What's On

Being queer can be beautiful, joyful, messy… and exhausting.

The exhausting isn’t on us. It’s on a system that just hasn’t caught on to how
extraordinarily fabulous we are.

As a result, we’re forced to navigate coming out of the closet every second day,
loneliness, violence, rejection, and fear – fear of people turning away from us, fear a
particular colour might make our ass look fat, and fear of what high humidity might
do to our perfectly coifed hair. Or, if you’re bald like me, what it’ll do to your beard!

We juggle a lot.

For queer writers, we don’t always juggle those experiences privately. We turn them
into art.

Writing has always been one of the ways marginalised people survive, thrive, and
inspire change. We have been writing our way into existence, and into love stories,
for centuries.

Writing, particularly for those of us writing romance, can sometimes include an
exploration of identity, trauma, shame, rejection, sex, love, religion, family, violence,
and belonging. Many of us dive into our own lives to find inspiration, which can feel
like doing open-heart surgery on yourself without an anaesthetic. Particularly if
you’re queer and grew up in an environment where being yourself felt dangerous.

A lot of queer writers carry what mental health professionals call ‘minority stress.’
That’s the cumulative psychological impact of living in a society where you receive
the message that you are ‘other.’ That stress can be overt: bullying, abuse,
discrimination and rejection. It can be quieter and more insidious: the joke a work
mate makes, or a family member makes at a gathering. For many of us, it creates a
constant background hum of vigilance.

We’re social creatures, even those of us who identify as introverts. Our nervous
systems are hard-wired for connection and, through connection, safety. When
belonging feels conditional, the brain and body pay attention and keep us prepared
for the possibility of becoming unsafe.

Over time, that chronic stress and, in some instances, trauma from rejection or
violence, can contribute to higher rates of anxiety, depression, substance use, self-
esteem issues, hypervigilance, social isolation, and emotional burnout. Some in our community might argue that things have gotten better, or that coming out is easier
now, but the simple truth is acceptance isn’t universal, nor is it linear or guaranteed.
For a lot of queer people, authenticity carries frightening consequences.

Writers face an additional layer of vulnerability because the work itself often
becomes personal – we draw from our own experiences, often risking triggering or
re-traumatising ourselves. On top of that, our readers interpret what we write in a
way that works for them. And often, without realising it, when they critique our work,
they’re critiquing our lives.

Queer writers can find themselves caught between a rock and a hard place:
“Write your truth but protect the guilty and protect yourself.”
“Be vulnerable, but marketable.”
“Be visible but roll with the criticisms.”

It’s overwhelming, confronting, and emotionally dysregulating.

So, how do queer writers protect their mental health while still creating work they can be proud of?

First, BOUNDARIES. They’re our first line of defence. Our soldiers who stand guard
around the castle that is us.

Not every part of our lives needs to become public content. Social media has created
an environment where everyone feels pressure to perform, as well as an
unconscious urge to share everything and share it now.

If you feel that way, reframe. We’re allowed to have private joy, private grief, private
relationships, private failures, and private successes. None of us owes any stranger
unlimited access to our lives.

If you’re going to plumb the depths of your life, and especially your trauma to write
authentically, proceed with care and know your non-negotiables.

Second, community matters. Not just the queer community, but your tribe, your
people. If you’re like me and live in a rural area you might not have a queer
community around you, but hopefully you’ll have friends, family, or found family who
are there for you.

Psychologically, community acts as a protective factor against stress and trauma - it reminds us we are not navigating the world alone. For queer people, affirming
communities can become profound spaces that stabilise us, ground us, uplift us,
challenge us, and move us forward. One of the best things that community does is
provide relief - respite from having to adapt, change, translate, and defend
ourselves.

There is little that is more healing than being able to enter a space and simply exist
in it without having to explain yourself.

Lastly, reach out for help if you need it. There are helplines and support services in
every state and territory in Australia, and there are queer-specific mental health
professionals. Often, talking about what you’re feeling will alleviate stress and help
your healing process. You’re not alone, even if sometimes you feel like you are.

Please remember, the world needs queer voices, queer stories, and queer love
stories. It always has. Every story we share creates space for someone else to feel
seen and a little less alone.