I had a happy, loving childhood. I really did. My parents cared for me, I had friends, and I never went without. But even from a young age, I knew there was something slightly different about me — something I couldn’t quite put into words. I carried that feeling with me into my teenage years and beyond, telling people I was bisexual because it felt like a safe halfway point. Not a lie, but not the full truth either.
When I went to university, I met a girl. She was smart, funny, and made me feel like I could be myself, at least the version of myself I was willing to show. We fell in love, got married, and started a family. For a while, that life suited me. I had stability, a home, and a role that made sense. But under the surface, there was still a part of me I hadn’t dealt with — a part that, eventually, I couldn’t ignore.
When my marriage broke down, it felt like the floor had been pulled out from under me. I didn’t have a place of my own, so I started staying with friends. At first, it was a night here and there, then weeks at a time, until sofa surfing became my normal. I’d tell myself I was just between places, but the truth was, I was drifting.
The nights got later, the parties got wilder, and the drugs became a way to stop thinking too much. For a while, it felt like freedom — no responsibilities, no ties. But that kind of life always comes with a cost, and mine caught up with me in the form of an arrest. I ended up serving six months in prison.
Oddly enough, prison was the first time in years I’d had to sit still and really think. No distractions, no running from myself. It was in there that I finally said it — not just to other people, but to myself: I’m gay. Not bisexual. Gay. And it was like taking a deep breath for the first time in decades.
One of the best things about coming to terms with my sexuality is that it led me to First People. My probation officer referred me to them, and from our very first meeting, I knew this was different from any kind of “support” I’d had before. They weren’t ticking boxes or moving me along a system. They were looking at me — the whole me. They didn’t see me as a list of problems to fix; they saw a person with potential, someone who could rebuild, given the right environment.
They helped me find somewhere permanent to live. My own place. It’s stable, it’s clean, and it’s safe. More than that, it’s mine. Having a door I can lock, a space I can arrange how I want, a bed that’s only mine — it’s a kind of dignity you don’t realise you’ve lost until you get it back.
The support from First People has been holistic, which I’ve learned means they look at everything — housing, health, mental wellbeing, social connections, even personal goals. They’ve given me space to be open about who I am without fear of judgement. And for someone who spent years hiding parts of themselves, that’s huge.
Now, I’m at a point where I can think about the future again. Not just “next week” or “next month,” but the kind of life I want to build. I want to get back into work, and the idea of being a librarian really appeals to me. I’ve always been the kind of person who loses themselves in books — stories, history, anything that takes me somewhere else for a while. The thought of spending my days surrounded by that, and helping other people find what they’re looking for, feels like it could be more than just a job. It could be a way to connect, to contribute, and to keep learning.
Books have been my escape for years. In my lowest moments, they’ve been the one place where I could get lost without losing myself. Now, I’d like them to be part of the life I’m building — not as a hiding place, but as a way to open doors, for me and for others.
I’m not pretending I’ve got it all figured out. There are still days when the past feels too close, when old habits whisper at the back of my mind. But now, I’ve got something I didn’t have before — stability, honesty, and people who believe in me. I’ve got a home where I can be completely myself, without apology.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not just existing. I’m living as me — the real me. And that’s a good place to start.
