Last summer, I spent three weeks driving across the country with my mom and little sister. At our second destination, a small mountain town in Arkansas, I bought a rainbow pin for the baby blue corduroy bag I carry with me everywhere. For the first time in my life, my queerness was visible to the people around me, and it was terrifying.

In the next few weeks, that pin was taken off and repinned countless times wherever we went. I wore it proudly as we walked through the winding streets of Fayetteville, Arkansas. The next day, I slipped it off as we drove into the parking lot of an Ohio hotel just past midnight. It went back on for the beautiful New Mexican town we spent a night in, then off again for the gas stations we stopped at on our drive through Texas. On for our visit to the Grand Canyon, and off for the campsite we stayed at in middle-of-nowhere Tennessee.

Back home in North Carolina, I tucked the pin into the front pocket of my bag, away from the eyes of relatives, family friends, even distant acquaintances I’d inevitably run into around town. Finally, at the end of August, my family and I drove the 13 hours from North Carolina to Boston, and the pin was back in its place on my bag. I’m three months into my life here, and it’s stayed there ever since.

In every place we visited, I was forced to consider how my queer identity would be perceived and received. While my queerness remains the same no matter where I am, the way I express it is undoubtedly affected by my surrounding environment. Since I grew up in a place where my queer expression was very restricted, Boston and the space it has provided means everything to me. For the first time in my life, I am completely comfortable existing as a queer woman. I am allowed to exist in a way that disregards the hesitations and expectations I faced back home.

Three months ago, I didn’t think I’d ever said the words “I’m gay” out loud. That didn’t mean that no one knew (most people did), but I lacked the autonomy over my own identity to verbalize it. My sexuality was incredibly internal—an identity I possessed but was unable to fully express often. I was gay only to some people, sometimes, in some places, even to myself. However, my experience was not one of shame. I don’t think I’ve ever been ashamed of my queerness; I just never felt the place I called home was big enough to hold it.

Queer people across this country and around the world face the social and political standards of their environments every day. For many people, the spaces they inhabit determine how they live, who they love, and how fully or openly they can do those things. In many ways, social and political surroundings attempt to dictate and even endanger queer expression. The patriarchal and heternormative constructs of current society ensure that my existence as a queer woman is at risk in certain situations. Queerness in and of itself is a disregard for those standards, but the expression of that resistance cannot occur without consideration for its social implications.

I cannot help but change the presentation of my queerness depending on my environment. It’s one of those self-preservation instincts so detrimental to personal expression yet desperately necessary in some situations. In many ways, my identity as a white, cisgender lesbian guarantees me safety other marginalized communities are not granted. Most often, I have control over how visible my queerness is, who can recognize it, and when. However, I am still forced to consider the possible threats present in my surroundings in relation to my personal expression. As a queer person, the way that I live and love will continue to be placed at risk regardless of my personal expression. It will be negotiated in court, marched for on the streets, and threatened by people whose lives are in no way affected by my existence. The space to express identity in the face of that threat is invaluable and an experience every queer person deserves.

So when my mom asks me if I think I’ll end up staying here, in this city that’s become home faster than I thought it would, I don’t know what to tell her. Because I’m not only safer here, but braver too, and not so alone. It takes courage to show the world who you are and who you love, but also a community to show you how. This city and these past few months have given me both.

The Nature vs. Nurture of Queer Identity