My hope has a youthful face.

When I was 16, I entered into a period of sustained optimism that lasted for about four years. Up until then, I had been a lonely, scared, confused kid, and since the age of 11 when I realized I was gay, I had a huge secret. But I was getting older, and I knew that graduation was approaching. I would soon be free to leave my hometown of Oak Hill, West Virginia, and I found out that I could go to college even though I didn’t have any money of my own. All I had to do was make relatively good grades and apply for financial aid. My short term goal was set. It was reasonable, and I was able to gather all the practical information I needed to make it happen.

I began to imagine that my adult life would be brighter and happier than my childhood. I imagined that I would find friends who would accept me for who I am. I imagined I wouldn’t have to keep secrets from them. I thought it was likely that I would meet others like myself. I thought I could eventually get a decent job and live a comfortable middle class life. I looked forward to traveling and seeing the world.

That first semester at WVU was frightening for me. Living in a dorm with a bunch of rowdy young people drunk on their newfound independence made me nervous. Sharing a bathroom with a bunch of boys made me very nervous. And I worried that I might not be smart enough for college. There were a number of nights when I didn’t sleep at all. But I found out that I loved my classes, and I started making very good grades. I also made several friends. And I met some gay people, too. That was a monumental event. I was no longer alone. I even had sex with a few boys.

But I was still socially awkward. I still felt uncomfortable around people for the most part. A change in venue hadn’t remedied that. And after a couple of years, I began thinking about how my college career would eventually come to an end. I worried that I didn’t have the ability to find and hold a good job. Working meant talking to people, getting along with people, being comfortable around people. I couldn’t imagine myself getting to that point. And the pain, the fear and the confusion of my earlier years haunted me, too. Anger and rage came to the surface, and the anxiety, the mood swings and the flashbacks wore me out. Soon I was taking medication for depression, and not long after that, I was hospitalized for suicidal ideation for the first time.

That period of optimism came to an end, but that hopeful young man was never completely obliterated. I think he’s still inside of me, still a part of who I am. When I admire the beauty of a young man who is just starting out—his broad smile, his happiness, his bright eyes, his fit, lean, capable body that does not hurt or tire so easily—I think I am to some degree admiring a physical manifestation of that beautiful, youthful, naïve but wise hope that once gave me the courage to seek a better life for myself.