When my parents told me I was being “rebellious,” that my character was “ungodly” and that I was “going down the path to hell” for not doing the laundry that day or being a good caretaker in general, what they communicated to me was: I was not fulfilling my role properly, to continue to fail would mean more punishment, more isolation, unless I followed “God’s will.”

“I’ve had countless hushed conversations with friends about this anxiety, and how it has led us to refrain from participation in activist events, conversations, and spaces because we feel inadequately radical.”

I grew up hearing stories from elders about how integral the black church was to their lives during the Civil Rights era. Being a queer woman, I never quite felt that same sense of camaraderie in the church. So I found my sanctuary on Twitter.