Becoming the Main Character: Learning to Love the Story I’m In

{ Jai Santora }

When initially cast into the role of myself, I may have declined it—had I read the script first.

         Life hasn’t exactly turned out the way I had intended. We’re all dealt a unique set of circumstances. How we handle those circumstances shapes the immediate—and sometimes future—phases of our lives. It’s like a “Choose Your Own Ending” storybook. But if after page three your main character falls off a cliff, well… there’s no flipping back to take a different route.

         Now here we are, more than halfway through 2025, and what a wild ride it’s been. I feel like I’ve been saying “next year will be my year” since around the time COVID hit in 2020. And while each year has brought its own set of chaos, losses, and transformations, the truth is—it hasn’t all been bad. It’s been real. Messy. Human. And above all else, survivable.

         And for those of us in the queer community, survival isn’t just a matter of getting through hard circumstances—it’s often layered. It’s navigating a world that questions your existence, or worse, legislates against it. It’s dealing with family who may not understand, neighbors who whisper, or politicians who see your life as a talking point. On top of that, we navigate the same life storms as everyone else: love, loss, money, pandemics, divorces, and grief.

         I’ve walked through all of it: a pandemic that stole time and connection, the collapse of a marriage, financial uncertainty, and the gnawing ache of feeling like a stranger in my own skin. At times, it felt like the world was asking me to carry more than my share, and I kept asking, When will it get easier?

         I used to imagine that life worked in phases. I’d get through the storm and then—finally—step into the sun. But the waves don’t stop coming. Life doesn’t pause to give you a breather just because you’ve had enough.

What changes is you.

         You learn to ride the waves .

Some years, it felt like I was constantly underwater, lungs burning, trying to figure out which way was up. There were moments when the weight of everything—the grief, the uncertainty, the fear—was enough to make me feel like I’d dissolve. But I didn’t. Not gracefully, not without breaking down, but I made it through.

         There’s a quiet power in that. In surviving what you were sure would break you. In showing up, still queer, still tender, still standing. Not harder. Just… more whole.

         This year, I stopped waiting for “next year” to be my year. I’ve spent so long putting life on pause—telling myself I’d enjoy it once things settled down. Once I was safer. Once I was more healed. Once the world stopped shouting at me for existing.

         But healing doesn’t arrive in a single, triumphant moment. It sneaks in during the in-between, in the quiet pauses that ask nothing of you.

         It looked like taking a breath and noticing the way the moon seemed to dance in between the clouds that night. It looked like watching my kitties hide right before bed every night, knowing they were gearing up for their nightly laser-pointer ambush and needed the perfect place to pounce from. It looked like laughing till we almost peed watching the most ridiculous music video on TikTok that made absolutely no sense.

It looked like seeing the innocent laughter of an inner child—one left behind long ago—emerge again after hiding for years, finally safe enough to come out.

         These moments didn’t fix my life. They didn’t erase the pain or the politics or the uncertainty of the future. But they reminded me that joy exists even when things are hard. That healing and happiness don’t have to be delayed until some mythical “better time.”

         They stitched me back together, thread by thread.

         Queerness itself has been part of that stitching. There’s a freedom in living authentically, even when the world isn’t ready for it. Every step I’ve taken toward myself—toward living openly, toward letting love and laughter back in—has been a step toward reclaiming my story.

         I used to think happiness had to be big and bold, that it needed to announce itself with parades and fireworks. And sometimes, it does—especially in queer spaces where survival itself is a celebration. But more often than not, happiness whispers. It curls up on the couch beside you. It lingers in a warm hug, reminding you that you’re not going through it alone.

         Those whispers say: you’re okay, we got this, let’s keep going.

         I still have bad days. I still get angry. I still feel that pit of uncertainty in my stomach when I watch the news or think about the “what ifs.” But I no longer let those moments convince me that life isn’t worth embracing as it is, right now.

         Because living fully, as a queer person in this world, is a kind of quiet rebellion. It’s an act of courage. And it’s a reminder that the best moments are often the ones that seem small—because they belong entirely to you.

         No, life didn’t go according to plan. And I’m glad it didn’t. The best parts of my story—the love I’ve found, the laughter I’ve shared, the courage I’ve built—have all come from the unscripted pages.

         So here’s what I’ve learned: the world will always have storms. But in between them, the moon still dances in the clouds. Kittens still crouch in the dark, waiting to play. Friends still laugh with you over nonsense videos. And that inner child still peeks out, waiting for your signal that it’s safe to be free again.

         And that’s the life I want to notice. That’s the life I want to celebrate.

         Because no matter what the script says, I’ve decided to embrace the role of myself—fully, unapologetically, and with love. And I’m finally learning to enjoy the story as it unfolds, one imperfect, beautiful, honest page at a time.

         And if that’s not worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.