I’ll never forget the night I came out to my family. I honestly never felt I needed to, as I was in a longterm-relationship with a man, so I had no intentions of ever doing so. That was until one night at my grandparents’ house when an argument erupted.

My grandparents were fairly traditional Italian/Italian-American and Catholic. My family would go to their house all the time. I would walk to their house during the week for lunch or after school. They hosted family dinners every Sunday. Normally it is a nice time. This time, with the news on, it sparked an argument from my mother and grandmother about gay marriage.

While we frequently get into it with my mother, this was the first time an argument had escalated like this with my grandmother. In particular, this time my brother was incredibly emotionally charged. He was about to storm out of the house, but instead we stepped into the next room and that was where he confided in me that he was gay. He was unable to even utter those words aloud, only typing it on his notes app and showing me. When we returned to the main room, my mother was coaxing my brother as to why he was so upset by what they were saying. I decided that was the time to take the heat off him and admit to my family that I was bisexual. It was not perfectly timed or a heart-to-heart so much as it erupted out of me. I want people to know that visibility doesn’t always look like pride flags; sometimes it’s a fight I didn’t plan on having. In this moment of visibility, I was defending my brother and, by extension, myself. I wouldn’t change that for the world.

This photograph was not from that night, but looking back on this later, I realize it does remind me of it. Here, I am slumped over a chair and ottoman scrolling on my phone in my grandparents’ wood paneled family room. I am dressed in a gown and a winter jacket, having just gotten back from a “Friendsgiving” at a Taco Bell. This photograph captures the layers that exist in a family as a queer person. I am actually quite comfortable lying like this, resting and digesting, but people could look at this and think I am being a kind of contortionist. I am surrounded by warmth of the wooden walls and floor, the ochre furniture, the well-used dog bed, and the photograph of my grandparents looking over me, yet, I am dressed in cool tones and my body position still seems to convey tension amidst all of this.This image does not capture the argument itself, but rather the complexities of existing authentically among family across multiple generations, in a space that is normally safe and feels like home, even more so than my own house growing up. This image feels like a release, sitting in the quiet tension in the aftermath of the fight.

We don’t really talk about this particular night. I think we let my grandmother forget about all of this as she ages and her memory fades, but there has been ongoing stress with my mother and brother for the last few years since. I don’t believe it is possible to sever our family bonds; not being accepted is just something we and my mother must tolerate in this relationship.

The photograph overlooking me at times feels comforting, but it can also feel like I am being surveilled. I think I will have to continue to navigate existing as myself and in the context of my and my family’s history