The Mirror I Couldn’t Face

The Mirror I Couldn’t Face

How a Drag Show in a Small Town Helped Me Embrace Who I Am

In the fall of 2025, I stood backstage at a dive bar in my small town, clutching a secondhand sequined jacket and wondering what the hell I was doing. At 27, I’d spent years dodging mirrors—not just the physical ones, but the ones that forced me to confront who I was. I’d known I was queer since I was a teenager, but growing up in a place where “different” was whispered like a dirty word, I’d buried that truth deep. That night, at the town’s first-ever drag show, I was about to step into the spotlight as Ruby Star, my drag persona, and I was terrified.

I’d moved to this town—a speck on the map with one stoplight and a diner that still served milkshakes in metal cups—after college, thinking a fresh start would help me figure myself out. Instead, I felt more lost. I worked at the local bookstore, kept my head down, and avoided questions about why I wasn’t “settled down” yet. The truth was, I wasn’t out to anyone but myself, and even that felt like a secret I could barely admit. I’d spend nights scrolling through videos of drag queens, their confidence and joy radiating through the screen, and wonder why I couldn’t be that brave.

Then I saw the flyer taped to the bookstore’s bulletin board: “First Annual Drag Night at The Rusty Nail!” It was a fundraiser for a local youth center, organized by a bartender named Jess who’d moved from the city and wasn’t afraid to shake things up. I don’t know what possessed me to sign up—maybe it was the flyer’s glittery font, or maybe I was just tired of hiding. I spent weeks piecing together Ruby Star: a thrift-store sequined jacket, a cheap wig, and makeup tutorials I watched at 2 a.m. The name came from a dream I’d had about a star that burned too bright to be ignored.

Backstage, my hands shook as I applied eyeliner, smudging it twice. The bar was packed—locals, college kids, even a few curious retirees. I heard laughter and clinking glasses through the curtain, and my stomach churned. What if they laughed at me? What if they saw through the glitter to the scared kid underneath? Jess poked her head in, her own drag makeup flawless. “You’re gonna kill it, Ruby,” she said, squeezing my shoulder. “Just be you— all of you.”

When my name was called, I stepped onto the stage, the spotlight blinding. The music started—Lizzo’s “Good as Hell”—and for a moment, I froze. Then I caught my reflection in a cracked hand mirror someone had left on a prop table. It wasn’t perfect, but it was me: Ruby Star, messy and bold. I started to move, lip-syncing with more heart than skill, letting the music carry me. The crowd cheered, not out of pity but genuine joy. A table of college kids whooped, and an older woman in a flannel shirt raised her beer in salute. I felt like I was flying.

After my performance, a teenager named Riley approached me, their eyes wide. “I didn’t know we could do this here,” they said, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m… like you, I think.” I hugged them, my makeup smudging, and told them they were enough, just as they were. That moment hit me harder than the applause. Ruby Star wasn’t just a performance—she was a beacon for someone else.

I kept performing after that, not just at drag nights but in my everyday life. I came out to my coworkers, then my family, each step terrifying but freeing. The town didn’t magically become a queer utopia, but it softened. People started saying hi at the bookstore, asking about Ruby’s next show. Jess and I started a monthly drag workshop at the youth center, teaching kids like Riley how to paint their faces and own their stories.

That cracked mirror backstage became my talisman, a reminder that I didn’t need to be perfect to be seen. Ruby Star taught me that being myself—loud, queer, unapologetic—wasn’t just enough; it was everything. If you’re hiding a part of who you are, find your stage, whatever it looks like. Step into the light. Someone out there needs to see you shine.