, the road was painful. I was once chased out of my home after my mother rejected me. Community gossip made me feel unsafe. Many queer youth around me faced the same isolation, depression, and despair, some never made it through. These experiences carved deep marks, but they also strengthened my resolve. 

If I could speak to someone living what I lived, I’d tell them this: pain is not the end of your story. We have been where you are. Hold on. One day, things begin to make sense. Healing takes time. 

Today, I dream of a life filled with a love that doesn’t hide. I want a husband, a home, and a peace that comes not from fear but from freedom, the kind of quiet that feels safe. 

And I carry with me the words that saved me: 

“They tried to teach me to hate myself, but love was louder, and I learned to speak in its voice.”