My Story: How I found myself between laughter, silence and love

If you ever see a girl laughing too loudly by the lagoon or slouching dramatically on the benches at linear park inside the Polytechnic University of the Philippines’ (PUP) campus with her friends, that’s probably me—Yuki. I live for those quick breaks between classes. That’s when the world feels lighter. We discuss everything from annoying professors to the next best hangout spot. I make people laugh. I bounce between stories, cracking jokes. I guess people would call me… the extrovert. The life of the group.

They say I never run out of energy. That I light up the space I walk into. That I make strangers feel like friends. And maybe that’s true. On campus, I’m all smiles. But I’ve learned that it’s possible to laugh with the world and still feel alone when the lights go out.

There were nights—quiet, cruel nights—where I lay still, curled in bed while the rest of the house slept. The group chats stopped buzzing. Assignments were done. The darkness would settle like a heavy blanket and I’d cry silently, trying not to wake anyone. I felt like I was the only one left navigating this endless maze, questioning who I really was, wondering why I felt so… different.

I grew up watching my parents go their separate ways, start new families, build lives without each other—and sometimes, without me. I pretended it didn’t bother me. I laughed louder, talked more. But deep down, there was always a quiet voice that asked, Where do I really belong?

Since I was a kid, I always knew I liked girls. But I buried it under layers of denial. When people would ask, I’d rush to say, “I’m straight!”—like it was a shield, like saying it louder made it true.

High school was the worst. I dressed how I wanted—shorts, pants, oversized tees. Comfortable. Me. But people didn’t let it go. “Why don’t you wear dresses?” “Do you like girls?” I hated how a simple outfit became a courtroom, and I was always on trial. I wasn’t even sure who I was yet, and they wanted answers.

The truth? I just wanted to exist. To breathe. To live without being defined by fabric choices.

College changed everything. It felt like the first place that didn’t demand an explanation. I found people who didn’t just tolerate me—they saw me. I finally said it: “I’m bisexual.” And just like that, the weight began to lift.

But coming out isn’t a switch. It’s not a grand announcement. It’s a journey—sometimes slow, sometimes painful, always personal. I got lucky. My friends were proud of me. My parents, despite all our differences, had always loved me for who I was—even before I said it out loud.

My grandmother was the last piece of the puzzle. That one took time. But love, when it’s real, makes space. And eventually, she did too.

When people ask how I did it, I tell them this: Just chill. Be normal. Coming out doesn’t have to be dramatic. You don’t owe anyone a speech. You don’t have to “act” gay or bi or whatever label you’ve come to embrace. You just have to be you. That’s more than enough.

College was my eye-opener. It forced me to sit with myself, to finally answer all the questions I’d kept running from. I heard stories from other LGBTQ+ students, and every single one of them helped me feel a little less alone. They became mirrors that reflected parts of myself I didn’t know I had the right to love.

I’ve realized one thing above all else: before anyone else can accept you, you have to love yourself first. Fiercely. Unapologetically. Even if your family is broken. Even if your heart is still healing.

I won’t pretend it’s easy for everyone. I know there are people out there still afraid. Still hiding. Still unsure. To them, I want to say: Don’t rush. Don’t let others define your pace. This journey is yours and yours alone. And believe me, it’s worth it.

One day, you’ll look back—like I do now—and whisper to your younger self, We made it. We figured it out. We can finally be who we are, without fear, without shame. And it feels so damn good to be happy.

And that? That’s the best kind of freedom.