I was born in 1980 to my parents—an interracial couple who fell in love and bravely chose one another, despite racial, familial, and cultural expectations. And two and half decades later, I followed the same courageous act, by coming out to my family, despite similar reactions to my truth.
My journey wasn’t easy, straight forward or clear. It took years to come out and to feel confident enough in my true self to stand by myself. Part of that process was feeling like being gay wasn’t an option for me, and that being a woman meant you had to protect yourself from people. Men were dangerous, especially if you were alone in the public domain; and women grew up crippled by sexism, objectification and mean girl culture. But in most queer circles, acceptance and liberation, connection and understanding were the norms. These spaces felt like inclusion and belonging was a given, not something you had to prove or dissect, mold or contort, risk or protect.
In the ‘90s, there was little media representation on queer or lesbian life and culture. I’d have to wait until The L Word series to feel supported in a fictitious community that I could be part of and thrive in. The only kiss I ever saw in real life was two Goth girls in high school, which I found brave and beautiful, filing it away in my head for a later date to process. And again, over a summer science program at Smith College, when I saw our Resident Assistant with a woman on top of her in bed, kissing. I wondered how to even flirt with a woman, let alone get so physically and consensually close to be intimate. That not only felt radical, but it also felt like a boldness that I had to rediscover from my childhood into young adulthood.
Finally, during a college internship in NYC, I experienced my first infatuation with a woman sixteen years older than me. She was vibrant, confident and androgynous. But I lacked language to communicate what I was experiencing when we had outward displays of affection. I crumbled in my internalized homophobia. I already felt othered due to my appearance as a mixed-race woman. It was a spotlight I wanted to avoid.
I had grown up in a predominantly white neighborhood in New Jersey, and from a young age was asked “What are you?” daily by adults curious about my ethnic background. They’d also ask me where my people were from, as if being American couldn’t be the baseline.
When I first whispered to myself that I might be a lesbian, I was in my last attempt to be in a serious relationship with a man. I loved my boyfriend, but the squashing of my interest in women was loud. It reverberated the social expectation, familial silence, and the subtle, steady pressure of invisibility. Until a beautiful misunderstanding between me and another volunteer musician from Brazil at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls in Portland, Oregon led to us kissing and my knees dropping to the floor, making me feel like I was levitating.
That kiss opened the door to an overpowering yet sweet, natural, inclination for physical, emotional and intimate connection with a woman; and how electric such overwhelming desire feels in the buildup to the actualization of the event. Initially, I wasn’t always brave nor did I know how to act, behave, or perform in a queer relationship. But I stuck with that discomfort and evolved to where I finally became comfortable in my own skin, and gentle and loving toward myself. That whisper became a roar.
Yet my roar didn’t match those from my female warrior lineage. My Ma struggled with my sexuality, even going so far as to warn me over a phone call that if I shared this truth I’d risk being ostracized from our family. My Ma had taught me so much about bravery and living boldly, how to “not let the bastards get you down.” Yet she was defiant and emotionally crushed by my sexuality. She felt it was a choice to be a disobedient daughter, to not make her happy or proud. She was suffocated by disappointment and what other people might think, which was a part of a wrestling match she had to do alone— a healing journey I could not initially be part of. And to my great joy, Ma grew to rejoin my queer family and be back in my life again. One of my fondest memories is seeing her in a Pride shirt eating a cheeseburger at Hamburger Mary’s in San Francisco’s Castro neighborhood, flirting with a drag queen. She came so far. We both did.
Being a queer, mixed-race woman meant that coming out wasn’t a moment; it was a long unraveling. As a musician, part of my journey brought me on stages across the United States with an all-female queer band named Boyskout. I had grown confident in my queer sexuality and representation, but found that there were moments I felt overtly sexualized, othered, and treated as if I was a character to behold, as if I was waiting for any and all advances that I would surely consent to as a sex symbol, and which was rarely comfortable.
Through that discomfort, I rediscovered how to engage in a spotlight that is my own. One that isn’t about my appearance or sexuality, but who I am in my truth. As a leadership coach, speaker and author, I see every mic, and every stage as an opportunity to connect with other people. Sharing our stories stokes courage, deepens our relationships, weans us from untrue assumptions, and invites more curiosity, acceptance, and empathy.
That spotlight is very much part of my reality, which finds me having met and married my wife, Courtney. Our story is very much what love stories are made of— begun in such similar ways as my beautiful, interracial parents’ relationship —and generate a love and friendship that inspires many.
Ours is a love not just built on attraction, but on the daily rituals of choosing one another. Our union is a celebration of visibility, of the power of queer women loving each other boldly and publicly. With her, I don’t have to explain myself—she sees the fullness of who I am: a mixed-race queer woman who has carried both loss and longing, expressing myself sincerely and boldly.
Courtney has also stood by when my parents struggled to accept our love. She, like my father, learned bits of Mandarin to communicate when we visited Taipei, Taiwan. She was patient and understanding when my parents denounced our engagement and did not attend our wedding. She held her boundaries, but stood by me when they surprised us—visiting us in California and extending an olive branch to re-engage our family.
There is something healing about being loved in your wholeness. It quiets the echoes of earlier shame and withholding, and replaces them with laughter, presence, and ease. We’ve built a home that holds all the parts of us—our heritage, our queerness, our vulnerabilities, our dreams—in harmony.
Ingrid Hu Dahl is an author, speaker, and a certified leadership coach. She is the founder of a coaching and consulting business dedicated to empowering the next generation of leaders. With over two decades of experience in learning and development, she brings her expertise to a wide range of industries, from corporate and media to nonprofit and social justice organizations. A TEDx speaker and a founding member of the Willie Mae Rock Camp, Ingrid has written, filmed, and directed two short films exploring identity, representation, and the mixed-race experience. And is the author of the memoir, Sun Shining on Morning Snow.
Ingrid lives in Sausalito, California, with her wife, Courtney, and their dog, Palo Santo.
