APRIL 22, 2026

 

This past Sunday, I did something I never thought I would do. I took a ride down into Seattle to a local shop to get my first tattoo ever. 

When I first got into the chair, I wasn’t sure what to expect. The purple-lined faux leather recliner reminded me this was a bit more clinical and carried some level of risk with it. Yet here I was, my right arm exposed and ready to do the thing I’ve always wanted to do. 

My decision to get this done was born out of a desire for me to be known. To the world, of course, but also for me. I wanted the way I felt on the inside to match the way I looked on the outside. Stepping into that studio was the best way to do this. 

For years I thought about what kind of art I would want on my sleeve. As a creative, I knew my choice would be a constant reminder of who I was. I wanted it to be as beautiful and symbolic as possible. 

The ’80s rockstar aesthetic, especially that of Pat Benatar and Joan Jett, has always had a special place in my heart. The black tank tops with graphics on the front, the jeans and boots, the short and mildly spiky haircut, the cool tattoo on the upper arm – it all worked for me. The aesthetic was perfect, and for nearly 40 years, I paced myself as I slowly developed this aesthetic to my liking. The tattoo would have to wait, though. I couldn’t bring myself to do that yet. It didn’t seem like something I was ready for. 

And then life happened. Everything changed in an instant. My husband of 18 years left me. Even my children eventually left me. I was diagnosed with autism and ADHD. And somewhere in the middle of all this, I found myself asking who I was when nobody else was around. Because nobody else was. 

Like the woman in the story The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, I, too, found that it drove me crazy to be alone with my thoughts. Yet, for both of us, the solitude also provided clarity about our situations that could not be unseen. She, like I did, had to make a choice about her life. 

However, I did not want my outcome to look like hers. Rather than take my own life away to save me from suffering, I welcomed the part of me that could not make sense of the world the way I saw it. Her story does not end well, neither the author nor the character’s, and unfortunately continues the message that women like her and I are better off dead, and don’t deserve to live.

August 17, 2025

This was the day I made the very tough decision to finally give away my wedding dress. It was over 20 years old and no one would buy it online. Rather than holding on to it for an undetermined length of time, I had finally posted the dress online, and within a couple days, the dress was gone. This day was a bit of an unremarkable one, yet it was one of the most important days of my life. The woman that picked it up from my doorstep stayed for a 20-minute conversation about the story of the dress and my life. We shared important details about one another, but it was her parting words to me that I will never forget: “Don’t go back to him. You’ll regret it.”

I thought at first she was projecting her own concerns onto me, and that she was basing her opinion of the situation on her own experience with her own marriage. Given what I have learned since then about myself, it all makes perfect sense, now. I won’t go back, because there is no door left open for me to return through. 

That same week, starting around Thursday, I really started to think about who I was if I weren’t a wife. If I weren’t a mother. I remember telling my first therapist I wanted to go back and be the person I was before I got married, before I stepped into the lifestyle so many people blindly walk into without even thinking. As I dictated this reflection outside, in the presence of the singing birds with my dog resting by my side, I still considered how things would have been different for me. 

That evening I watched a movie version of the story mentioned above, and it was as captivating as the original story I read in college. Immediately following the movie I found a copy to listen to while I did my yoga. With each stretch, I listened to and recalled the detail of the story line. It had been over 30 years since I read that story. Listening to it brought it back to life for me, as though I was resurrecting a memory I had been subconsciously repressing. For a couple days I continued to ask myself who I was, deep down inside. I was going to get my answer soon. I remember making my bed, tussling the pink leopard bedspread and sheets, telling myself that I knew the answer to this question. As is my style, however, I found myself posing a question to the universe as if I was playing a game with an invisible pawn. I instructed myself to not let the thought go away if it was indeed the truth. I had done this before when I had cancer and it worked out in my favor, effectively saving my life. Given I was approaching another crossroads and already stood in the station, I knew I would get the answer I needed. 

And then I did. 

August 23, 2025

I woke up, and immediately felt something come online for me. I smiled, and spoke these words into existence: “I am a lesbian.” It was a knowing, a revelation, and a simple fact that was unchangeable. It was a sign of healing, not brokenness. I experienced a joy unlike any other I’ve felt since.

Life, however, never proceeds in a straight line (no pun intended). I’ve had many obstacles in my way since that day and moment in time, yet I still find myself coming back to this truth. This is who I am and I’ve always been this way. There’s no going back to my former life or the way things used to be. I finally found my true identity, and am ready to rest in the safety of that personal truth. 

April 19, 2026

The day I got my tattoo was the day I decided the art to be permanently displayed on my upper arm would be a pair of dark purple violets, lightly overlapping at the stem. As I celebrate Lesbian Visibility Week this week and Earth Day today, I find it fitting to use nature to symbolize my true nature as a human being…this time around. 

ANNOUNCING THE REVEALED STORY PRESS

As part of the revealed story for today’s post, I am formally announcing the birth of my brand new publishing house, hereafter referred to as The Revealed Story Press. Officially founded April 11, 2026, this press is a self-publishing house, and I am proud to declare it a lesbian-owned small business, focused on publishing creative writing. My literature focuses on women, women’s issues, radical feminism and works to prevent the erasure of women and lesbians, in both art, culture, and society as a whole. The goal is to remind myself, my sisters, and the rest of the world, that we exist. We’ve always existed and we will continue to be seen and heard. 

Today’s story, in honor of Earth Day, and Lesbian Visibility Week, is a piece of flash fiction called “Shrinking Violet.” The story is a reminder that although lesbian and women’s mental health is a real issue, we are not broken. We never were. I hope you enjoy the story, and may you have a beautiful week being visible in every way possible. ⚢