I spent years trying to avoid being a ‘weird gay’

Looking across the bar I rolled my eyes.

I had just seen a group of gay people, with colourful hair, wearing florals and covered in pride flag pins, talking loudly about their gender and sexual identity.

I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just be more discrete.

Elbowing my friend, Chris*, to get his attention, I pointed my head towards them so he could join me in my disdain – we both sat there judging a group of gay people.

But we’re not homophobes – in fact we’re both gay ourselves.

We had just convinced ourselves we were better than them. We basked in our made-up superiority for a moment, and then ordered another drink.

Thankfully that was back in 2022 and a lot has changed since then.

Mostly – I’ve learned to embrace who I am, and in turn – other queer people’s identity.

I grew up in Stockport in Greater Manchester and had a very happy childhood, despite being a bit of a ‘weird’ kid. Other children either really got on with me, or really didn’t – a bit like marmite.

Then at the young age of 13, I was outed as a lesbian. 

I had confessed to a girl online who was the only other out girl at my school that I thought I was gay and the next day everyone knew. 

It was 2016, and even though gay marriage had been legalised in the US and brands everywhere would plaster a rainbow over their logo during Pride month, the atmosphere around my sexuality at school was far from accepted.

My loved ones were very supportive and I was so lucky to have this at home – there were several other gay people amongst my family friends.

I was very grateful for this, but nonetheless, a slow buildup of casual homophobia rooted itself in my school routine.

I didn’t experience the typical bullying you might see in a teen film – I wasn’t a complete loner and never experienced any physical violence. Instead, girls asked me if I had a crush on them, which made me feel uncomfortable.

And the boys would ask invasive questions about my non-existent sex life, only to up the ante when I’d go bright red.

It all boiled over for me when one day, a girl in my class repeatedly called me a slur. She was at my house working on a group project when she said it – I will never forget the awkward silence after. No-one stood up for me. 

I just wanted to be ‘normal’.

And one day, I found out how. Unfortunately, it was at the expense of my community.

A boy called Adam* in my drama lesson told me he was surprised that he got on with me so well. He said that, even though I was gay, I was ‘sound’ because I didn’t make it my whole personality.

I was out, but I wasn’t like the ‘weird gays’.

So, I took on the role of the ‘normal gay’ by wearing dresses that, stereotypically, straight girls would wear; slinky dresses from online stores like Oh Polly or Pretty Little Thing.

I wore more makeup and excused any homophobic remarks people would make by saying: ‘Don’t worry about it! Some gay people are so sensitive nowadays’.

But I noticed that whenever I’d excuse casual homophobia, my stomach would turn. I was deeply uncomfortable, and it would come out in awkward loud laughter to these comments.

Three years later, I went to Bristol University, and while at a freshers’ fair, the chair of the LGBTQ+ society invited me to their next event aimed at creating a new committee for the group after I had spent five minutes awkwardly hanging around the stall.

I went, peeked in the room, saw rainbow flags everywhere and bolted. I was excited for university because I thought it was a chance to make more LGBTQ+ friends but my own judgement was isolating me. 

Going somewhere new had given me the opportunity to reinvent myself, to be more proud of my own identity, but I just couldn’t shake the shame.

Then one day, something finally changed when I came across Leslie Feinberg’s Stone Butch Blues – a semi autobiographical story of the lesbian community in the USA from the 1950s to the 1980s.

The book featured stories of lesbians who had no other choice but to be out and proud in their identity. Feinberg talked a lot about how division in the LGBT+ community only allows oppression to get worse.

Reading, I discovered that we are stronger together than apart.

I realised I owed it to the generations who fought for my freedom to not be so filled with judgement towards people in my own community.

It turned out, I was just deeply jealous of people who were open. After understanding my community’s history and recognising my previous judgement as secret envy helped me to realise that being a ‘weird gay’ doesn’t actually exist.

Now in 2026, aged 22, I’m back in Manchester, also known as the gay capital of the north.

And I am exactly the type of person younger me would have sneered at.

More and more, I’m going to explicitly lesbian events, from club nights to activism groups and the community are some of the kindest people I have ever met.

Now I only dress femininely for myself, have no desire to seem ‘sound’ to men, and will rant about lesbian politics and history to anyone who will listen.

Chris and I remain friends and we often cringe at the thought of who we were just a few years ago.

The biggest change I had was internal – I do wear more funky clothes now and present as a very feminine lesbian – but my life really changed when I stopped holding judgement for my community only to try to find respect outside of it.

I am not proud of how I used to think, but it is so important to remember that period in my life in order to continue growing from it.

Now, I wish I could go back to that moment in the bar. I would be excited to meet fellow members of my community, with their vibrant hair and rainbow pins.

I could have met some pretty amazing people.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing Ross.Mccafferty@metro.co.uk. 

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