Why sharing your story matters

I used to say the cycling community was the only one in which I'd ever felt accepted. That ended when I stood in front of a room full of cycling advocates and enthusiasts and told them with incredible vulnerability that I used to be poor. The audience laughed. It wasn’t funny, they were laughing because they were uncomfortable. My narrative wasn't what they expected.

The audience expected fun, happy stories about cycling where they could relate to being tired or getting stuck in the rain. One of the presenters talked about how easy it was to go car free as the CEO of a successful company. The audience was expecting those stories, not mine. I guess they couldn’t relate to struggling in life.

I went on to rip my heart open for those mostly strangers. I told them how my bike helped me financially and, more importantly, mentally. How I went from self-hatred to being mostly happy. By the end, people weren't laughing, they were crying. People hugged me and told me they had felt the same way or knew someone who did. I pretended to be strong. I still wanted to fit their narrative. That night, after exposing myself, I came closer to suicide than I had ever before.

I made it to the morning and I learned that just because my story isn't the expected one that doesn't mean people aren't experiencing it. I also learned that I couldn't bottle up the real me because it wasn't safe. Later that year I came out.

Now, I end the story differently; it's my coming out story. It has to be. Every bike ride I've ever been on is a queer bike ride. My work as an advocate is intimately tied to my queerness. It's shaped by me having almost never felt comfortable riding in a group of "cyclists." By having national publications misgender me without a thought. By having a room full of my peers laugh at my existence.

That night may have been one of the hardest of my life, but it taught me that when I tell my story I always find people with which it connects. I'm accepted for who I am, not by everyone, but by enough. And, most importantly, by me.

Photos by Laura Dittman