That matters, because consent requires understanding. If I did not understand the structure I was being put into, then it is not fair to hold me to an unrealistic version of who people expected me to be inside that structure. By the time I asked to be exited, it felt like my request was interpreted as ingratitude instead of as a sign that something was not working for me. 

That is part of why the isolation became so painful. It was not because I had not tried. It was not because I was lazy, unwilling, or refusing to do the work. I tried everything I knew how to try. I asked questions. I looked for answers. I tried to understand the systems around me. I tried to advocate for myself. I tried to build a life while also trying to survive the consequences of not fully understanding what I had been placed inside of. 

Things have gotten really sterilized in the past couple of years. While it's a good thing that people don't have to go through the exact struggles that those who came up before them faced, there needs to be some awareness of the sacrifices people made—not just at Stonewall decades ago, but right here in our lifetime—to give people the room and space to be who they are.

The women I knew showed me a strength that wasn't soft. It was gritty, it was harsh, it was part of the culture, and it was earned respect. People like my friends Bianca, Bambi, and Blair—just to name a few—were huge, influential figures in shaping the person I am now. They taught me about community and how to live as a role model. They are some of the most genuinely feminine and the best women I've ever met in my life.

That is what I mean when I talk about poverty and housing instability. It is not always some big dramatic moment people can point to. Sometimes it is little stuff that sounds ridiculous until you are the one living it. A missing towel can look like disorganization. Running out of toilet paper can look like poor planning. Letting things pile up can look like laziness. But inside my head it was never that simple. It was always another calculation, another compromise, another thing I did not have the energy to explain. 

I would ask myself things like, what can I live without this week? If I do not have towels, can I just air dry? If I do not have toilet paper, can I get in the shower every time I use the bathroom? If I cannot replace everything, what is the least impossible option? 

People have called me paranoid. I call it pattern recognition. When you grow up watching people shift before they hurt you, you learn the signs. You learn tone, timing, silence, paperwork, body language, the little change in a room before somebody decides you are the problem. That is not always paranoia. Sometimes that is survival still doing its job. 

I wish people understood that being alert is not the same thing as being crazy. I am not inventing the room. I am reading it. I am reading the pause before someone lies. I am reading the email that suddenly changes tone. I am reading who gets protected and who gets blamed. Maybe I read too much sometimes. Maybe I do. But I would rather be accused of noticing too much than go back to being somebody who did not see it coming. 

That matters, because consent requires understanding. If I did not understand the structure I was being put into, then it is not fair to hold me to an unrealistic version of who people expected me to be inside that structure. By the time I asked to be exited, it felt like my request was interpreted as ingratitude instead of as a sign that something was not working for me. 

That is part of why the isolation became so painful. It was not because I had not tried. It was not because I was lazy, unwilling, or refusing to do the work. I tried everything I knew how to try. I asked questions. I looked for answers. I tried to understand the systems around me. I tried to advocate for myself. I tried to build a life while also trying to survive the consequences of not fully understanding what I had been placed inside of.