One year later.
Ava stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the rainbow flag draped over her shoulders like a cape. October had brought Johannesburg Pride, and for the first time in her life, Ava was going. Not hiding, not watching from a distance, not pretending it had nothing to do with her.
She was going proudly, openly, joyfully.
"Are you ready?" Liana called from the living room. Their living room, in the apartment they'd made fully theirs over the past year. Liana's colorful artwork mixed with a few pieces Ava had bought. Their books integrated on the shelves. Photos of them together displayed without shame or fear—at the beach, at the Drakensberg, at friend's parties, just living their lives.
"Almost!" Ava called back, taking one more look at herself. A year ago, she'd been preparing to not show up to a wedding. A year ago, she'd been newly out, newly free, newly terrified. And now—now she was wearing a rainbow flag and preparing to march through the streets of Johannesburg declaring her identity to anyone who cared to see.
How things had changed.
Liana appeared in the doorway, wearing a tank top with the lesbian flag colors and denim shorts, her locs decorated with rainbow beads. "Look at you," she said, her eyes shining. "So proud, so open. I'm so proud of you."
"I'm proud of myself too," Ava said, and meant it. "A year ago, I never thought I'd be here. Never thought I'd have the courage to be this visible."
"But you do. You did. And now look at you—about to march in Pride, living your truth, being exactly who you're meant to be."
They met up with Thabo and his boyfriend Marcus at the agreed-upon meeting spot. Thabo had come out to his family four months ago—it hadn't gone well, but he was surviving it, building his own chosen family, learning to be proud of who he was.
"Ready?" Thabo asked, grinning. He was wearing a shirt that said "Proud and Free" in bold letters.
"So ready," Ava said.
The streets were already filling with people—thousands of them, maybe tens of thousands, all here to celebrate love in its many forms. Rainbow flags everywhere, music playing, people dancing and laughing and just being gloriously, unapologetically themselves.
Ava felt something unlocked in her chest. This was her community. These were her people. Not the church that had judged her, not the family that had (mostly) rejected her, but this—this celebration of diversity and authenticity and love.
They joined the march, moving through the streets of Johannesburg. Ava held Liana's hand, not checking over her shoulder, not worried about who might see. Just holding her girlfriend's hand in public because she could, because she wanted to, because there was no reason not to.
"How do you feel?" Liana asked, squeezing her hand.
"Alive," Ava said. "Free. Happy. Like this is where I'm supposed to be."
They stopped at a vendor selling rainbow merchandise, and Ava bought a small rainbow pin for her work bag. Something subtle she could wear at the university, a visible sign of her identity for students who might be struggling with their own.
As they continued through the crowd, Ava saw people from all walks of life—young and old, Black and white and brown, families with children, elderly couples who'd probably been together for decades, teenagers just discovering themselves. All of them here, all of them proud, all of them refusing to hide.
This was what courage looked like. Not one big dramatic gesture, but thousands of small ones. Thousands of people choose to be visible, to be honest, to be themselves despite a world that often told them not to.
Around noon, they found a spot on the grass to rest and eat the picnic lunch Liana had packed. As they sat there, surrounded by the celebration, Ava's phone rang.
Her mother.
Ava looked at Liana, who nodded encouragingly. Over the past year, Ava's relationship with her mother had slowly, carefully rebuilt. They talk on the phone weekly now. Her mother had met Liana twice more, slowly getting comfortable with her daughter's girlfriend. It wasn't perfect—there were still awkward moments, still things they didn't talk about—but it was something. It was progress.
"Mama?" Ava answered.
"Ava. I—I wanted to call. To tell you that I'm thinking of you today." Her mother's voice was careful, emotional. "Sarah told me about Pride, that you were planning to go. And I wanted you to know that I'm thinking of you. That I'm—" She paused, and Ava could hear her taking a breath. "That I'm proud of you. For being brave. For being yourself."
Ava felt tears spring into her eyes. "Mama—"
"I know I haven't always shown it. I know I've made mistakes, said things I regret, pushed you away when I should have pulled you closer. But Ava, you're my daughter. And watching you live so openly, so honestly—it's teaching me. Teaching me that love is more important than tradition, that authenticity is more valuable than conformity."
"Thank you for calling," Ava managed, her voice thick with emotion. "That means—it means everything."
"Your father—" her mother hesitated. "He's not there yet. But he's softening. Last week he mentioned you, asked how you were doing. It's small, but it's movement. Maybe someday—"
"Maybe someday," Ava agreed. She couldn't hope for too much, couldn't expect miracles. But maybe someday her father will come around. And if he didn't—she'd survive that too.
After the call ended, Liana wrapped an arm around Ava's shoulders. "Your mother's really trying."
"She is. It's slow, and it's hard, and she still doesn't fully understand. But she's trying. That's all I can ask for."
They spent the afternoon at Pride, dancing and celebrating and just being part of the community. At one point, Ava looked around at the crowd—at the joy and the freedom and the unashamed love—and felt something shift in her chest.
For so long, she'd been terrified of being visible. Terrified of judgment, of rejection, of losing everything she'd ever known. But standing here, surrounded by thousands of people living openly and proudly, she realized something:
She'd gained so much more than she'd lost.
Yes, her relationship with her parents was complicated. Yes, she'd lost the church community she'd grown up in. Yes, some people from her old life had cut her off completely.
But she'd gained herself. She'd gained freedom. She'd gained a love that was honest and true and built on her authentic self. She'd gained a community that celebrated her rather than tolerated her. She'd gained the ability to wake up every morning and look in the mirror and recognize the person looking back.
And that—that was worth everything.
---
That evening, back at their apartment, Ava and Liana collapsed on the couch, exhausted but happy.
"Best Pride ever," Liana said, scrolling through the photos they'd taken throughout the day.
"My only Pride ever," Ava corrected. "But yes, the best."
"We should make it a tradition. Every year, we go to Pride. We celebrate. We remember what it took to get here."
"Deal."
They ordered pizza and settled in to watch a movie, but Ava found herself distracted, thinking about the past year. About everything that had changed, everything she'd learned, everything she'd become.
A year ago, she'd been terrified. Lost. Newly out and unsure if she'd made the right choice.
Now? Now she knew. She'd made the absolute right choice. The only choice she could live with.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Hi Ava, this is Janet from your old church. I saw photos of you at Pride today on social media. I wanted to let you know—I came out to my family last month. Told them I was gay. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, but watching your journey gave me courage. Thank you for being visible. Thank you for showing me it was possible. — Janet*
Ava showed the message to Liana, her eyes filling with tears again. "This is what it's about, isn't it? Not just my own freedom, but what my freedom means to others."
"You're a representation," Liana said gently. "For people who are still hiding, still afraid, still trying to figure out if they can survive coming out—you're proof that they can. That it's worth it."
Ava thought about the student from her lecture, the one whose parents wanted her to marry her cousin. She thought about Thabo, finding his courage after watching Ava find hers. She thought about Janet, newly out and reaching out for connection.
Her story mattered. Not just to her, but to all of them.
"I want to do more," Ava said suddenly. "I want to start a support group at the university. For LGBTQ+ students and faculty. A safe space where people can be themselves, share their stories, find community."
"That's a great idea."
"And maybe—maybe I could volunteer with one of those LGBTQ+ youth organizations. The ones that help kids whose families have rejected them. I know what that feels like. I could help."
"You already do help. Just by being visible, by being yourself, by showing people what's possible. But if you want to do more—I support you. Always."
They talked late into the night about Ava's ideas, about the support group and volunteering and all the ways she could use her experience to help others. It wasn't just about her own freedom anymore—it was about paving the way for others to find theirs.
---
Three months later, Ava was facilitating the university's first official LGBTQ+ support group meeting. Twenty students showed up—more than she'd expected. Some were out, some were still figuring things out, all of them looking for community and support.
"My name is Ava," she said to the group. "And a year and a half ago, I was about to be forced into a marriage with a man I didn't love. I was hiding who I was, terrified of being rejected, convinced that I had to choose between my family and myself."
She told them her story—the abbreviated version, but honest. About Liana, about her parents' discovery, about the non-wedding, about rebuilding her life on her own terms.
"I'm not going to tell you that coming out is easy," Ava said. "I'm not going to say you won't lose people, that it won't hurt, that there won't be consequences. But I am going to tell you this: you deserve to be yourself. You deserve to live authentically. And whatever it costs, it's worth it. Because at the end of the day, you have to live with yourself. And that's impossible if you're living a lie."
One by one, students started sharing their own stories. Some were still in the closet, terrified of family rejection. Others were out but struggling with isolation or discrimination. A few were just looking for community, for a place where they could be themselves without explanation or justification.
By the end of the meeting, Ava felt exhausted but fulfilled. This—this was her purpose. This was what her struggle had been for. Not just her own freedom, but creating space for others to find theirs.
Walking out of the building that evening, she called her mother. They talked every week now, slowly rebuilding their relationship. It wasn't what it had been—might never be what it had been—but it was something real, something honest.
"How was your support group?" her mother asked. She was trying, really trying, to be part of Ava's life even when she didn't fully understand it.
"Good. Really good. Twenty students showed up. Some of them are struggling so much, Mama. Hiding who they are, terrified of rejection—"
"Like you were," her mother said quietly.
"Like I was. And I'm trying to show them that it gets better. That it's worth it to choose yourself."
Her mother was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry I made it so hard for you. I'm sorry you felt like you had to hide, that you couldn't trust me with your truth. If I could go back—"
"We can't go back. We can only move forward."
"Then I choose to move forward. With you in my life. I choose you, Ava. It took me too long, but I chose you."
After hanging up, Ava stood outside the university building and let herself feel the fullness of it. Her mother had chosen her. Not on Ava's terms exactly—they still didn't talk about certain things, still tiptoed around difficult topics—but she'd chosen to stay connected, to keep trying, to learn and grow and accept.
It was more than Ava had ever hoped for.
---
On a warm evening in December, exactly one year after the non-wedding, Ava and Liana hosted a dinner party. Thabo and Marcus, a few friends from work, some people from the LGBTQ+ support group, Aunt Sarah and her husband.
And, surprisingly, Ava's mother.
She'd called two days before the party. "I'd like to come. If that's okay. I'd like to meet your friends, see your life, be part of your world."
Ava had cried when she hung up. Her father still wasn't there—wasn't ready, might never be ready. But her mother was trying. Was choosing her daughter over tradition, love over fear.
Now, watching her mother laugh at something Thabo said, seeing her talk animatedly with Liana about her design work, Ava felt something she hadn't felt in years: wholeness.
Not the fractured, compartmentalized existence she'd lived before. Not one version of herself at home and another everywhere else. Just—whole. Integrated. All the pieces of her life fitting together in one space.
Later, as they cleaned up after everyone had left, Liana wrapped her arms around Ava from behind. "That was good. Really good."
"My mother came," Ava said wonderingly. "She came to our home, met our friends, was part of our life. A year ago, I never thought that was possible."
"A year ago, you were standing outside that church, refusing to walk down an aisle toward a life that wasn't yours. Look how far you've come."
"We've come," Ava corrected. "I couldn't have done it without you."
"Maybe. But you're the one who had to find the courage. You're the one who had to make the choice."
They stood like that for a long moment, holding each other in their shared space, their shared life.
"I'm happy," Ava said. "For the first time in my life, I'm genuinely, completely happy."
"Me too," Liana whispered. "Me too."
And standing there in their apartment, surrounded by the evidence of a life fully lived—photos on the walls, dishes from friends in the sink, the lingering warmth of community and love—Ava realized something:
She'd been so afraid of losing everything. But what she'd actually done was gain everything that mattered.
She'd gained herself.
She'd gained freedom.
She'd gained love—honest, open, unashamed love.
She'd gained community—not the community she was born into, but the one she'd chosen and that had chosen her back.
And she'd gained hope—hope that things could change, that people could grow, that love could triumph over fear if you were willing to fight for it.
The journey hadn't been easy. There had been losses, grief, moments of doubt and despair. But standing here now, whole and free and happy, Ava knew one thing with absolute certainty:
It had been worth it.
Every difficult conversation, every moment of fear, every sacrifice—all of it had been worth it to finally be herself.
Against the altar they'd tried to drag her to, Ava had chosen herself.
And in doing so, she'd found everything she'd ever needed.