LGBTQI+, Life, Identity and Community

Living Out Loud: LGBTQI+ Identity & Experience

This section is for the ones still becoming. The ones still questioning. The ones who’ve known who they were all along—and the ones still trying to find the words.

It’s for anyone who has ever been asked to explain themselves, shrink themselves, or hide a part of who they are just to make others more comfortable.

I don’t believe in boxes. And I don’t believe your identity should have to fight for air.

I’ve been an ally to the LGBTQI+ community for a long time—and I became a family member by marriage. This space is personal for me. I’ve seen the beauty, the strength, the complexity, and the resilience of this community—and I’ve also seen the harm. The way people’s existence is politicized. The way love is questioned. The way visibility comes with risk, not just celebration.

That’s not okay with me. It’s never been.

This space is my way of helping shift the conversation—away from judgment and toward understanding. Away from fear and toward belonging. Away from silence and toward voice.

Whether you’re out loud or quietly figuring it out, this is a space for full stories—not just labels.
For chosen family. For first crushes and final straws. For gender euphoria, awkward conversations, and the joy that comes when you stop asking permission to be real.

This isn’t about fitting in. It’s about belonging. It’s about safety. It’s about wholeness. It’s about truth.

We talk about the messy, the beautiful, the brave, and the bittersweet. Because LGBTQI+ lives are not monolithic. They are layered, sacred, soft, loud, angry, funny, spiritual, sexual, and full of nuance.

Here, all of that is welcome. And always will be.

DEI & Identity

Boxed In by Good Intentions

Written by Victoria Range-Carr

April 17, 2025

I remember Bill — a friend of my father’s, well into his sixties, and a preacher like my dad. I was in my early twenties, a single mother of two, living at home, and figuring out how to balance survival with ambition. We were sitting at the table one afternoon, talking about life, family, and the economy. I was working at a bank, fresh from a short financial course, and I was starting to think about the kind of future I wanted to build — one rooted in service and creativity.

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, Bill looked at me and said, plain as day: “You should be a nurse or a schoolteacher.” Just like that. No questions asked. Not because I had ever expressed interest in either. Not because I showed some talent for the work. Just... because.

I remember feeling something twist in my gut. Not because there’s anything wrong with nursing or teaching — they’re powerful, life-changing professions. But that wasn’t me. I’d been fascinated by technology and drawn to human behavior since junior high. Social work and tech had my heart. So why was the expectation so narrow?

Bill didn’t mean harm. In fact, he probably thought he was offering encouragement. But that’s the thing about bias: it rarely shows up in cruelty. More often, it hides in suggestions. In expectations. In traditions. And for young women like me — single, unmarried, ambitious — those suggestions can be suffocating. They shrink your sense of possibility before it ever has room to breathe.

To be fair, my parents weren’t thrilled about my interest in technology either. They thought it was a passing trend, a risky investment. But I saw it differently. I saw potential. Innovation. Change. And I wanted to be a part of it. That desire — to chase something outside the expected — came with resistance from all sides. But it also taught me something about how identity shapes opportunity.

That conversation with Bill wasn’t the last time I’d be boxed in by assumptions. But it was one of the first times I noticed the box forming around me — and decided I wasn’t going to live inside it.

We talk a lot about DEI as policy and training. But it’s also moments like that — subtle, generational, cultural — where someone else’s view of who you should be threatens to overshadow who you could be.

If you’ve ever been guided toward a path that didn’t feel like your own — not because of skill, but because of someone’s comfort — you’re not alone. Let’s name the boxes, so we can build something better beyond them.

DEI work doesn’t always happen in boardrooms — sometimes it starts at the dinner table. If you’ve ever had to push back on someone’s assumptions of who you’re supposed to be, you’re not alone. Let’s talk about it.

Why DEI Matters to Me

Diversity, equity, and inclusion aren’t just ideals I talk about—they are realities I’ve lived without, and necessities I refuse to go without again.

After more than two decades in social services, I’ve witnessed firsthand what happens when systems ignore the people they’re meant to serve. But I’ve also experienced what happens when workplaces ignore the people who keep them running. Glass ceilings, racial profiling, and inter-office politics aren’t just office issues—they’re deeply personal. They wear down your confidence, drain your peace of mind, and impact whether or not you even feel safe enough to show up.

I’ve been the one underestimated in the meeting. I’ve had to manage microaggressions between coffee breaks and deadlines. I’ve walked away from jobs carrying stress that didn’t belong to me—but still shaped how I showed up for my life and my family.

That’s why DEI matters to me. Because inclusion isn’t just about representation—it’s about the emotional, mental, and social health of real people. When workplaces aren’t inclusive, they don’t just miss out on talent—they harm people, and that harm travels home.

Today, I’m advocating for policies that reflect real lives—not just ideals. I build platforms that hold space for truth, complexity, and change. Because we all deserve to exist fully—not just at work, but in the world.

Exploring the World of Social Services

Why Write About Social Services

I didn’t learn about social services in a classroom—I was introduced to it through family. Foster care and adoption weren’t abstract terms to me growing up—they were present in the lives of family — cousins, and some friend. I witnessed, from a young age, what it looked like for children to navigate new homes, new families, and new systems. And even as a child, I felt something stir in me: a warmth. A responsibility. A quiet determination to help wherever I could.

That desire didn’t come from obligation. It came naturally. It matched my personality, my empathy, my curiosity—and my belief in community as a source of comfort and connection.

So I followed it. I studied human services, communications, and policy. I pursued a path that turned instinct into intention. I joined the system, hoping to make it better. I gave it my heart, my skills — my life. I showed up — not just professionally, but emotionally. I led teams, wrote policies, supported youth, trained others. And for a long time, the spirit of community that I always loved kept me rooted.

Until burnout introduced itself.

Until fatigue became too familiar.

Until I realized that the very system I believed in wasn’t built to return the kind of care it demands. And I learned something that every helper eventually has to: boundaries — they are survival.

That’s why I’m write about social services now.

Because this work is human work. Because social workers, case managers, frontline staff—we carry stories, and we have stories. Because the families we serve are layered, complex, and worthy of more than checkboxes and cold statistics. And because so many of us are holding it all with compassion, but without room to exhale.

I write to create that room.

For those who serve and those who are served. For those trying to navigate systems, and those trying to change them. For those who’ve stayed, those who’ve left, and those who are somewhere in between.

Because I know this world. I’ve walked alongside it, worked within it, and carried its weight home.

And I believe our stories—the full stories—deserve space to rise.

Your Story Belongs Here.
If you’ve worked in social services, received support, or simply have a story to share about navigating the system—your voice matters. We welcome reflections from every perspective.
Reach out via the Connect page or email us at connect@unboxedvoices.com to share your experience, contribute a piece, or just start a conversation.

Mental Health, Wellness & Healing

When Healing Isn’t Linear — It’s Ancestral Disruption

Written by Victoria Range-Carr

April 17, 2025

What do you do when everything you’ve been taught… starts to unravel?

When you realize the lessons weren’t passed down with wisdom — but with wounds. That much of what you inherited wasn’t knowledge at all, but survival strategies in disguise. Beautifully packaged desperation passed from one generation to the next like heirlooms no one asked for.

This is what it feels like to live at the intersection of past and future — carrying the stories absorbed from 'before,' and holding the responsibility of 'what now.' It is emotional residue born from cognitive and emotional overload — but also a sign that you are searching, wrestling, and intellectually awake in the midst of that weight.

You're not just questioning your path. You're confronting the crumbling of generational beliefs — what was taught, internalized, and unknowingly passed down. And there’s a deep grief that comes with that realization: that what shaped us was built on survival, not truth; reaction, not tradition; adaptation, not stability.

And what do you do when you realize there wasn’t even a pattern to begin with? Just reactions to isolated moments. No footsteps walked in the same soil. No road that anyone followed for more than a few steps before it disappeared again. So the idea of 'breaking the cycle' — what if there never really was one?

It’s disorienting. Because you want to heal. But how do you heal something you can’t trace? How do you fix a legacy written in invisible ink?

There’s a term for what I was feeling: fractured perception. The realization that you’ve been viewing the world through a cracked lens — one that distorts your sense of what’s real, what’s yours, what’s worthy. It’s not a breakdown. It’s an awakening. But awakening can look and feel a lot like collapse.

I described it once like an onion. The self, layered — some parts dirty and fibrous, others bendable but hard to digest. And in between the layers? A membrane. Filmy. Present. Hard to chew, but impossible to ignore. That membrane is grief, I think. The grief of reckoning. Of realizing that even if the layers are yours, you didn’t put them there.

This isn’t a how-to. I don’t have answers. But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe healing isn’t a clean slate — maybe it’s sitting in the murk long enough to recognize what you’ve been carrying, and then asking yourself: Do I still want this?

That’s where I found myself — though not for the first time. In my personal journey, I’ve visited this space more than once.

The practice of self-assessment with the intention of healing and growth isn’t a one-time event — especially when the rivers run deep and the layers of that onion are plentiful and thick. These moments return, often quietly, sometimes urgently, reminding us that healing is not a destination. It’s a practice.

Sometimes the first step in healing is realizing the script you were given wasn’t rooted in truth. That doesn’t make you broken. That makes you brave.

If this reflection speaks to you — if you’ve ever felt like your healing journey was more about unlearning than rebuilding — you’re not alone. Let’s name it. Let’s sit with it. Let’s rise slowly, together.

Why I Write About Mental Health, Wellness & Healing

Mental health is personal to me—because I’ve had to protect mine.

Like many of us in helping professions, I’ve spent years giving care, holding space, and staying strong. But somewhere along the way, I realized that resilience isn’t the same as rest—and surviving isn’t the same as healing. I learned how easy it is to make space for everyone else while abandoning your own need for peace, softness, or stillness.

I write about mental health and wellness because I’ve lived in the tension between wanting to help others and needing to recover myself. I know what it’s like to pour from an empty cup, to wake up tired in more ways than one, and to feel like wellness is something you encourage for others but can’t find for yourself.

This isn’t a space for toxic positivity or polished advice. It’s a space for truth—for honoring the good days, naming the hard ones, and finding language for what it means to maintain your peace when the world feels loud.

Healing is a journey. Rest is resistance. Boundaries are holy. And wellness isn’t one-size-fits-all.

This section is where we talk about that—openly, honestly, and without shame.
Because you deserve your wellness too. Not just as a reward for productivity—but as a right.

This space is offered with care.
My hope is that what you find here brings light to your questions, encouragement to your quiet moments, and validation to the emotions we’re often asked to tuck away.
Because our experiences—messy, beautiful, complex, and ever-evolving—are worthy of being seen, honored, and held.

Real Talk & Raw Reflections

Introducing Real Talk & Raw Reflections

This section is where the polished answers fall away—and the real stuff rises up.

We’re talking about the complicated relationships that shape us: the friends we outgrow, the lovers we keep too long or lose too soon, the coworkers who try us, the family that doesn’t always get it, and the inner voice we argue with when no one’s around. I’ve had whole conversations in my car trying to sort out where I’m going in life—mentally, emotionally, and literally. I’ve been the one singing out loud like the world was watching… because it was, and I didn’t care.

This space is for the truths that don’t fit neatly into Instagram captions, therapy scripts, or holiday dinner conversations.
It’s for the moments we carry quietly, and the ones we need to say out loud.

Because sometimes the movies lie, the books skip the messy chapters, and our parents only told us part of the story.
Doctors don’t always know. Friends don’t always ask. And we don’t always have the words.

But here, we’ll try.

Whether it’s healing, hurting, hoping, or just being human—let’s talk about it.