I Was Raised by Pride

And it shaped everything I’ve become as a man, husband, and father

This is the start of my journey to share my story.

I’m a straight, white, male veteran. I’ve been married to the same woman for 33 years. We have three grown children and two grandsons. I hold a bachelor’s degree in economics and a master’s degree in business, both earned while serving in the United States Coast Guard.

I joined the service, turning 20 just six days into bootcamp. I rose from E-1 to E-9 in just seventeen years and eventually retired as a Master Chief Petty Officer. I commanded units, served as Officer in Charge of the busiest Aids to Navigation Team in the Coast Guard, and ended my career as the Command Master Chief of the largest single unit enlisted workforce in the service.

After retiring, I became a federal economist. Along the way, I led one of the most successful youth wrestling programs in Eastern Pennsylvania, coaching athletes from kindergarten through high school.

From the outside, my life probably looks familiar. It would be considered patriotic, stable, and traditional. Maybe even typical. But behind that résumé is a story I’ve never told publicly, until now.

I wasn’t raised in a typical household. I was raised by Pride.

For the first seven years of my life, I lived with my mother, father, and older sister. We looked like what society calls a “standard American family.” But behind closed doors, it was something else entirely.

My father was physically abusive. I saw and felt what that did to my mother. And I was sexually assaulted by someone I was supposed to trust. Someone who identified as straight.

At seven years old, my mother pulled me out of school under police escort and we never went back to that life.

We moved in with a woman named Sue, and for the next six years, I was raised by two women in a household filled with love, safety, and stability.

At home, I had peace. I was so very happy.

Outside that home, I saw hate. I watched my moms and their friends face ridicule, threats, even violence. I saw gay women disowned by their families. I saw gay men beaten in alleys. I learned early that being good, kind, or loving didn’t guarantee you safety or happiness.

I didn’t know how to process it. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be.

I wasn’t gay. But I didn’t fit into what the world told me was “normal,” either.

That confusion pulled me off track. I drifted. I fell in with the wrong crowd. I experimented with the wrong things. I dropped out of school. Quit jobs. I struggled to find my place in a world that told me the only love I had ever known was wrong and that the fear, pain, and abuse I had survived was somehow supposed to be “normal.”

Eventually, I met someone who helped me believe in myself again and slowly, I began to rebuild. I joined the Coast Guard. I found structure and purpose. I worked hard. I succeeded. I became a husband and a father. I built a life.

But I stayed quiet about the abuse. I was ashamed and unsure I even had the right to name it for what it was.

I didn’t talk about growing up in a queer household. I was afraid of rejection, hate, and what might follow if I opened that door.

People accepted me for who I appeared to be, but I was never truly seen for where I came from.

I’m telling these stories now because I know I’m not alone. I never was.

But more than that, I’m telling them because everything I’ve become, a husband, a father, a veteran, a leader, was made possible by the love, safety, and stability I found in a home led by two women.

That foundation shaped my character. It gave me the confidence to serve my country, raise a family, and overcome the darkest parts of my past.

I didn’t succeed in spite of being raised in a gay household. I succeeded because of it.

My moms had to be careful. For their safety. For their jobs. For me. So we kept it quiet. That was the message: keep it a secret and you’ll be safer.

I understand why they made that choice. But I also hate what it taught me. It taught me that love had to be hidden, and that silence was the cost of survival.

As much as I love my moms, I hate that I learned to keep quiet. I hate that I never had the guts to be more outspoken, more open, more of an advocate.

But I can’t be quiet anymore.

My silence doesn’t help anyone. And it’s time to stop worrying about what people might think.

It’s time to share.

I’m telling these stories for myself. For my children. For my moms. For others like me. Especially the ones who’ve never seen their stories told. For LGBTQ+ parents and families trying to understand what their kids might feel. For professionals who work with families and want to do better. For anyone who’s ever assumed that love only looks one way.

Sexual orientation never mattered. Love did. Safety did. Dignity did.

I was raised by Pride. And it’s time to talk about what that really means.

This is just the beginning.

I’ll be sharing stories about what it was like growing up in a queer household in the 1980s. The love I received, the hate I witnessed, the silence I learned, and the strength I carry. I’ll talk about how it shaped my relationships, my career, my identity, and my path forward as a father, husband, and human being.

Join me as I unpack what it means to be raised by Pride and what that experience can teach all of us about love, family, and the power of finally speaking out.

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