I felt isolated and rejected growing up in a small county town (Picture: Jamie Windust)

Walking through my hometown last Christmas, pushing my baby nephew’s pram with my mum, dad, sister and brother-in-law all in tow, we perused the sales and stopped off for a mince pie and a cup of tea.

Instinctively, I looked for potential prejudice or unkind looks – but none came.

Finally, I felt confident and proud to be visible as a queer, non-binary person with my family – something that felt impossible in my childhood.

As a teenager growing up in Dorchester – through androgynous fashions and playing with every colour of lipstick the local Boots had to offer – I was able to embark on a journey of self-discovery where gender became expansive and exciting to play with.

The abuse and name-calling became something that I grew accustomed to (Picture: Jamie Windust)

But as I turned 16, some of my peers at school or the occasional local business owner saw this innocent exploration of self as a target to aim for. Although often only verbal, the abuse and name-calling became something that I grew accustomed to.

I felt isolated and rejected, stuck between wanting to find out who I was but also wanting to be safe. I began concealing my queerness.

Despite no evidence from my friends or family that they’d be homophobic or transphobic, I was nervous to come out to them. I thought they’d reject and dismiss my identity. 

I was nervous to come out to friends and family (Picture: Jamie Windust)

My ticket out was the University for The Creative Arts in London. I knew that I would be able to spread my wings there and I couldn’t wait to explore my full self in September 2017.

As soon as I started my first term, I knew that this was where I needed to be. I wasn’t only studying for a degree, but found the words that fit my identity – non-binary.

I was able to share that with my new-found group of friends, where it was received with warmth and a kind curiosity. This was something I would never have dreamt of doing back home.

I didn’t tell my parents yet, but shared my gender awakening across social media in the hopes that the news would trickle down to the south coast because I still feared their reaction.

Through make-up, I was able to use my body as a canvas for exploration – slathering on white paint and blush up to my temples; allowing myself to be inspired by queer icons such as Leigh Bowery and David Bowie.

But going back to Dorset that year for Christmas after finding such solace and clarity was difficult. I resented the town almost as if it were a person I didn’t want to see.

The prospect of returning to Dorchester for Christmas each year after that filled me with fear (Picture: Jamie Windust)

I didn’t hide my identity, but as a result, I had a heightened awareness of the potential prejudice that my gender expression could cause.

So Christmas 2017 was swift – a mission that consisted of getting in, seeing everyone as fast as I could and then getting out.

I refrained from being out in public as I didn’t feel able to handle any unwanted glances or prejudicial comments, so I spent most of my time with family, walking in the woods or going to the beach in neighbouring Weymouth.

Once back in London, the prospect of returning there for Christmas each year after that filled me with fear. How could I keep going back to a place that had prevented me from growing?

I had been able to ask myself if my feminine gender expression still suited me (Picture: Christopher Andreou)

Despite a loving family, I had no real friends there and was still scarred by the memories of suppression. So in the Christmases that followed, I would return only briefly, showing my face and scarpering back off on the train as soon as I could.

I was anxious about presenting overtly queer in Dorchester because I also started experiencing abuse in London – one of the most culturally diverse and openly LGBTQ+ cities in the world. ‘If I received hate filled comments here, what was I going to endure in Dorchester?’ I thought, as the anxiety continued to rise.

Then the pandemic hit. During the summer of 2020, I moved out on my own for the first time. I noticed something switch when I celebrated Christmas alone that year.

I noticed something switch when I celebrated Christmas alone in 2020 (Picture: Jamie Windust)

The real core of what Christmas meant to me became apparent – being able to be around those that love and support me.

As I put The Vicar of Dibley on and made the most disappointing Yorkshire puddings I’ve ever concocted, I could see that my connection with family was what made Christmas so special.

In celebrating the day on my own, I was able to understand that the person that I had become outside of my hometown was someone who had built a life for themselves as a proud queer and trans person.

I had a new sense of pride and appreciation (Picture: Jamie Windust)

With that also came aesthetic change, as I began to embrace my masculinity. During the pandemic, I had been able to ask myself if my feminine gender expression still suited me.

It felt easier to navigate the world with this new-found look, and although that wasn’t the reason for the change, it made the prospect of returning home feel easier. 

I had a new sense of pride and appreciation for those who love and support me. The comfort I got from my immediate family allowed me to put the fear of returning to one side.

As a result, I was able to return back to Dorset in 2021, blaring Christmas music all the way in my little car, knowing that I would be entering a home that was full of silliness, warmth and a good cup of tea. 

As I sat down for our annual family quiz, I felt content and supported. Their soothing presence meant that it became easier to walk through town and feel less fearful of other people.

‘Even if people are prejudiced towards me,’ I thought, ‘I have my family’s support.’

As queer people, we are more than our past (Picture: Jamie Windust)

So how did I get there? For me, it just took time.

Sometimes that’s all we have on our side when it comes to feeling comfortable in our hometowns again. 

But remembering the solid foundations that I have created outside of Dorset – a roof over my head, friends, a career and access to my queer siblings in London – has allowed me to find peace with my place of origin.

It’s more important to me now that I give back the kindness and compassion that my family provides me with (Picture: Jamie Windust)

It’s allowed me to realise that – as queer people – we are more than our past.

When I return now, I still think about how tough it was for my younger self. But I am able to remember that my past doesn’t have to be a straight jacket I choose to wear. 

Through therapy, I have begun to learn to let go of those memories, and understand that they’re a part of me, but do not have to dictate my future.

So when I walk through Dorchester high street now, I know that if hateful comments are directed at me, I don’t have to accept them as true. 

It’s more important to me now that I give back the kindness and compassion that my family provides me with, as a thank you for their unconditional love.

To give that love to my nephew – who will celebrate his second Christmas this year with me and the rest of our family – by creating happy memories for him in his hometown.

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Our hometowns – and even family homes – can feel like a dangerous place for LGBTQ+ people over Christmas.