I wasn’t always proud to be a Black queer man. But one heart-wrenching moment changed everything.

Growing up, I knew I was different. Some of those differences were physical, but others were about who I was as a person and how I loved. I didn’t fully embrace my identity until later in life. For so long, I felt the urge to blend in based on my environment. I was in survival mode, hiding a secret about myself from others.

Today, I can say with confidence that I am a Gen Z Black Queer man, and I am proud of that. But I haven’t always had the confidence to say it.

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I was born in Blue Springs, Missouri, at St. Mary’s Hospital and spent the early parts of my life in government housing in Independence, Missouri. Hocker Heights is where I spent my early childhood around the Black side of my family. While my male cousins talked about the girls and models they liked, I thought about the boy in my class that I had the biggest crush on. I knew that I was different because although I was a Black kid like them, I didn’t like girls like they did.

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When I hit middle school, my family moved east to live with my grandmother in Grain Valley, Missouri, where I spent a lot of time with the white side of my family. Grain Valley is rural, and at the time, you could count all the Black families that lived in that community on two hands. Even then, I knew I was different. While my white classmates talked about wanting to grow up and be president, I was wondering why a classmate called me the “n-word.” I knew I was different because I didn’t look like everyone else, and on top of that, I was hiding a secret from my family about who I was. Even to them, I was a stranger.

Between struggling with my sexuality and being a young Black man in that community, I had a rough time. The daily torment from bullies, along with the lack of guidance and representation, led me to try and take my own life. With that, my parents knew it was time for a change.

In high school, we moved back west to Blue Springs, Missouri, where I attended Blue Springs High School. It was a lot more diverse, and there were a handful of LGBTQ+ students. I was in the early stages of embracing who I was, and my school environment allowed me to grow and flourish. Around this time, I came out to a few folks. I went on to wrestle in college. But I still felt different because I was a Black queer man from the Kansas City region going to college in Aberdeen, South Dakota. I loved my time at Northern State University, and thanks to my coach and teammates, I came out as queer on the national stage. That was a big deal, but it’s not why I shared my story with the Huffington Post.

I came out nationally after learning that a 9-year-old Denver boy died by suicide days after coming out as gay. He was a mixed boy like me, he lived in the Midwest like me, had a family situation like me, and lacked that representation like me. It broke my heart and brought me so much pain and trauma, but it also led me to say, “no more.” I knew I could be someone who could save a life because if I had someone to look to who had gotten through it, I wouldn’t have tried to take my own life. I felt so alone, and I wanted to make sure no one ever felt like I did. So I came out far and wide for Jamel Myles.

Since coming out, I have received hundreds of messages from young people with similar experiences: closeted athletes and people of mixed identities from different communities feeling like they can relate to someone out there. Hearing the stories of others helps me heal and helps younger Justice know that he was never alone.

I am not alone, and because of that, I am proud of my Blackness and queerness. I found that pride later in life, but I nevertheless figured out who I’m supposed to be. Now I feel unstoppable every single day of my life.

Moving to the present day, my background has shaped how I move and operate when it comes to the fight for civil rights in my community. From being an activist to serving as one of my city’s youngest commissioners, I want to ensure younger generations have it better than I did. My story made me into who I am today, and I’m proud of that. I’m proud to say I found myself.

If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, help is available. Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org. The Trans Lifeline (1-877-565-8860) is staffed by trans people and will not contact law enforcement. The Trevor Project provides a safe, judgement-free place to talk for youth via chat, text (678-678), or phone (1-866-488-7386). Help is available at all three resources in English and Spanish.