“Though I had no intention of telling my parents, I believed, naively, that the love they had for me was unconditional”
BY KHADIJA PITTS-CEESAY
I was 15 when I came to terms with the fact that I liked girls. Before this revelation, I told myself I was just envious of the way other girls looked. That I desired the freedom they were given by their parents. Freedom which seemed impossible for the eldest daughter of West African, Lebanese and Muslim parents. Then, when I was 20, I met a woman who would eventually become my wife. The joy I felt at our engagement was immense. It lingered for so long that I began to think nothing could hurt me as long as I lived in the bliss of that moment. Though I had no intention of telling my parents, I believed, naively, that the love they had for me was unconditional. That being present at their child’s wedding would outweigh their disapproval.
I was wrong.
The last time I saw my grandmother, she had found out about my engagement and sat me down to “talk it through”. At no point during this conversation did she mention my partner by name or my sexuality. It was as if she thought uttering these words would somehow give them power. Instead, she reiterated how disappointing it was to see me live this way, that this is not something Muslims do, that acting upon these urges is different from harbouring feelings. I was quiet as I cried and watched my 80-something-year-old grandmother get on her knees and beg me to make the right decision, the decision that would keep us all in good graces with Allah.
This was also the last time we had a real conversation. Everything from this point on became formal with her, my mother and my father. Every hug felt stiff and forced. All my accomplishments, goals, fears and concerns seemed to mean nothing to them now that I had refused to diminish myself and play the role of a proper daughter.
During the first few years of living with my partner, I thought minimising our relationship was enough to keep my parents happy. They chose to see her as my friend, my roommate that I happened to sleep in the same bed with. Someone I constantly posted pictures and updates of on Facebook. I became absorbed in my partner’s orbit, latching onto the love and support her family gave us. I nourished friendships, and I poured myself into a graduate program all while trying not to dwell on how weird it was that it’d been years since I’d talked to my mother. My father felt like a complete stranger I only spoke to out of obligation, and grandma began to sound mechanical over text.
I settled into a routine post-grad, and for the first time in my life I didn’t feel the need to tell my family a major life update. When I got my first salaried job right out of college, I didn’t text them. When I published my first chapbook, I didn’t text them. Every prior text I sent their way was for approval. I craved validation from my mother that she was incapable of giving, and I wanted to prove to my father that I was better than him and better off without him. Strangely, grandma was the only person who checked up on me when she could. She’d send surahs and videos, and I fell back into the routine of texting her to be courteous.
When I was young and unable to control my life, my family was the only thing keeping me together. Despite the physical, emotional and verbal abuse I endured, I still looked to them for the love I needed. And even though coming out to them felt like the most terrifying thing I’d ever done, hiding who I was from them felt worse.
I often think about what I would tell my 15-year-old self if I knew her today. I’d tell her that the parts of herself she was forced to hide will become the very parts she learns to love the most. That the shame will loosen its grip. She’ll begin to build a life surrounded by people who would never ask her to become smaller, who recognise and honour her past. The ache in her heart for acceptance will subside but never fully go away. It will live as a reminder of our resilience and of the stories we carry as queer people, stories of survival that deserve to be witnessed.
I’m incredibly grateful that the SWANA Dykes issue of Sinister Wisdom has allowed people like me to create a space where these stories can live openly alongside the voices of queer people who have found their way from silence to pride. We recognise and applaud them for their own resilience and carry their stories with us wherever we go.
Khadija Pitts-Ceesay and Nikki Luna are co-editors of the forthcoming SWANA Dykes anthology, featuring creative works by South West Asian and North African diasporic artists, launching 13 October 2026.
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