Latest / The Good People Project: Kindness, Service & Community / Rural LGBTQ+ Youth: Building Safe Spaces Where They Exist | The Good People Project
Transcript
- I remember the exact moment I realized silence wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating. It was standing in a high school hallway that stretched for miles, surrounded by faces that looked like mine but didn’t know my heart. Let’s get real about what it costs to care when no one is watching. We talk a lot about visibility, about being seen, about taking up space on screens and stages. But for so many young people growing up in rural America, visibility feels like a dangerous luxury. Imagine carrying a secret so heavy it bends your spine every time you walk through the grocery store, every time you sit at the dinner table, every time you look out your bedroom window at fields that stretch endlessly in every direction. There is nowhere to hide, and yet, you are expected to remain invisible. This isn’t just about geography; it’s about isolation. It’s about looking around and seeing only reflections of people who don’t understand the language your soul speaks. I’ve spoken before about the quiet work of showing up, and I want to tell you today that for these kids, showing up is an act of rebellion. They show up to classrooms where their history is erased. They show up to churches where their worth is debated. They show up to lives where they are told that their existence is a mistake, a phase, or a sin. And still, they breathe. Still, they try. That resilience is not something we should praise from a distance. It is something we must honor by changing the conditions that require such strength in the first place. There is a pervasive myth that if you just leave the countryside, everything gets better. We imagine cities as rainbow-colored paradises where acceptance is automatic, where safety is guaranteed. And yes, urban centers often have more resources, more community centers, more visibility. But let’s not romanticize the struggle of leaving. For a seventeen-year-old with limited funds, no car, and a family that might cut them off if they speak too loudly, moving to the city is not a simple option. It is a leap into the unknown. So we have to ask ourselves: how do we build those sanctuaries right where they are? How do we create pockets of safety in towns where the population is fewer than ten thousand? This requires a different kind of courage. It requires neighbors who choose curiosity over judgment. It requires teachers who learn the right pronouns not because they are forced to, but because they love their students. It requires local businesses that put a small sticker in their window that says 'Safe Space' without fear of backlash. These gestures seem small, almost insignificant against the backdrop of systemic inequality. But to a kid who has spent years feeling like an alien on their own planet, that sticker is a lighthouse. It is proof that they are not crazy. That they are not alone. That there is a version of life where they can exhale. I want to share a story with you, one that stays with me. A woman named Elena, who runs a small book club in a town in the Midwest that you’ve probably never heard of. She started meeting once a month in her living room. At first, it was just her and two other moms talking about novels. Then, one evening, a teenager knocked on her door. He was trembling. He asked if he could stay, just for an hour. He said he needed to be somewhere where he didn’t have to explain why he liked dresses. Elena didn’t ask questions. She didn’t give a speech. She just made tea and turned on some music. That boy came back every week. Eventually, he brought a friend. Then another. Now, Elena’s living room is a lifeline for six young people who would otherwise have nowhere to go. There is no funding for this. No grant writers. No marketing team. Just a woman who decided that kindness was more important than comfort. When I spoke to her, she told me, 'I’m not an activist. I’m just a person who hates loneliness.' And that is the truth. The most powerful movements often start with simple human connection. They start with someone saying, 'You belong here,' and meaning it with every fiber of their being. We need more Elenas. Not just in rural areas, but everywhere. We need people willing to turn their homes into havens. Of course, we cannot ignore the role of technology. For many rural LGBTQ+ youth, the internet is their primary community center. It is where they find mentors, where they learn about their rights, where they see themselves represented. But digital spaces come with their own dangers. Cyberbullying does not respect zip codes. Harassment follows you home through your phone. And the algorithmic bias that pushes harmful content can trap vulnerable teens in echo chambers of self-hatred. We need to talk about digital literacy as a civil rights issue. Teaching young people how to navigate online spaces safely is not optional; it is essential survival skills. But we also need to be careful not to replace physical presence with virtual connection entirely. A screen can provide information, but it cannot provide a hug. It cannot hold your hand while you cry. It cannot sit with you in silence when the world feels too loud. We must bridge the gap between the digital and the physical. We need to support organizations that bring online communities offline, that create safe houses, that offer counseling services that are culturally competent and affordable. We need to invest in infrastructure that supports mental health, not just as a medical necessity, but as a human right. Where does this land in your spirit? I know it’s heavy. I know it brings up anger, sadness, maybe even helplessness. That ache you feel? Hold onto it. Let it move you. Because empathy without action is just entertainment. We have a choice here. We can scroll past this discomfort and pretend it doesn’t affect us, or we can lean in. We can ask ourselves: what does my community need? Are there young people in my neighborhood who feel unseen? Can I be the person who sees them? You don’t need to start a nonprofit. You don’t need to raise millions. You just need to show up. Learn the names. Listen to the stories. Challenge the jokes that make people shrink. Create space where others can expand. This is the quiet work of showing up, but it is anything but quiet in its impact. One act of acceptance can change the trajectory of a young person’s life. It can save them. It can give them hope. And in return, they give us a glimpse of what a more compassionate world looks like. They remind us that love is not a finite resource. That joy is not exclusive. That belonging is something we all deserve, regardless of where we were born or who we love. As we close this conversation, I want to invite you to imagine a future where no young person has to choose between their identity and their safety. Where rural landscapes are dotted with centers of learning and love, not just places of survival. Where teachers, parents, and neighbors are trained to be allies, not bystanders. This future is possible, but it requires our collective will. It requires us to dismantle the systems that marginalize and to build new ones that uplift. It requires us to listen to the voices of the youth, to trust their wisdom, to follow their lead. They are already doing the work. They are organizing, creating art, writing poetry, building networks. We just need to get out of their way and clear the path. So, take a deep breath. Feel the ground beneath your feet. Know that you are part of this movement, simply by caring enough to listen. By choosing empathy over indifference. By deciding that kindness is a verb. Let’s carry this intention forward into our days, our conversations, our actions. Let’s be the good people who make space for everyone. Thank you for being here. Thank you for listening. Thank you for believing that change is possible. Take care of yourself, and take care of each other. I’ll be right here next time.