I don’t know if I would call myself a late bloomer, but coming out to my mom was something that didn’t happen until my twenties had begun. I didn’t make a big deal out of the announcement because I had such a strong relationship with my mom up to that point. Sure I expected the initial shock, but anticipated that it would be closely followed by acceptance and pride. I was even so bold to casually mention it days before Christmas while I was home visiting. The reaction, the tears, anger and disappointment that followed was something I was in no way prepared for. My mom said some things I never would have imagined, including many lines I swear she stole from television shows. We were a devastated pair. I had ruined Christmas.
The worst part was that my dreams of sharing this aspect of my life with her were squashed. Meeting my partner or going to Pride with me were things I now felt we could never experience together, but I desperately wanted to.
Two and a half years later, during a hungover Saturday morning of Pride weekend, a text message changed the world. It was mom. She was downtown. On Church St. In a beer garden. Wondering where the hell I was.
I hauled my ass out of bed and joined her, roommate and boyfriend in tow. We spent the afternoon drinking, dancing and getting my mom all of the temporary tattoos and Pride flags we could find. It was a day I was sure would never be able to have. It was the first time since I came out that I felt that she was proud of me. And I was proud of her.