From birth, women are conditioned to believe that their worth is inextricably tied to their relationships

with men. This is called compulsory heterosexuality—the idea that straightness is the default, and any

deviation must be questioned, resisted, or “fixed.” Lesbians grow up in a world that assumes they must be

attracted to men, that one day they’ll find “the right guy,”. From birth little girls' minds are packed full

with fantasies of prince charming’s, filled with dreams of weddings and husbands. Society reinforces that

any love they have for other women is secondary, experimental, or temporary. This conditioning makes it

even harder for lesbians to be believed when they come out. People act as if we’re rebelling, confused, or

working through some unresolved trauma. But the reality is, many of us have spent years untangling

ourselves from society’s great web of expectations just to be able to recognize and accept our own

personhood.

Some of my first memories growing up are of having crushes on girls in class, it felt natural, while any

attraction to boys never quite took root. I’d choose boys who seemed “good enough,” and any fleeting

connection was a pale echo of what I really wanted. The confusion and frustration I felt when my young

relationships looked and more importantly felt nothing like what my peers described was an

insurmountable weight in my earliest teen years. Thankfully for me though I had been exposed to queer

people, and lesbians and came from an accepting family. I came out as bisexual in sixth grade when I was

only eleven years old. Even fresh into my adolescence identifying as a queer woman felt for the first time

in my life like something clicked, it was right. My first girlfriend--a whirlwind of young love was

validation that I was becoming exactly who I was meant to be. It was not always rainbows though no pun

intended, I may have experienced joy and contentment with my newly found love but that did not erase an

entire society pushing heterosexual norms on to me making me question, would I grow out of this? Was I

too young to feel this way for girls? Did it make me a pervert to have crushes on my friends? All of these

queries not an outgrowth of a developing mind alone but ideals society reinforces continually.

Being a lesbian isn’t a debate, a phase, or a performance for anyone else’s approval. Yet, for many,

simply existing means being subjected to constant interrogation, ridicule, and erasure. Society demands

proof—proof that we’re “really” lesbians, proof that we won’t “change our minds,” proof that we aren’t

just “doing it for attention.” But the truth is, we don’t owe anyone validation. From the moment a woman

identifies as a lesbian, the questioning begins. “Are you sure?” “Have you even been with a man?” “What

if you just haven’t met the right guy?” “But you’ve had a boyfriend before” It’s as if a woman’s attraction

to other women is not legitimate unless she first gives men a chance. Straight people rarely face this kind

of scrutiny—no one demands that a straight woman date a woman before she can truly be sure she’s

straight. Yet, lesbians are treated as though their orientation needs to be tested, questioned, or proven like

a scientific experiment. Before I was ready to come out publicly, I spent countless hours on the phone

with my best friend, Connor—an openly gay man—gathering what I thought was evidence that I was

truly a lesbian and not just bisexual with a preference. Over time, after more than a decade of being out,

Connor joked that I had been waiting in the court of heterosexuality for some elusive judge to declare,

“The evidence is sufficient; the ruling now stands: you, Teagen Windham, are gay.” In that moment, I

realized that the only person who could validate my identity was me. I had to work through what society

had instilled in me my whole life and deconstructing those ideas is not one that happens overnight or in a

linear trajectory. It was a product of years of questioning and not understanding exactly who I was or if I

even needed to know, to define it clearly.

Then there’s the way society, especially mainstream media, reduces us to a fetish-- a pornography

category. Our portrayals in pop culture usually cater to straight men’s fantasies rather than reflecting the

real, lived experiences of lesbians. I’ve faced countless inappropriate, suggestive questions about my

relationships, been propositioned by men who seem to view our love as a spectacle, and endured

vulgarities that no one should have to hear. This over-sexualization is not harmless—it fuels

harassment, invalidates our relationships, and makes it even harder for people to take our identities

seriously. On an unremarkable summer day in Louisville, my girlfriend and I were savoring the sunshine,

completely unaware of what was about to unfold. We strolled hand in hand, giddy, full of love when

suddenly, a stranger spat at us and shouted a hateful anti-lesbian slur, In that instant, the warmth of the

day was gone.

We immediately filed a police report and trudged through every legal avenue available, determined to

hold someone accountable for this. But despite all the legal steps, the reality would never change—we

were still spit on, left with an indelible mark of hate. No amount of legal recourse can erase the personal

violation or the pain of that moment. Events like these reminds queer women like myself, that our

personal lives—our loves, our hurts, our triumphs—are inherently political. Women's experiences should

not be confined by societal norms designed to police our bodies and relationships and punish us when we

step out of line. Yet, this truth carries its own burden. Living our lives in a world so steeped in politics

means that every act of love, every moment of defiance, is automatically weighed down by societal

expectations and the constant threat of backlash and even violence. I know I am not alone in my fears of

holding hands in public, being honest about my partner to strangers in a world where people too often

responds with intolerance or violence. In the face of hate—like that day in Louisville—choosing to love

openly becomes not only a celebration of our identity but also a heavy responsibility. Our personal acts of

resistance are both liberating and laden with awareness that our very existence is a political statement.

Lesbians love women. That love isn’t about men, it doesn’t exist for men, and it isn’t here to entertain

them.