The worst thing about being gay was growing up.

Trigger Warning: Discussion of homophobia, childhood trauma, and suicide.

This is going to be a bit of a rant and a personal story.

As someone who grew up in the '90s, I find it frustrating how far we still are from discussing sexuality, gender, and sexual orientation in a positive and open way—especially with people of all ages.

Growing up gay was an experience I would never want to relive. As a very young child, maybe around five, I was known for being a lively boy. I loved dancing and putting on a show. Growing up in Brazil, there was so much to love about music, and I was fascinated by every dance trend on TV at the time. Even then, I knew I was different from the other boys. I wasn’t into football. I wasn’t into cars. I wasn’t into anything that made me feel like "a boy," and I never felt comfortable around them.

As I got older, I realized that my love for dancing made me stand out too much. I often heard family members joke about me. But at the end of the day, I could always count on music playing somewhere in the house, so it didn’t bother me too much that people laughed. I was just having fun.

Then came one fateful day in fourth grade. I brought three friends home from school, all girls. I loved them. We did everything together. Being with them felt liberating. I was surrounded by people who liked me, understood me, and shared my interests. Unlike boys, they made me feel safe. They were my world, and that day, we were playing and doing homework when suddenly my mom appeared and called me inside.

She looked at me, lifted my chin, and, in an aggressive tone, said: "STOP ACTING LIKE A GIRL!"

I was in shock. By that point, I had a vague awareness that my behavior was considered "out of line," but I never expected to be confronted about it. She doesn’t know this, but she killed a part of me that day. She threatened to beat me, and I was terrified. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t even muster the strength to ask her why or what exactly I should stop doing. I was paralyzed. Then she told me to go back and keep playing "like normal." What did that even mean?

From that moment on, I never felt comfortable around anyone again. Boys repelled me because I wasn’t like them, but I wanted them. Girls now repelled me too because I no longer wanted to be like them. I started closing myself off, going from a lively boy to a lonely, sad pre-teen... devoid of personality, devoid of joy, too scared to be myself, and even more afraid to talk about my feelings.

It doesn’t help that the realization of sexual attraction happens so early in life. That uneasiness I felt around other boys was soon accompanied by sweating, a racing heart, the need to avoid eye contact, and the urge to leave quickly before anyone figured out what was going on. Meanwhile, I couldn’t ask questions. I couldn’t express myself. There were no resources. Every single moment was filled with fear. Fear of the consequences of being different. And it just hurt.

I recently read about a boy who died by suicide. His jiu-jitsu teacher had been giving him gifts and telling him to keep their "relationship" a secret. He was 18 when he took his life, but the abuse started when he was 15. I kept thinking about myself in his place. He probably had no idea what was happening, and he had no one to turn to. Was this man a friend? A lover? No. He was a monster. And that boy saw only one way to escape him. Any other path likely led to a wall of shame, a complete lack of understanding, and a twisted sense that his abuser was offering him something meaningful. If I had been in his place… I, like him, might not be here.

And the thing is—I’m not even trans. I’m not even bi. I was never at risk of being kicked out of my home or have ever faced physical violence. I was just a growing up to be a regular gay guy, maybe a little more feminine than I am now, maybe more comfortable in my own skin.

But our society refuses to deal with these issues. We shove kids and teens into a perfect little box and expect them to grow a certain way. We expose them to all kinds of content but refuse to give them real explanations or allow them to diverge from expectations. If I could spare even one child from experiencing the loneliness, the anger, and the silence that shaped my childhood, I would. But here I am, wondering how many more generations will have to go through it.