"Unf@&kable With" Series Episode 2/5:Minority Stress and Queer Youth Resilience Episode 2/5

🌈 Episode 2 of our "UnF@&kable With" series is here! 🎙️ Dive into the stories of resilience and strength among queer youth, as we explore minority stress and how one affirming person can make all the difference. Listen now and be inspired! 

Transcript

0:01

Hi everyone. Welcome back to my UN You Knowable series episode two of five part series. This one is titled, minority Stress Mental Health and Queer Youth. So yes, I am talking to our very young queer youth population as young as 10, maybe even 12. And what we're gonna talk about today is a way for you to stay centered in yourself. Again, I am not a therapist. I've been a mom for 35 years. I've been a human on the planet for 50 plus years, so I'm coming from a place of a and t. I'm coming from a place of Grammy, if you wanna call me that, but I'm most definitely coming from a place of love and a place of care and concern for you as individual humans who are born just like everyone else. Naked and alone and very afraid. You came out of a place that was warm, maybe quiet, maybe not depending on how much action there was in a place where you were being formed, but it was a place where you got some nutrients at least enough to be born into this world. And once you are born. You grew just like everyone else. You grew several inches in one year. You gained several pounds in one year. Your hair grew, your nails grew. You learned to poop, pee, get food. You might've gotten teeth in your first year. My kids didn't, but some peoples do. You might've learned to talk or walk in your first year. Basically what I'm saying is we all started from the same exact place on the day of our birth. Now, what happens after that is definitely somewhat up to us in the choices that we make and somewhat due to nurturing. Some of it due to nature and some of it is unfortunately being forced upon us. So let's get to the episode. Resilience doesn't take rise with fists in the air, right? It doesn't have to look like being a fighter. Sometimes it's a queer teen breathing through the sting of a joke that wasn't meant to be a joke, but deciding they'll show up again anyway, wearing the same breast binder, the same eyeliner, having the same hope that today. They will be seen today, they will be loved because they were born onto this planet as an innocent, wonderful, incredible human being. And that's what being UN is with looks with. Gender, with clothing, with accessories, with whatever that looks like in this world. It's not polished. It's not perfect. It's a decision you make in the hallway, in the car, or even in the morning in the mirror when you're brushing your teeth. Every queer kid learns the quiet choreography of proving you have to prove to the coach you belong on the team. Even though the locker room hums with tension, proving to your parents that you aren't the rebellion, it's truth proving to your friends that you're still cool enough and still safe to love, even though they see that you're changing into the person that you might be for the rest of your life. It's a thousand small additions for acceptance in a world that should have loved you without one, and yet you keep showing up. You put on the eyeliner, the hoodie, the pronouns that fit like skin, and you walk back into the same rooms that once taught you to shrink. That resilience that's being un fuckable with, not because you don't feel the sting, but because you decide to live in full color anyway. You show up in that skirt, you show up in that jersey, you show up with your ball cap on backwards. You show up with your hair in a ponytail. You show up with earrings, you show up with mismatched socks, with polka dot stripes. Whatever it is, you show up as yourself. You learn early that some kids of weight don't show. It's not the kind that bruises skin, but the kind that teaches you to scan every room for safety, to listen twice before speaking, once to laugh at a joke that hurts because silence might make it worse. Psychologists call it minority stress. I just call it the hum, that feeling that you know, somebody is. If they're not talking about you, you can feel them thinking about you. They're looking at you differently. They're judging you, they're objectifying you, they're ridiculing you, and maybe all of this is in their head, but you can feel it because you walk in a awareness that you are different to them. Right. That low electric vibration of being hyper aware, always performing calm while your body whispers. Be smaller, be safer, be straight for just one more. Second, it's the way you swallow a pronoun correction because the teachers already moved on. It's how you edit yourself, mid-sentence. It's how you learn to hold your hands a certain way, not too soft, not too loud, not too queer, and even when no one's watching, watching that hum follows you home. You lie awake at night, scrolling through stories of people who look like you, trying to imagine a life that feels possible. That's the quiet side of resilience, the part no one claps for. It's what happens before Pride. Before healing, before you even know the name for what it is you're caring. But here's where the story starts to shift, because all it takes truly, truly, truly all it takes is one person who sees you and does not flinch, does not turn their back to you, does not open their eyes wider when they hear. You speak in a tone that might not be equated with your gender. When you repetitively make the basket, when you run faster, when you dance better, and it's an art teacher who says your name the right way, a coach who tells you you're good just as you are, and a parent who tries. Even if they stumble and trust me, kids, they are going to stumble. Being a parent is a first time job, even if you have multiple siblings. And you know why? Because every kid is different. You can't use the same parenting on every kid. You can't use the same, coaching with them. You can't use the same tone with each child. You can't even dress your kids exactly the same because they're all individual. So. The Trevor Project calls this a power of one affirming adult, just one. And suicide risk among queer youth drops dramatically and when family can't be that person. Chosen family is. Those are the people that are here for you. I am here for you. You can send me a message on Instagram. You can, um. Call another friend that's a safe adult. You can ask your best friends at school who are accepting you, are their parents safe you to talk to. You can look for your queer allies at school that are teachers, your administration, just to find one person, honey, just one person. The older queer who invites you for a smoothie for a bike ride. The friend who sits next to you at lunch when everyone else moves away. That's how resilience builds. Not in grand gestures, but in steady hands, in the small holy act of being seen and still staying soft. When someone says, I don't get why you people make such a big deal out of pronouns, you could shut down. You could fight back, right? You could say something nasty, but being unfuckable with means you breathe first. You soften your shoulders and you say, that's interesting. What makes you feel that way? That pause, that's power. Its self-preservation, disguised as grace. It's a subtle kind of acts, activism that doesn't feed the fire. It actually diffuses it. And for queer youth, learning that skill early is every thing because it's not just about winning these arguments, it's about keeping your nervous system from burning down. You don't want to burn out fighting these fires. You don't want that. Trust me, every UN with soul has rituals, tiny private ways of remembering who they are. Lighting a candle before bed, maybe riding a playlist that feels like freedom. Texting a friend, just a heart emoji. That means I see you. Those small acts are medicine. Their nervous system resets and their proof that safety can start from the inside out. You don't need to prove you're strong anymore'cause you already are. Because you kept showing up even when the world made it seem insurmountable. So if you're listening to this and you're growing up feeling like life is one long audition, this episode is definitely for you. You don't need to prove your worth to your coach, your parents, your partner, or your friends. You already earned your place here the day that you learned how to stay. Resilience doesn't always roar. Sometimes it whispers I'm still here and that my love is what makes you unworkable with. I love you with all of my heart. Have a great rest of your evening.