Before I could say “I’m gay,” I was mouthing the words to “Check On It,” by Beyoncé in the mirror, flipping my hoodie like it was 30 inches of honey-blonde bundles, and batting my lashes in secret.
That mirror became my sanctuary. It knew my secrets before I ever dared to tell another soul. I didn’t know the vocabulary yet—didn’t know what queerness was supposed to look like—but I knew what it felt like to shimmer. To pretend. To play. And even more, I knew how deeply I craved to be seen.
In high school, I started experimenting with beauty as if it were a covert operation. My mom’s mascara became my favorite trick. I’d sneak into the bathroom, wait until I was sure she was out of the house, and swipe the wand through my lashes with the lightest touch. Just enough to lift and define. Nothing too dramatic. But my girls noticed.
They never questioned it. They checked my look of the day, in the morning light and would say things like, “Your eyes look really nice today.” I’d shrug, biting back a smile, and offer them the tube like a peace offering. They’d pull out their eyeliner and we’d touch up together before class—me being the honorary glam squad member. In a world that policed how boys looked and moved, my girlfriends permitted me to exist. They never let me leave our group chat IRL without making sure I looked right. We were a collective glow-up in motion.
By the time I hit junior year, I was making Amazon purchases—ordering things like highlighters and socks I didn’t need—so that I could justify slipping a tube of mascara into my cart without raising eyebrows. I’d tear open the box in my bedroom like it was contraband, hide the goods under my bed, and wait for the perfect moment to put it to use. It wasn’t just makeup. It was mine. It was proof that I found something, beauty, that could make me feel safe.
And my lips? Always moisturized. I carried lip balm in every backpack, jacket, and pencil case, as if it were an EpiPen. Two or three coats before each class—a fresh swipe after lunch. I wasn’t going to get caught slipping. I might not have had the language for who I was, but I knew hydration and a soft, plush pout were non-negotiables.
Then came college—a whole new stage. I still wasn’t entirely out, but I was inching closer to myself. I’d sit in the dorm room, pretending I had long, 32-inch braids—whipping invisible inches behind my shoulders or tucking strands behind my ear before diving into an essay. It became a ritual. That hair I didn’t (yet) have? It grounded me. It was a fantasy and a focus. I couldn’t say “I’m gay,” but I could act like the boss I wanted to be in my little way. Every hair toss, every shoulder roll, was me stepping closer to a truth I was still learning how to live in.
Oh, and let’s not forget about my nails. I wasn’t someone who took pride in my nails; they had to look fresh, but I never really wore polish until the COVID-19 pandemic. When my mom took me to the nail salon for the first time, I opted for a fresh, regular manicure—but then I decided to try a French tip, and it’s been my go-to nail art ever since. It’s the little details like that that made me fall in love with the aesthetic of nail art.
I hung with the girls—the real ones, the ones who’d have your back, the ones who never let their gloss fade or their edges go unlaid. They treated me like one of their own. We moved through campus like a sisterhood, making sure everyone had gum, lashes, and confidence before the next class. In that circle, I was never “too much.” I was never “doing the most.” I was just me—soft, expressive, and a little dramatic when necessary.
Years later, being in the beauty space professionally helped me understand something I’d always known intuitively: beauty is a language, and I’ve always been fluent. I discovered my love for tinted moisturizers—lightweight, breathable, just enough coverage to feel like skin but better. And now? If I’m at an event, I don’t flinch when a makeup artist pulls out a palette. I ask for the whole look. Multi-colored eyeshadow? Highlighter on the cheekbones, the brow bone, and the Cupid’s bow? Yes, please. I wear makeup in public now—no shame, no hesitation—just joy.
Beauty was my private coming out story. It gave me room to explore and learn about myself, without fear and curiosity. Every little moment—every lip oil swipe, every lash curl, every imaginary hair flip—was part of a much bigger journey: becoming someone I could finally recognize in the mirror.
So no, I didn’t always have the words. But I had the products and my girls. And sometimes, that’s where the story begins.