The Power of Representation: Why Reborn In Shadows Matters
When I set out to write Reborn In Shadows, I didn’t just want to tell a story—I wanted to tell my story. Not just mine personally, but the kind of story that rarely gets told in places like my hometown.
Growing up in a town where 98.52% of the population was White, with a median household income of $22,663, and where traditional family structures dominated, I never expected to see characters like me in the books at my local library. LGBTQIA+ people existed, but not openly. Conversations about gender identity and sexuality weren’t just taboo—they were nearly non-existent.
But that didn’t mean we weren’t there.
Growing Up in the Shadows
I grew up in the ‘80s and ‘90s, in an isolated mountain town, before the internet connected people like me to a world where we weren’t alone. I didn’t know I was trans—that term wasn’t used where I lived, at least not in any way that was accessible to me. But I knew, deep down, that I was supposed to be a girl.
And yet, that truth was something I had to carry in complete isolation.
Only one friend knew. Just one person in my entire life had any idea what I was feeling, and even then, I lived in constant terror that someone else would find out. Being different—especially in a place where everyone seemed to fit neatly into their expected roles—felt like a threat to my very existence. I had no words to describe what I was going through, no role models, no books or movies that reflected my reality.
I was alone.
That kind of isolation leaves scars. It shapes the way you move through the world, the way you measure every word and action to avoid giving yourself away. It teaches you how to make yourself invisible.
Finding Shadows in the Gaps
For those of us who grew up queer in overwhelmingly straight, conservative spaces, our stories often went untold. We existed in the margins—whispered about, speculated on, or forced into silence altogether. The books I read as a kid and young adult reflected the world around me, which meant they didn’t reflect me at all.
So when I created Miriam Ryder, a chain-smoking, one-legged, fiercely independent trans woman rebuilding her life in a small town, I wanted her to feel real. I wanted her experiences—the microaggressions, the outright hostility, the moments of unexpected kindness—to resonate with those who have ever felt like outsiders in their own communities.
The Importance of Rural LGBTQIA+ Stories
So much of mainstream LGBTQIA+ representation focuses on big cities. It’s always about moving away—to New York, to LA, to somewhere with rainbow crosswalks and thriving queer neighborhoods. But what about those of us who stay? What about those who have no choice?
Rural LGBTQIA+ stories matter because they reflect a different kind of resilience. They show the reality of being the only openly queer person at your job, your church, or your neighborhood bar. They highlight the unique struggles of finding community in places where people still hesitate to say “gay” out loud.
And yet, they also highlight something else: hope.
In Reborn In Shadows, Miriam doesn’t just survive—she thrives. She builds connections, finds love, and refuses to be erased. Her story isn’t just about trauma; it’s about fighting for joy in a place that wasn’t designed for her to have it.
From Living in Fear to Living Openly
If I could go back and tell my younger self anything, it would be this: one day, you’ll live openly. One day, you’ll thrive.
Because today, I don’t just survive—I live proudly, boldly, and without apology. The fear that once dictated every aspect of my life no longer controls me. I found my truth, my community, and my voice. And now, I write stories that would have made younger me feel seen.
Representation That Feels Real
I’ve had readers tell me how much Reborn In Shadows meant to them—not just because it was a gripping thriller, but because they saw themselves, maybe for the first time, in a book like this.
That’s why representation matters. Not just the big, flashy Hollywood kind, but the kind that reflects the real, messy, complicated lives of people who live in places like mine.
And if my book makes just one person feel a little less alone? Then every hour I spent writing it was worth it.
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