The Truth That Waited
There’s a moment I return to often in the therapy room—not a moment that belongs to me exactly, but one I’ve witnessed in many forms. It’s when someone takes a breath, leans into the safety of the space between us, and says quietly, “I think I’ve always known, but I didn’t have the words.” The words they’re referring to might be about queerness, or gender, or something more ineffable, a longing to name what has felt unnameable. That pause—the “I think I’ve always known”—is sacred. It holds within it the beginning of a story that is only now ready to be re-authored.
In narrative therapy, we don’t ask what’s wrong with you? We ask: What story are you living in? Who wrote it? And how do we find your voice again inside it? For many people exploring their sexuality and gender, this question is not theoretical—it’s urgent. Often, we’ve inherited stories we never agreed to. Stories written in silence, in shame, in systems. Stories handed down in glances, rules, and double meanings: “boys don’t cry,” “that’s just a phase,” “don’t bring that up at the table.” These are not neutral stories. They shape us long before we know we can push back.
But even within those dominant narratives, there are cracks. Moments when someone smiled a little too long at a stranger and felt something stir. Times when a word like nonbinary or pansexual brushed past their skin and felt like a second language they’d somehow always spoken. These moments—what we call “unique outcomes” in narrative practice—matter. They are breadcrumbs back to the self.
I think about a client who once told me that they didn’t know how to “prove” their identity, as if naming who they were needed a courtroom defense. We explored where that pressure came from, whose voice had said that proof was required. Then, slowly, we unearthed different voices: a childhood friend who had quietly affirmed them without needing labels, a poem they wrote at 14 that captured a kind of genderless ache. They had already been living parts of their truth—but the dominant story had buried it in questions.
That’s the thing about our stories. They are never entirely erased. They wait. Sometimes hidden, sometimes muffled, but still alive under the weight of other people’s versions of us. Narrative therapy invites us to dust those stories off, not to overwrite everything we’ve been through, but to reclaim authorship. To say, yes, that happened—but this is also true. You can hold complexity. You can grieve and celebrate in the same breath.
This journey is not about choosing a label and sticking to it forever. It’s about cultivating a relationship with your evolving self. Gender and sexuality are not destinations—they’re living, breathing parts of you that deserve to unfold in their own time. For some, this means coming out with clarity and conviction. For others, it means simply holding space for what doesn’t yet have a name. Both are valid. Both are brave.
And along the way, we “re-member”—another narrative term for gathering the voices who affirm us, the people and moments that deserve a seat at our table. Who are the ones who saw you clearly, even when you didn’t yet have language? Sometimes it's a best friend. Sometimes it’s a fictional character. Sometimes, it’s you—at five years old, spinning in clothes that felt like freedom. You can re-invite those versions of yourself to the forefront. You can write them back into the story.
There is so much tenderness in this process. Defining your identity can feel exhilarating, but it can also feel lonely. There is grief here, too—for the years spent hiding, for the people who couldn’t stay, for the dreams delayed. That grief is part of the story, not a contradiction to it. Narrative work makes space for it all.
At Thérapie de Marecheau, we often talk about planting the small things. Moments of insight, acts of defiance, a single word written in a journal. These seeds matter. They grow. And if no one has told you lately: the way you choose to tell your story—the way you name yourself, the way you love—is beautiful. It is worthy. It is enough.
So if you’re reading this and wondering who you’re allowed to be, let me offer this: you do not have to arrive fully formed. You are allowed to ask the questions. You are allowed to change your mind. You are allowed to begin again.
Your story is still being written. And you are the one holding the pen.
Disclaimer:
The content provided on this blog is for informational and educational purposes only and is not intended as a substitute for professional psychological advice, diagnosis, or treatment. The information shared here does not constitute a therapeutic relationship and should not be relied upon as mental health treatment.
Although the author is a licensed mental health professional in the state of Georgia, the content is general in nature and may not be applicable to your individual circumstances. Always seek the advice of a qualified mental health provider or other medical professional with any questions you may have regarding a mental health condition.
To protect the confidentiality of those served, any client narratives or case examples shared on this blog are composites drawn from multiple experiences and are not representative of any one individual.
If you are experiencing a mental health emergency, call 911 or go to your nearest emergency room. You can also contact the National Suicide & Crisis Lifeline by calling or texting 988 for free and confidential support, available 24/7.
