Blog

by Krisha Pipwala

There are stories that the world buries.
And then there are stories that live in the body, even when the mouth stays shut. This is one of those stories.
A story not just about legends or ancient texts, but about real people—breathing, breaking, surviving—who are born into bodies that don’t feel like home, or hearts that fall in love the “wrong” way. But what if I told you these people were once celebrated? What if I told you that kings and queens, those who shaped history, once lived like them? Before there were laws. Before shame. Before someone decided that being yourself was a crime.
There was King Birendra of Nepal, who supported the trans and queer communities, or Queen Christina of Sweden, who defied gender norms in the 17th century.

The Sacred That Was Always Fluid

Kings and queens, like Queen Christina of Sweden, broke boundaries in their time.
Christina ruled as a monarch in Sweden during the 17th century, known for her unconventional behavior and resistance to marriage, which was not only a rejection of societal norms but a profound act of self-expression. She is often considered one of the first royal figures whose identity and love transcended the rigid constraints of gender.

Similarly, King Edward II of England was involved in deep, well-documented relationships with men, especially with his lover Piers Gaveston, a relationship that scandalized medieval society. Edward’s love, which defied norms, lived in history—not as a crime, but as part of a larger, often hidden, truth. These were not just people breaking the rules—they were people living their truth.

When Knowing Yourself Hurts

Let me tell you about a boy I knew in college. He wasn’t loud about who he was. He didn’t wear rainbows or shout his identity. He just existed a little more gently than others. Spoke softly. Looked away too quickly. He once told me, late at night, after a few drinks, when the world felt a little less sharp. That he knew he liked boys since he was twelve. But he spent the next decade praying it would go away.

He fasted hoping it would make him straight.
He tried to date girls because he didn’t want to shame his mother.
He cried when he bought his first pride-colored wristband... and never wore it outside his room.
He said the hardest part wasn’t being gay. It was pretending he wasn’t. It was watching his friends talk about their crushes while he edited his own feelings out of every sentence. It was imagining a life he’d never be allowed to have. And when he finally came out to his parents, they said, “We wish you had cancer instead. At least that can be cured.”

The Moment Before the Truth

Before someone comes out to the world, they come out to themselves. And that moment? It’s quiet. It’s terrifying.
It’s the ache you feel when you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the body staring back.
It’s watching love stories on TV and realizing none of them include you.
It’s whispering your truth into a pillow, just to hear how it sounds.
Many people think coming out is dramatic or attention-seeking. But often, it’s whispered. Written in private journals. Typed into anonymous forums. Spoken once, softly — and then buried again for years. Because saying the truth means risking everything.

How They Love in Hiding

Love comes anyway. Even when the world isn’t ready.
I knew a couple, Let’s call them A and M. Two women who had been together for almost five years. They met at work. Became best friends. Everyone just thought they were “really close.”

They went on vacations and posted separate photos.
They celebrated anniversaries with secret gifts.
One of them was forced into marriage by her family. She tried to run. Her parents threatened suicide.
She stayed. And M watched the woman she loved marry someone else. She smiled through the wedding photos. And then she went home and threw up in the bathroom. That’s what love looks like when you don’t have the right to name it.

The Damage We Don’t See

What does it do to someone to live like that? Here’s what it does:
It creates a constant low hum of fear. Like you’re always about to be discovered.
It teaches you to shrink. To walk softer. To speak less. To apologize for things you haven't done.
It tells you that you will only be loved if you perform the right version of yourself.

And the statistics speak what people don’t.
LGBTQ+ youth are 5 times more likely to attempt suicide.
Over half report symptoms of depression, anxiety, and PTSD before they even turn 18.
Many are forced into heterosexual marriages just to stop the questions.
I’ve seen people stay in marriages that felt like cages, just because they couldn’t bear the thought of losing their parents. I’ve seen trans girls scrub their faces raw trying to be "boy enough" for one more day. This is not love. This is survival.

The Kings and Queens Who Never Rejected Them

We did. We, as society, as families, as communities, decide who gets to be holy and who doesn’t. But the royal families didn’t write them off.
Take Queen Christina of Sweden—her refusal to follow traditional gender roles caused a stir in Europe, but she never bowed to pressure. She lived unapologetically, even adopting a masculine persona, and leaving behind a legacy of defiance.
King Edward II of England, despite being one of the most criticized kings for his love of men, did not live a life of shame. The love he had for Piers Gaveston, though a cause of political tension, remained unashamed.

Where did we learn that queerness is wrong? Not from our history. Not from our kings and queens. We learned it from fear. From colonizers. From silence passed down like inheritance. It’s time to unlearn.

What We Owe Them

We owe queer people more than tolerance. We owe them:
Homes where they don’t have to lie.
Families that celebrate them, not survive them.
Friendships where they can exhale.
Love that doesn’t have to hide behind closed curtains.

Because they are not a mistake. They are not broken. They are not going through a phase. They are not shameful. They are sacred. Just like the royals who came before them. Just like the stories we forgot.

Let the Love Be Free

Let the girl who looks in the mirror and says “I am a boy” be met with a hug, not a correction.
Let the boy who tells his father “I like boys” be met with a question, not a slap.
Let the couple who want to hold hands in public do so without fear.
Let every child grow up believing they are not a sin. Because the divine is not male or female. 

The divine is truth.

The divine is love.

And love — real love — was never meant to hide.