By Laura McGuire
I am a queer woman, Dianic witch, feminist, femme, multiracial woman, and southerner. I was born in Tennessee, grew up largely in Florida, and now proudly call Texas home. I am a certified sexuality educator, doula, yoga instructor, and a mom to two amazing kids. Needless to say, I am never bored! But while I can now claim these identities as my own, I spent most of my life trying incredibly hard to be someone else.
If I had known the words to say, I would have come out as early as seven years old. It was then that the thought of a world where girls could marry girls (and I could marry my best friend) first briefly crossed my mind. But this fantasy was quickly deemed wholly unacceptable, and I quickly buried it the best I could.
I was raised between Catholic and Baptists families. My Baptist paternal grandmother had a personal ministry to advocate against gay rights, and it was through her words that I learned homosexuality was an offense more deplorable and deviant than substance abuse or out-of-wedlock pregnancy—it dictated a life of suffering followed by a one-way ticket to eternal damnation.
As a teen I heard the word “bisexual,” and hoped that it could explain why I adored my female friends in a way that never seemed to be reciprocated. It felt like a safe term, as it still gave me the option to live a holy and family-approved life. I did go as far as telling my mother that I was only romantically and sexually attracted to women, but she had a long list of reasons why that couldn’t be true. So, I devoted myself to God and tried to surrender to the male attention that I received. Our relationships were transactional—I gave them intimacy, and they gave me a sense of security, worth, and “normalcy.” I told myself that God would heal me, and that every girl felt nauseous when their boyfriends touched them. I also trained to be a nun for six years, ready to enter after high school and secure my entrance into heaven.
Instead, at 19, I married a man I met at church after knowing him for a mere six months. I was completely honest with him about my total dearth of attraction to men, and I took his acceptance as a sign from God. I believed the saints would get me through. This was not the case—the marriage immediately became unhealthy and my true queer identity became impossible for me to ignore.
I would have continued in this vicious cycle if it weren’t for the birth of my first child. When I looked into his newborn face, I knew I had to get out of this nightmare I was living. I had to admit my true orientation for his sake. It took me years of planning and earning my GED, bachelor’s degree, and doctorate in education to leave, but I did.
Since then, I have worked as a teacher for at-risk girls and headed a sexual violence prevention program at a major university. In my spare time, I teach everything from yoga to health, assist families as a doula, and advocate for survivors of sexual violence. I finally found who I really was all along.
I would love to say that the hard part is over, but it’s not. The messages of disapproval that I was fed for years still poison my soul. Every day is a struggle and a choice to believe that I really am still good, holy, and worthy. My greatest hope lies in telling my truth so that I may save someone else from the same torture I have survived and, in doing so, continue to repair my own wounds. This is why I am so deeply passionate about writing and speaking about inclusion and advocating for those who have been silenced or ignored. I look forward to being a part of your lives, hearing your stories, and shining light on all the ways the LGBTQ community in the South is dynamic, energizing, and full of possibility.
