I hid behind instruments, computers, Whitney’s voice, Prince’s guitar. I sat in front of my computer surrounded by cassettes, illegally downloading songs, awkwardly whispering “I love you more than I know how to explain and I’m scared so here’s a mixtape I made you.”

In my own struggle to get sober, I would spend days telling myself that my bottoms were “not that bad.” That the next day I would drink lighter, drink less, have water between glasses. For black gay addicts, we’re pressured at both ends. One of the reasons I’m sober today is because people around me talked about it, they extended their hands and hearts to me without knowing it.

I wasn’t at all ready for the feelings I’d have about being adopted and queer and raising a toddler who still isn’t as old as I was when I came to the United States on an airplane.

So maybe my pregnancy path isn’t as simple and straightforward as baby books would have you believe it should be because I’m a poor QPoC with anxiety, but it has been an interesting worthwhile journey so far. I can’t wait until I can take the next step.

“Have the meeting. Ask the youth what they want and need from this group. Start over and do those things. This isn’t about you at all, not anymore.”

“As a woman of color who does not fit into Western Eurocentric standards of what is conventionally attractive, every day I step out and love myself is an act of resistance.”