Teen Lesbian Love Stories

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Teen Lesbian Love Stories

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I Love My Lesbian Daughter: 17 Years and 27 Days
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The text lit up my phone like an atomic bomb.
Chloe wore a goofy smile every time she mentioned Miranda’s name; my instincts told me they were more than just friends. I’d finally decided to ask her. She laughed, shaking her head with startled embarrassment, and said, “I can’t believe you just asked that!”
“Oh,” I answered. “Sorry about that.” I apologized for my intrusion, my miscalculation about her sexuality .
Chloe came out to me at the age of 17 years and 27 days. Why count the days? Because I need to give her credit for every single day I’d misunderstood her.
“It’s okay if you’re still finding out who you are,” I naively told her.
“Mom, I’ve always known who I am. I just didn’t let anyone else know.”
I’d again been one step behind, as parents often are.
Chloe has always been a tomboy. Hot Wheels instead of Barbies. Blue instead of pink. Baseball instead of ballet. My little Chloe-the-Bear, her nickname from early on. Until she was three, I adorned her with dresses and bows and gave her dollies to play with. Until she was three and old enough to tell me what she wanted.
Chloe cried when the boys’ Little League coach told her it was time to play girls’ softball. She politely declined all glitter and lip gloss. She asked for boys’ character underwear for her sixth birthday.
She’s never had a boyfriend, never gone on a date.
Chloe’s girlfriend reached out to me. “I feel like I should talk to you, but I don’t really know what to say,” she texted. “I’ve always been so unhappy, but didn’t know why. With Chloe, now I’m happy.”
“Just be yourself,” I told her. “That’s all anyone could ask of you.”
“But my mom won’t understand.” Miranda was terrified of her parents finding out.
The struggle for gay rights suddenly became so much closer to home.
Chloe doesn’t much like going to church, and after confirmation, hardly went at all. But a few times she actually asked to go. Wanted to go. I’d fancied that maybe she needed absolution for a sin committed, or strength to deal with it.
Years later I brought this up with Chloe.
“When I was little, I always asked God why he made me this way,” she confessed with tearful brown eyes. “I’d keep asking myself, ‘Why do I have to be like this?’” Though she knew who she was, she also suffered through the pain of being different from her tribe.
But why should she have to ask herself that question? She’s always known. It’s the rest of us who haven’t. She’s the same person; it’s our perceptions that have been wrong.
That’s when I realized I’ve always treated her like someone she wasn’t. Why did her family unjustly assume she was a certain way; why did we approach our parenting with a preconceived notion of who she was? I knew she didn’t like girl stuff. But why had I always assumed she’d like boys? It wasn’t fair for her family to just assume.
“How should I refer to you?” I asked her, to treat her with the respect she deserved. “ Lesbian, gay ?”
Chloe was embarrassed. “Why do we have to use labels? Why do we have to decide what to call somebody?”
She was right. Hopefully her generation won’t need to label people. But unfortunately, older generations tend to find categories helpful when dealing with differences.
There are only three people in our family who know about Chloe; she’s still not ready to come out to the rest. I think she should trust them, but she’s afraid they’ll treat her differently. I reminded Chloe that it takes time for people to reconstruct their image of a person. Right or wrong, we all have preconceived ideas that take time to change. But she’s still afraid.
My heart is breaking under the weight of her secret. No one should have to hide who they are.
I know we’ll have a struggle with some family members, with some of Chloe’s classmates, with some parents. With many others out in the world. I’m still teaching my husband to be more sensitive—no “gay wad” comments about effeminate men on TV, no “she’s-so-pretty-it’s-such-a-shame-she’s-a-lesbian” comments. Chloe said that most kids at school are cool with classmates being gay, but there are still some who pull out the God card, believing it’s a sin punishable with a trip to hell.
I pray that other family members will accept Chloe for who she is and realize she’s the same person she’s always been.
Hopefully with love and growing understanding, there will be no more Hushed Up Life of Chloe-the-Bear.
Emily Lane writes about her imperfect parenting at Mamaconfidential.net
All the expert advice, parenting wisdom, and humor you need to raise good teens. Sign up now and receive a free bonus download: 101 Things Teens Can Do This Summer Without Screens. 

Style | Tiny Love Stories: ‘Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian’
Tiny Love Stories: ‘Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian’
Modern Love in miniature, featuring reader-submitted stories of no more than 100 words.
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The year our father left, I’d thrash around on my big sister’s shaggy blue carpet at bedtime, pretending I’d fallen overboard. Melanie would hoist me into the lower bunk, singing as I dozed off. Our rescue game turned real one winter’s day at the bus stop. I bent to pack a snowball. When I stood — smack! — I was hit in the face by Melanie’s own icy projectile. Stunned, I began running, then fainted. Melanie started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and then carried me home. Our father never returned. But my sister is still here, healing life’s harshest wounds, breathing joy into my everyday. — Jodie Sadowsky
Our children are doing daily “mitzvahs,” or good deeds, for the Hanukkah-Christmas season. Every night, they pull index cards with suggestions out of an envelope. One night, our 7-year-old’s mitzvah was: “Send someone you love a card in the mail.” Although he was supposed to send the card to someone he didn’t live with, he insisted on sending it to me because he had “something important” to tell me. I said OK, we’ll mail it to my office. A few days later I received a card at work that said, “I love you mommy. Your one of my favorite people.” — Nora Gomez-Strauss
In the eight months we were together, we experienced unemployment, deaths of friends and family, global protests for racial justice, a national election, an insurrection at the Capitol — and a pandemic. He once said to me, “The older we get, the harder it is to find a partner: Not only do we need to be compatible, but our baggage does too.” I thought that was silly, but ultimately, the baggage we brought into our relationship couldn’t coexist in our bubble. Despite everything, we danced, cooked and sang. Our relationship ended, but our time spent together lightened my load. — Crystal Yang
Newly out and newly single, I attended my first Pride at 56. With trepidation, I put on a “Nobody Knows I’m a Lesbian” tank top. “It’s like a giant gay craft fair,” my son said. I laughed. That’s exactly what it felt like: a craft fair where everyone could be themselves and love whom they wanted to love. I spotted two women holding hands. I’d left a 30-year marriage to a lovely man and a life of heterosexual privilege for a moment like that. Four years later, I returned with a wife and a life crafted on my own terms. — Suzette Mullen
See more Tiny Love Stories at nytimes.com/modernlove . Submit yours at nytimes.com/tinylovestories .

"Out of the millions of people on the internet, the fact that we found each other has led me to believe that fate does indeed exist."
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As a teenager, I was never one to daydream about my fantasy wedding, nor was I invested in the idea of “true love” as idealized by Disney movies and romantic comedies. While my friends lapped that stuff up, I just wanted to spit it out. What I actually wanted to do was admit to myself who I really was. I repressed my sexuality not only because I was scared of my family and friends’ reactions to me being gay, but because I felt that it would be somehow "wrong" for me to be a lesbian. I was suffocating under the pressure I put on myself.
For almost 10 years, I oscillated wildly between confusion and fear in regards to my sexuality, wrapping myself in lies as I went along. Being “too busy” for a boyfriend was my go-to reply when friends asked me why I wasn’t dating anyone. I dodged questions like that for far too long.
In the spring of 2016, still chronically sad, I became an insomniac. I had begrudgingly accepted that I was, in fact, a lesbian, and spoken to a few girls on dating apps to find a sense of comfort in my sexuality. But trying to find love online, especially while grappling with the full-time job of hiding my sexuality from the outside world, seemed to be futile. I wasn’t feeling a strong physical attraction to anyone, for starters, and I was admittedly still struggling to accept myself. So I surrendered to my insecurities and decided that being in love was simply not something I was born to experience. My newfound cynicism inspired me to write dark, self-reflective fiction, and I started posting my work to a Tumblr blog I curated during my waking hours — 9 a.m. to 4 a.m.
I was shocked that people on Tumblr seemed to enjoy my writing, but far more astonishing was that one follower was a fairly popular user whose blog I had long admired. All I actually knew about the owner of said blog was that she was also a lesbian, and judging by her profile picture and occasional selfies, was ridiculously cute. She fast became my first real, non-celebrity, 100% confirmed lesbian crush — but I had never spoken a word to this girl in my life.
I knew that even if nothing came of this, I at least wanted to give it a shot.
A few weeks later , I received a private message from her.
Whatever short sentence she wrote me is now a blur. What I do remember is blushing in front of my computer screen, my heart racing, and feeling a familiar sense of embarrassment over the extent to which I liked this mysterious person. I literally had nervous sweats. But I tried to keep calm, and plucked up the courage to send her a reply.
She told me her name was Alyssa, that she was 21 years old and lived in Texas. Texas. I lived on the south coast of the United Kingdom, a whole 4678 miles away. Incredibly deflated, I tried to shatter the hesitant daydreams I crafted over the weeks I had spent endlessly scrolling her blog. Instead, I mused about how pretty Alyssa’s name sounded and welcomed days spent in almost constant dialogue with her.
As I gleaned from her Tumblr posts, Alyssa was intelligent, cultured, and kind. Days after our initial exchange, I accidentally hit the video call button on Snapchat (I swear it was a mistake!); to my surprise, she accepted the call and I was suddenly face-to-face with her in real time. She offered a nervous “hi” in the American accent I’d longed to hear. When our eyes met, we both quickly looked away. Then, Alyssa shyly tucked a strand of shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ear while the corner of her mouth turned upward. My heart blew up.
We talked for four hours that night — until the sun was rising on my side of the world. For the first time, I felt completely unashamed of my sexuality. I felt safe with Alyssa in a way that I never had with anyone else. My whole being felt at ease, and I was warm and happy in conversation with her. Alyssa looked happy too, and as I fell asleep at dawn, I knew that even if nothing came of this, I at least wanted to give it a shot.
Alyssa and I continued to speak every day via FaceTime and text. Then, on August 9, 2016, Alyssa officially became my long-distance girlfriend. By the time we finally met in London the following March, we had endured a 280-day-long wait since we first met online.
Seeing Alyssa for the first time was surreal. We had discussed the possibility of our bond simply not translating from the screen to real life, but as soon as we hugged I knew that everything was going to be alright. Alyssa was just as beautiful as she appeared on FaceTime, and I couldn’t believe that she — that any of this — was real. From the quick first kiss we shared on a street corner outside of Starbucks to the way she laughed as I tried to not spill my nacho dip at the pub, it all felt perfect.
Two days after Alyssa flew home, I had no choice but to come out to my family when my mother guessed that there was “something going on” between me and Alyssa. Having met Alyssa briefly and only as my “friend,” my family took some time to process the fact that she was my girlfriend, but they were supportive. I ended up spending the entire summer in Texas with Alyssa and her family before I moved to New Jersey for the fall semester. I was lucky enough to see Alyssa every few weeks.
After spending the summer together , living so many miles apart became much more difficult. Money always dictated the frequency of our visits. Time inched by when we were apart, yet flew past when we were together. We cried on FaceTime a lot — we missed each other; we were lonely. At the same time, we held tight to the notion that distance was making our relationship stronger, and that compared to this, we’d be able to deal with whatever should come our way in the future. Even on days when the pain felt unbearable, we vowed to make the miles count and build each other back up.
Although it felt like forever, it wasn’t terribly long before we were together again — Alyssa was accepted to pursue her master’s degree at my university in the U.K. the following January. After months of sacrificing our time, money, and sleep (working with a time difference isn’t easy), we were both elated by the acceptance email that gave us our chance at a real future together. Long distance did in fact make us stronger and more grateful for the little things, like napping together and being able to actually kiss each other, and together we are happier and more excited for life than ever.
When I think back to how we met, I feel so lucky. Out of millions of people on the internet, the fact that we found each other has led me to believe that fate does indeed exist. We now have the life that we dreamed of together, and neither of us can still quite believe it.
Harriet Scott is currently studying communication and media at Bournemouth University. She co-runs an Instagram account with her girlfriend that promotes LGBTQ+ equality and mental wellbeing.
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I was pleasantly surprised when she invited me into the house after I had introduced myself and said I wanted to speak to her. I gaped as she led me into that magnificent compound. I was nervous, confused and at the same time afraid. She excused me for some minutes in order to put her things into the room. I lied to her that I was alright when she asked what I cared for. I was, in fact, very hungry and thirsty, but her very presence was more satisfying to me than a royal banquet. But I was still afraid. What would happen if her father came and asked me what I wanted in the house? Would I be able to tell him? How was I going to start it? Thought after thought came racing through my confused mind like the well fed puppies running about playfully in the compound.
For a moment I forgot my mission and watched the two hairy pets chase each other round the compound. They were of the same size and one could not tell the older one from the younger. Their brightly coloured fur was what differentiated them. One would chase the other to one end of the compound, and as if a well communicated gesture, the fugitive would fall. The superior in this case would pounce on it with its jaws wide open, only to hold it tenderly and playfully. Then after sometime, it would turn and run while the one on the ground would pursue it to the other end of the compound and repeat the same playful fight. It was then that I understood the literal meaning of the Akan proverb: “If you fall me and I also fall for you, we call it play, says the dog.” But would the object of my interest in that house ever fall for me, I thought?
Inside one of the rooms hummed Nigeria's Francis Afunuro's Songs of the Saints. It was my favourite album not because of the originality of the songs but because of the musician's ingenuity. These were popular hymns which had given a good rhythm and the musician's compelling voice made that piece of music spellbinding. I never fail to admire the Nigerians for that. No wonder our music shops and bookshops are filled with their music and books. This very track, which caught my attention so much was entitled, To God Be the Glory. It was usually sung at wedding ceremonies so the rhythm seemed to add some level of urgency to my mission. It calmed me down as I took time to go over the message I had rehearsed a number without times ever since I met her in the library.
When she finally appeared, my heart missed a beat and my mind went blank as never before. She took her seat at the other side of the table, opposite where I sat masking the fear that almost paralyzed me. We introduced ourselves briefly and it was now my turn to say why I was there. It was not an easy task and every vestige of courage seemed to part company with me. Even my throat failed me when I wanted to clear it. She sat still, wearing neither the faintest smile nor a frown. That brief moment of confused silence was like a decade to me. Then I remembered my favourite lines in Nartey Lawe's poem, So Many Rivers to Cross.
I have reached a st
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