Category: boyhood interrupted..

A few days ago, a creator I deeply admire came out to the world, only to be rejected by the very people he called family. This is someone who, despite having a more feminine personality, has always been unapologetically himself. He built his family’s platform, helped them gain fame, and yet, the moment he embraced his truth, they turned their backs on him.

That freaking sucks.

It’s devastating to see someone have to suppress who they are just to be accepted by their own family—the people who are supposed to love them unconditionally. Love shouldn’t come with conditions. It shouldn’t be based on whether you fit into a box that others created for you.

And you know what else annoys me? The people saying, “Oh, we been knew.”

Like… okay? It’s not about you. It’s not about whether you knew or suspected anything. It’s about the fact that he had the courage to fully accept himself and actually say it out loud. That takes so much strength—especially when you grow up in an environment that constantly tells you you’re not enough as you are.

This story hits so close to home for me. My own father made it very clear that if I were gay, he would disown me. He constantly reminded me that I was the only man who could carry on his last name, as if my entire existence was just for that purpose. And for so long, that guilt ate away at me. I tried so hard to force myself to fit into the mold he wanted. I tried to act differently, to suppress parts of myself, to convince myself I liked girls—just to keep his approval.

But seeing this creator live in his truth, even after losing his family, made me realize something important: there will always be people who hate, no matter what you do. So why waste your life pretending to be someone you’re not?

It’s not easy. It hurts like hell to feel like you have to choose between love and authenticity. But what kind of love is it if it’s only there under certain conditions?

I wish the world was different. I wish people in toxic households didn’t have to feel this way. I wish parents could understand that who we love or how we express ourselves does not erase all the other things that make us good people. I love my parents to death, but there are certain things we are never going to see eye to eye on, and unfortunately, I don’t know if I could ever come out to them. That’s why I admire this creator so much—because he did something I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do.

To anyone struggling with the same fears, just know: you are not alone. You are worthy of love, exactly as you are. And the right people—the ones who truly love you—will stand by you no matter what.

I’m so glad that I’m finally in a place where I can leave home and be my authentic self. And if you’re reading this and feel trapped, just know that one day, you will, too.

Life right now? Absolute madness. I’m talking midterms, endless assignments, a four-hour lab that’s looming over me like a dark cloud, and somehow, on top of that, I have to navigate friend drama. Oh, and let’s not forget making time for myself—which at this point feels like an afterthought.

It’s like every single day, something new gets added to my plate. One second, I think I have everything under control, and the next, BAM—more tasks, more stress, more everything. I don’t even know how I’m managing to function at this point.

But you know what’s keeping me sane? My music. 

Instrumentals, jazz, house, R&B—those sounds keep me grounded when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control. There’s something about zoning out to smooth melodies or vibing to deep basslines that makes the chaos feel just a little more bearable.

And if music is my therapy, then weekends are my escape. Going out, having fun, completely forgetting about school, work, and responsibilities—it’s the reset button I desperately need. For a few hours, nothing matters except the moment I’m in.

So yeah, life is crazy, and I honestly have no idea how I’m keeping it all together. But as long as I have my music, my weekends, and maybe a little bit of faith that I’ll survive this, I think I’ll be okay.

Maybe.

(If I don’t drown in midterms first.)

Some nights are just different. They start one way, and before you know it, they’ve unraveled into something deeper—something that sticks with you long after the music fades. After a long, exhausting day balancing school and work, I needed an escape. And what better way than to meet up with my friends at a DJ set, let loose, and just enjoy the moment?

The music, the energy, the shared excitement—it was all so freeing. For a while, we were just bodies moving with the beat, existing in the moment, forgetting about deadlines, responsibilities, and the weight of everything outside that space. But as it always happens, one thing led to another, and before we knew it, we were at a bar, drinks in hand, laughter spilling out into the night.

But in between those transitions—between the music and the bar, between the drinks and the conversations—I learned so much. About myself. About my friends. We bonded in ways that only happen when you strip away the distractions and just talk. My friend, in what can only be described as an impromptu therapy session, started psychoanalyzing my life. And let me tell you, it was an eye-opener.

I realized something that I had been burying for years: my family back home doesn’t really know me. Not the real me. The version of myself that thrives in college, that explores, that expresses, that exists fully—this person didn’t exist back home. And that realization hit me hard. It’s incredibly sad to think that the only reason I truly got to know myself was by leaving the place I once called home. It made me wonder—how many parts of myself have I hidden away just to fit an expectation? And how many more will I uncover as I continue growing?

On the flip side, I got to return the favor and psychoanalyze my friend’s love life—one of my favorite things to do. She has this long-standing fling with a guy in Europe. They text every single day. Every. Single. Day. It was insane to me that there’s someone across the world who is that dedicated to her, and yet, she doesn’t know if it’s something she should keep pursuing. Realistically, she’s in the U.S., and he’s in Europe. The distance is a brutal reality check.

It’s heartbreaking, honestly. They are perfect for each other, yet circumstances make it nearly impossible. It made me think about love—how sometimes, people come into our lives who feel like the one, but life has other plans. But even when love doesn’t work out the way we wish it would, it still leaves an impact. These connections shape who we are, teach us lessons, and push us to raise our standards, to know our worth, and to keep our hearts open.

At the end of the night, I realized something: love—whether romantic, platonic, or self-love—finds you when you least expect it. Whether it’s in the form of a deep conversation at a bar, a DJ set where you lose yourself in the music, or a text from someone across the world who still chooses to reach out every day—love has a way of showing up. And maybe, just maybe, the best thing we can do is embrace it whenever and however it comes.

I was lying in bed with my takeout, lazily scrolling through my phone, when I texted my friend Jason: Is it weird that I don’t have any gay friends? It was one of those questions that seem simple but unravel into something much bigger.

What followed was a conversation so layered, so unexpectedly raw, that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Jason didn’t hesitate—he had seen it too. Gay friendships always seem to come with baggage, he told me. There was always some history: a past situationship, a drunken kiss, a flirtation that never fully dissolved. And let’s be honest—sometimes, gay friendships feel like the Wild West. At any moment, they could turn into something more, whether you want them to or not.

the messy reality of gay friendships

For me, these friendships have often been like a beautifully wrapped present—with a ticking time bomb inside. Either we used to like each other, we hooked up once upon a time, or one of us started catching feelings. Suddenly, what was supposed to be a fun, supportive friendship turns into an unspoken game of Will They, Won’t They?—even when I never intended for it to be that way.

Jason shared a similar experience. Most recently, I got cut off by a gay friend because he liked me, and I had a boyfriend. He wanted more out of our friendship than I could give, and just like that, poof—another friendship gone. That stuck with me. He said it made him realize something: the lines in gay friendships are often so blurred they make an Instagram filter look clear.

What Jason said really struck me—most of my friendships with other gay guys always seem to get tangled in sexual tension, no matter how hard I try to keep things platonic. It’s like trying to keep a white couch clean in a house party—it sounds good in theory, but reality has other plans.

Jason brought up a point I hadn’t really considered: distance. When your gay friends live in different cities, states, or even countries, there’s less room for messy entanglements. You’re not competing for the same guys, you’re not dealing with the awkward we-hooked-up-but-now-we’re-just-friends dynamic, and there’s no chance for things to escalate physically. Online friendships? Pure. Local friendships? A potential minefield.

It made me think—are my strongest gay friendships the ones that exist behind a screen? Do I need geographical separation to maintain the kind of platonic relationships I crave?

Jason pointed out something else that made me pause. In gay culture, open relationships are more common than in straight communities. And in a way, that openness extends into friendships, too. We’re conditioned to blur the lines between sex and friendship in ways that make purely platonic connections difficult, he said.

But while open relationships might work for some, Jason and I both agreed—they are definitely not for us. We see a lot of that openness as stemming from insecurities, the fear of missing out, or the idea that commitment is somehow limiting. For us, relationships—whether romantic or platonic—should be built on trust and clear boundaries. And maybe that’s why we both struggle with forming lasting gay friendships—because those blurred lines don’t align with what we actually want.

the future of gay friendships

So where does that leave me? Do I resign myself to a life of surface-level acquaintances and online besties? Or do I figure out a new way to define friendship on my own terms?

Maybe the answer is boundaries. Maybe it’s about setting clearer expectations from the beginning. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s about accepting that gay friendships—like love, sex, and relationships—are inherently complicated, and that’s part of what makes them so special.

At the end of the day, I agree with Jason—gay friendships can be complicated, and the lines can blur too easily. But as we wrapped up our conversation, we both laughed, realizing something: If anyone could beat this stereotype, it would be us. Even if we ever became close friends in real life, we knew we wouldn’t fall into the same patterns. Maybe that’s the real exception—friendships that don’t just survive the mess, but rise above it.

One thing’s for sure: I’m not giving up on finding my people. Even if I have to wade through a little bit of mess to get there.

There’s something about the first person you truly connected with that never really leaves you. I’m not talking about a childhood crush or a fleeting infatuation—I mean the first person you let in. The first person you shared your world with. The first person who saw you in a way no one else had before. Even if you’ve long accepted that they’re not meant for you, even if you know they were never good for you, even if you’ve built a new life without them—the feeling lingers.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How, after all this time, your heart can still drop at the mere sight of them. How it races just like it did the first time. It’s not longing. It’s not desire. It’s just something—a ghost of the past refusing to fade. And that’s where the real question lies: Is that love? Or is it just the memory of what love once felt like?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, especially while reflecting on stories I’ve seen play out in TV shows. Take Rachel from Suits, for example. She’s in a perfect relationship with Mike Ross, yet there’s this undeniable flicker of something when she crosses paths with someone from her past—someone who, objectively, was a terrible person. A liar. A cheater. A man with a wife. Yet, despite all of that, that feeling still exists. Why?

Or look at Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City—the way she spent years tangled up in the gravitational pull of Mr. Big. She loved him so deeply, so recklessly, and for what? To waste years of her life chasing something that never truly loved her back in the way she deserved? Yet, even after time passed, even after heartbreak, even after moving on—he was still there, lingering in the corners of her mind, always pulling her back.

And that’s the thing. It’s not about them. It’s about what they represented. The firsts. The vulnerability. The nights spent spilling secrets, thinking it would last forever. The moments when they made you feel like the center of the universe. That’s why it’s so hard to fully let go—not because you still want them, but because they were the first person who had you.

Maybe it’s not love at all. Maybe it’s just muscle memory. Maybe it’s the way nostalgia plays tricks on us, romanticizing the good and blurring out the bad. Maybe it’s the comfort of familiarity. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s proof that some people leave permanent imprints on our souls, whether we want them to or not.

But here’s what I do know: a feeling is just a feeling. It doesn’t mean you have to act on it. It doesn’t mean it defines you. And it definitely doesn’t mean you should let it dictate your life. Because at the end of the day, love—real love—shouldn’t be something that keeps you stuck in the past. It should be something that propels you forward.

There’s something in my life I can’t live without. It’s the first thing I think about when I wake up and the only thing that keeps me going through the day. No matter how tired, drained, or overwhelmed I feel, it always manages to lift me up.

I’m obsessed. Entranced by the way it smells—sometimes sweet, sometimes bold, always intoxicating. It comes in so many forms, each one a little different but still perfect in its own way. Some days, it’s smooth and comforting, easing me into the morning. Other days, it’s strong and intense, just what I need to push through. And sure, there are times when it’s terrible—when people don’t treat it right, when they change it into something unrecognizable—but I always forgive. I always go back.

It’s with me on study dates, when I just need a little treat, when I want to feel something special. No matter where I go, it’s always a part of my day, making everything just a little better.

But when I’m without it? The withdrawal is unbearable. I feel sluggish, empty, incomplete. Like a part of me is missing. How did I let myself get this attached? Will I ever not feel this way? Will I ever find something—someone—who makes me feel this alive?

Probably not.

Because nothing—no one—compares to coffee.

And that’s when it hits me.

When will I be able to say all of this about a person? When will I wake up thinking about someone the way I think about my morning latte? When will I feel this dependent on an actual human being instead of a cup of caffeine? I wonder if I’ll ever fall in love like this—with a someone, not a something. I’m a hopeless romantic, and yet here I am, pouring my heart out over a drink. It’s embarrassing. But it’s also the truth.

And until that day comes—until I find a love that can rival this—I guess coffee will have to do.

Last night, I had one of those moments where I just felt completely overwhelmed with gratitude. Not the kind that comes and goes in fleeting thoughts, but the kind that sinks deep into your bones—the kind that makes you stop everything and just sit with the realization of how lucky you are.

I had just shared my new blog with my friends, a project that feels like an extension of myself, a space where I pour out my thoughts, observations, and emotions. And let me tell you—nothing, absolutely nothing, would exist or matter in the same way without the people in my life who support me, who see me, who care enough to engage with my words.

One of my friends sent me a voice memo right before my midterm yesterday, and I swear, it left me in awe. She told me she had been reading one of my posts—Sex, Sushi, and Self-Sabotage—and it had actually made her think about an experience from the night before. She started reflecting on how attractiveness influences the way people are perceived and valued, how someone can be dismissed simply because they don’t fit the conventional mold of what’s “desirable.” And in that moment, she connected my words to her own life, her own conversations, her own realizations.

I was stunned.

Not just because she took the time to read my blog, but because she thought about it—really thought about it. She connected with it in a way that made her reflect on her own experiences, and to me, that’s everything. It’s the entire reason I wanted to start this blog in the first place. Because how many of us go through life experiencing these things but never stopping to unpack them? How many of us feel something deep down but don’t have the words or space to articulate it?

This is what I want—to create a space where people feel something. Where they can read and think, Wait, I’ve been there too. I’ve felt this exact thing. And the fact that my friends, the people I love so much, are not only reading but reflecting, engaging, and finding meaning in my words? It’s unreal.

I truly don’t know where I’d be without my friends. They make everything feel more significant, more valuable. Their support makes this all real, makes it matter. And in return, I just hope they know how deeply I love them—how every moment of kindness, every message, every little act of care stays with me.

So here’s to all of you. To the ones who read, who listen, who engage, who reflect. You make life richer, and I don’t take a single second of it for granted.

The warmth of the sun on my face at the Glade, music in my ears, and my thoughts running free—this is when I feel most at peace. There’s something about being alone, truly alone, that feels grounding. But at the same time, I thrive in spaces where I’m surrounded by diverse people, people with completely different backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives. Just last night, I found myself at a friend’s birthday party, talking with international students, and we instantly connected over our shared language, Spanish. It was one of those moments where you realize how small yet vast the world is, how beautiful it is to bridge gaps through conversation.

I live for those connections. I love my friends, my different friend groups, the energy that comes with each of them. But I also love being alone. Life is all about balance.

And yet, in college, it feels like we are conditioned to always have people by our side. There’s an unspoken pressure to never be alone, to always be seen with a group, as if solitude is something to be feared. But why? Why are we so scared of sitting alone in a café, walking through campus with just our thoughts, or studying without the noise of company? Maturity, I think, plays a big role. The more we grow, the more we realize that being alone doesn’t mean being lonely. It means being comfortable with yourself.

I used to know someone who was terrified of solitude. They were, to be honest, a toxic person—constantly making fun of me for doing things on my own, for not needing someone by my side at all times. But now, looking back, I feel for them. Because that kind of dependency isn’t about loving friendships; it’s about fearing oneself. They needed constant validation from their friends, cared too much about how they were perceived, and it got in the way of what we could have been.

I urge you—go out alone. Take yourself on a solo date, go study in a new place without texting someone to come with you, eat lunch alone without scrolling on your phone as a distraction. When you’re alone, you truly get to know yourself. And once you do that, the friendships you cultivate will be built on something real, not just the need to fill space.

Being alone is not something to escape from—it’s something to embrace.

Midterms are creeping up, and everyone around me is drowning. Study guides, frantic group chats, caffeine-fueled nights—I see it all happening, but I feel nothing. It’s like I’m watching a storm through a glass window while sitting comfortably inside. I know I should be stressed, should be cramming, should be feeling something—but I don’t. And that’s what worries me.

I’ve been going to all my lectures, taking notes, following along like I always do. Logically, I understand that midterms affect my grades, my GPA, my future. But I just don’t care. It’s not burnout. I’m not overwhelmed. In fact, nothing bad is happening in my life at all. I should feel fine. But instead, I feel nothing.

It’s weird because I’ve always been ambitious, always cared about excelling, always wanted to be the best at what I do. But right now? That drive is just…gone. I know that if I keep this up, it could affect my grades. The rational part of me acknowledges the consequences, but the emotional part refuses to react.

So what’s going on with me? Is this just a phase? A mental reset? A silent protest against the never-ending grind? Or am I just coasting, waiting for something—anything—to wake me up again?

I don’t have the answers. But I do know that midterms are happening whether I care or not. And for now, I guess I’ll just keep showing up, hoping that one day, the urgency will come back.