🎉 I Found My People at the Queerest Family Reunion on the Planet 🌈

My first Pride event. My first community-wide book giveaway. And a day I’ll never forget.

This past Sunday, I had the absolute honor of attending what organizers lovingly called “the queerest family reunion on the planet.” And honestly? That’s exactly what it felt like.

Held at Breaks Interstate Park and hosted by the incredible grassroots collective Patchwork Kinfolx, Pride in the Park wasn’t just a celebration — it was a homecoming. A day-long gathering where joy, identity, and unapologetic Appalachian love took center stage.

And for someone like me — a 49-year-old transgender woman, below-the-knee amputee, and lifelong Dickenson County resident — it was nothing short of life-affirming.

Maya set up in her booth to hand out books.

The heat was brutal. I left with mild heat exhaustion, streaked makeup, and an aching body. But I also left with a full heart, new friends, and a deeper sense of community than I’ve ever felt in these hills. I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

I came with a goal: to give away 50 signed paperback copies of my debut novel, Reborn in Shadows: From the Ashes. It’s a romantic thriller that follows a trans woman and amputee trying to rebuild her life in a fictional Appalachian town not unlike my own.

Thanks to dozens of generous donors who sponsored copies in advance, I showed up with all 50 books — and by day’s end, more than 35 had found new homes.

People didn’t just take the books — they received them. One woman hugged hers tight and said, “I needed this.” A young queer person asked if the main character was “really like us.” Another said they’d never seen a story that looked like theirs before. That alone would’ve made it all worth it.

More Than Just a Giveaway

But Pride in the Park was never just about the books.

It was about finding each other.

It was about seeing Appalachian queerness in the flesh — multi-generational, multiracial, disabled, neurodivergent, joyful, grieving, beautiful. It was about music echoing through the trees while toddlers in rainbow outfits played in the grass. It was about queer elders in folding chairs nodding to the beat, about parents proudly walking beside their nonbinary kids, about artists and advocates and chosen family showing up — as they are, for who they love.

At one point, I stepped away from my table to catch a breeze and have a smoke. I watched a person with a homemade flag cape hug every attendee they passed. I saw a couple dance to live music without a trace of self-consciousness. I watched volunteers grill burgers and hot dogs and check on vendors like me to make sure we were staying hydrated.

And I thought: This is it. This is what they told us didn’t exist here. And we built it anyway.

This is Appalachian Pride

Pride in the Park may not have had big sponsors or polished parade floats. It didn’t need them.

This was Appalachian Pride. Hand-sewn, homegrown, and holy in its own way. There was a kind of sacredness to it — not religious, but spiritual. A sense that we were not only surviving here, but thriving, despite everything we’ve been told or denied.

I laughed with people I’d never met. I cried with one girl who told me my book made her feel seen. I met parents who said they finally felt like they weren’t navigating their child’s coming out alone. I gave away books, yes — but more importantly, I witnessed connection. Real, tangible, world-shifting connection.

To everyone who donated to help me be there — thank you. You helped me do more than give out books. You helped me give back to a community I once feared had no place for someone like me.

The Community Was Always Here

When the sun began to dip behind the trees and my last book was claimed, I packed up my table with reddened skin, a grateful heart, and the certainty that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

I had arrived as an author. But I left feeling like more — like a neighbor, a sister, a thread in the growing tapestry of queer Appalachia.

And as we drove home, the wind through the open windows cooling my face, I thought about something a high schooler had messaged me earlier that week: how brave they thought I was for staying.

I’m glad I stayed.

Because now I know: I’m not alone. I never was.

I was just waiting for the community to catch up. And me to it.

Turns out, they were already here — arms open, flags waving, ready to say:

Welcome home. 🏳️‍🌈