This post discusses queer identity, discrimination, internalised transphobia, grief, trauma and references past suicidal thoughts.

So, I finally watched Heartstopper.

I had put it off for a long time. Not because I didn’t think I would enjoy it but rather, I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened to Kit Connor. Back in 2022, at eighteen years old, he was effectively forced out of the closet following months of strangers on the internet accusing him of “queerbaiting”. Strangers online believed that because he hadn’t publicly labelled his sexuality, while playing a bisexual character, they were entitled to demand that answer from him.

The irony has always struck me.

A community that has fought tooth-and-nail for decades for the right to self-define, ended up pressuring an eighteen-year-old into doing so before he was ready, and they didn’t care about the potential consequences.

Coming out should always belong to the individual, never to public expectation.

Anyway, eventually, curiosity won and I watched the series.

I loved it.

It was warm, hopeful, funny, and unapologetically queer.

I felt like it portrayed queer friendships, first loves, and ordinary experiences with a normality that the media rarely offer.

But, when the finale movie ended, I felt something unexpected: sadness. A hollow ache in my chest. Discomfort. Not because of the story itself, but because I was grieving something I never had.

When I was growing up, I never saw stories like this.

At the age of seven I had started questioning my identity and, therefore, my place in this world. I learned early on that being anything other than straight or cisgender (even if I didn’t know the vocabulary) was something to hide. Something shameful, disgusting, mocked, debated and condemned. The strong views of LGBTQ+ people from those around me were impossible to ignore. Long before I had the words to express who I was, I knew it wasn’t something to be proud of, something to speak out into existence, something to celebrate.

That realisation shaped me deeply. While the characters in Heartstopper fret over their crushes and holding hands in corridors, I spent my childhood trying to convince myself I wasn’t a boy – that I wasn’t transgender.

I masked. I tried so hard to fit in, to be interested in what those around me were interested in. Boys, dresses, make-up, gossip… but I wasn’t. I genuinely believed it would be easier if I was dead.

This isn’t a criticism of Heartstopper. Far from it. In fact, it is the highest compliment I can give. The show reminded me of the childhood I never had, and revealed what life could have looked like if queerness had never been treated as something shameful.

My sister mentioned that she didn’t like that “everyone is LGBT”. I had tried to explain that, for queer people, that is exactly what it is like to grow up and see everyone be straight and cisgender. But I don’t think she got what I was trying to say, so I thought about it longer.

She is right, most of the central friendship group is queer and, for many LGBTQ+ people, that is exactly what life looks like. Members of marginalised groups tend to gravitate towards each other. This is not to exclude others, but because there is comfort and safety in being around people who require no justification, who understand what it means to question yourself, to come out, and why something as simple as using the right name or pronouns can matter so much.

As I have mentioned before, psychologists have long noted that our social groups shape our identity and sense of belonging. Social identity theory (Tajfel and Turner, 1979) explains that part of our self-concept comes from the groups we identify with. When you have spent your whole life feeling different, finding people who don’t see you as “other”, people who simply understand, feels like coming home.

Watching Heartstopper has also made me reflect on labels.

There is often an expectation, sometimes even within the queer community, that you have to know who you are. You have to label it. You have to come out. You have to embrace it: be proud, celebrate it. And, don’t get me wrong, I understand why this expectation exists. For many, pride is liberation. For many, it is survival.

But we rarely speak about those who are still grieving; those carrying years of internalised shame, those for whom living authentically is frightening because, for so long, they believed they were fundamentally wrong.

I am out. I have accepted I am transgender. Yet I still carry a heavy weight of trauma and internalised transphobia; not because I think being transgender is wrong, but because the world I grew up in repeated that message over and over again.

If you asked me if I am proud to be trans, I wouldn’t know how to answer.

I am proud that I survived.

I am proud to have found the courage to be honest about who I am.

I am proud that, despite everything, I am still here.

But would I choose this life again? Honestly? I don’t think I would. I wish I was born a man.

Not because being trans is wrong, or inherently tragic, but because living in a world that so often misunderstands, debates, and politicises your existence is beyond exhausting.

Perhaps I don’t hate being trans. Perhaps I just hate everything that has happened because I am.

Maybe that is why Heartstopper touched me so deeply. Not because it was unrealistic, but because it showed me a version of growing up queer that I never imagined could exist. A world where queer children fall in love before they learn to hate themselves, where friendship comes before fear, and where identity is met with curiosity rather than condemnation.

I cannot give my younger self the childhood he deserved. But maybe someone else can have it. Somewhere, a queer child might be watching Heartstopper and seeing themselves on screen for the first time. Maybe they will realise they are not broken, maybe they will discover that there are people like them, maybe they will grow up believing they deserve love long before they ever feel the need to fight for it.

If that happens, then Heartstopper has done more than tell a beautiful story. It has helped create a world where fewer adults have to grieve the childhood they never had.

References:

• Tajfel, H. and Turner, J. C. (1979) ‘An Integrative Theory of Intergroup Conflict’, in Austin, W. G. and Worchel, S. (eds.) The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations. Monterey, CA: Brooks/Cole, pp. 33–47. Available here (Accessed: 12th June 2026)