10 years ago, I was nineteen years old and a freshman in college. I was fearful of living on campus, so I elected to stay home with my parents for undergrad. I worked part-time at a now defunct clothing store, Anchor Blue, and I was navigating the inner workings of the gay community­—with a level of discretion. My closest friends were gay and some of my high school acquaintances knew I was a same-gender loving guy. By this time, my mom was very suspicious and began asking me questions concerning my lack of girlfriends or even the mention of woman.  I was terrified to tell her as I thought I knew her unchanging thoughts on homosexuality. It definitely didn’t help that her brother and best friend died of AIDS in 1990. This left a bad taste in the mouths of my family. My mother wasn’t overtly homophobic, but I knew she felt “it wasn’t right” and it “went against the Bible”. This created a fear for most of my childhood and teen years because I loved my mother deeply and she loved me. The thought of losing that love and respect crippled me and made me as private as possible. But one day, it just happened.