In 2018, I relocated alone from Columbus, Ohio, to Portland, Oregon, hoping that the contemplative beauty of the natural landscape might inspire personal revelation. I held a position at a nonprofit and sometimes cycled to work. One year, on the first warm day, I noticed an open warehouse situated near the bike path. Inside, an oval track hosted several individuals on roller skates, engaging in collisions.

I slowed my bicycle and stopped, placing one foot on the ground to observe them. I deduced it was roller derby (having, of course, viewed shortly after acknowledging my homosexuality), though I had never witnessed an actual game. The participants in the warehouse varied in size and skill, and they were hitting each other with considerable force. I signed up.

Roller derby is structured into segments known as jams, each lasting up to two minutes. During each jam, a team fields five skaters: four blockers and one jammer. The jammer (identifiable by a star on their helmet cover) is the only player on each team capable of scoring points. When a jam commences, jammers battle their way through the cluster of blockers, then race around the track, accumulating a point for every opposing blocker whose hips they successfully pass.

I quickly realized that derby demands significant effort. The initial skill taught is how to fall safely, as falling is an inevitability. I grew accustomed to bruises the size of my palm on my limbs, quadriceps so sore they made descending stairs painful, and the sharp sensation that travels up the spine when one’s tailbone impacts directly on a skate wheel.

I was immediately drawn to the jammer position. It possesses a masochistic appeal—the continuous struggle to penetrate the pack repeatedly feels justified in that singular moment of breaking free.

Consequently, I embraced the challenge. I had not been athletic in my youth, yet here was a warehouse filled with people from diverse backgrounds, all body types, and various genders and sexualities, eager to don skates and collide a few times each week. Though not particularly strong, I was quick and slender, and I discovered that derby is one of the rare sports where any physique can participate and find an advantage. I learned techniques to evade larger skaters, how to duck beneath their hips to avoid being hit, and how to leap over their legs on the track’s curves to score points.

I began cultivating friendships. I allowed my armpit hair to grow and explored my astrological moon and rising signs. I had my septum pierced and started reincorporating color into my wardrobe. I fell in love, then out of love, then in love again. I felt as though I was undergoing rapid transformation, while simultaneously settling into my authentic self.

I came out to my mother as lesbian quickly, over the phone, aiming for a casual tone. When my parents visited two months later, she cried during brunch, not because I was gay, but out of concern that she had said or done something to make me feel unable to be open about it. I pulled up the hood of my hoodie and tightened the strings so much I couldn’t see her. I was aware that many people had parents who reacted far worse to their coming out, disowning them or refusing to use their chosen pronouns. I felt fortunate to have parents who supported progressive politics and attended Pride events. However, they were truly seeing me, for the first time, and I recoiled from the vulnerability.

Roller derby necessitates vulnerability. You fall frequently, likely appear awkward on skates, and commit foolish errors during scrimmages that result in penalty box time. Given my small stature, I often found myself on the ground or pushing ineffectively, trying desperately but fruitlessly to move my teammates. I was frustrated by the difficulty, precisely because I loved it so much. I never considered quitting, even as it became harder and my personal life grew complicated (as is common in queer communities, derby can be interconnected). I began to desire that vulnerability.

Before roller derby, I had always wished I could bypass the coming-out process entirely. It felt like too much attention, too many people expressing pity for me. The individual I was coming out to never seemed to know how to react, which intensified my discomfort.

However, roller derby commends struggle and vulnerability. You push against an impossible, unyielding barrier for two minutes, and everyone witnesses your failure, but the following day you return more resilient. You are knocked out of bounds countless times in one scrimmage, with your entire team watching, then the next week, your movements along the lines are cleaner. Derby does not permit you to skip developmental stages, but it does reward you for undertaking them.

Away from the skates, I observed others in my league allowing themselves to be imperfect, vulnerable, and authentically human with each other and within themselves, and I realized that this was the methodology I had been seeking ever since leaving Ohio. This was how they embraced their queerness. I began to do the same.

The term “lesbian” no longer intimidates me. I write books with queer themes. My friends and I playfully mock the Portland queer housing advertisements that exclude Capricorns. When my girlfriend and I encounter two other women holding hands in public, we acknowledge them in solidarity, because we are all members of this community that feels dynamic, secure, chaotic, and like a homecoming, all at once.

Through derby, I transformed coming out into a celebration. It was not the sole aspect of my identity, but it was one of them. And I cherished that about myself.