As I grew up as a queer and trans person, my definition of family began to shift early on.an to shift early on. Because of my identity, not all my blood relatives were willing to accept me as their family. So, like many people in the LGBTQ+ community, I had to form my own.Chosen families are not new in the LGBTQ+ community — many of us start our own to share mutual aid, create safe spaces where we can belong, and support each other through life’s inevitable ups and downs.
In my chosen family, we show up for each other in countless ways: creating meal trains when someone is sick or postpartum, supporting a friend facing a crisis pregnancy, taking shifts during a friend’s mental health crisis to ensure their safety. I have dozens of stories like this, including my own. I called on my chosen family to support me throughout my recovery — and they showed up. They picked me up after surgery, gave me pain medication, changed my bandages, fed me crackers and soup and reminded me to hydrate from the extra-long straw that a loved one purchased for me. They all had to adjust their work schedules to ensure I had the love and support I needed.
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