Youth Voices Writing Contest
In its second year, Seattle Pride's Youth Voices Writing Contest continued to embody the organization's commitment to youth programming and the transformative power of the arts. This year's theme, "Louder," served as an invitation for LGBTQIA2S+ youth to share their truths boldly and unapologetically: a particularly vital call during a time when young queer voices face increasing challenges and restrictions across the country.
Thirty-three young writers, ages 13 to 18, answered that call with remarkable courage, submitting 49 pieces that responded to the "Louder" theme with bravery and vision. In their words, we not only hear their stories but also see glimpses of the world they are determined to build. These youth remind us that the future of our community is in powerful hands.
The winners, who received cash prizes, Seattle Pride merchandise, tickets to the 5th Avenue Theater, and Lil Woody's gift certificates, represent a generation refusing to be silenced.
1st Place Poetry
Stone Eater
By Nikolas Wright
I swallowed a stone when I was a child.
It was big,
Sharp,
And heavy.
Every time I breathed it would sink a little further into my chest and block my airway. I remember the moment I swallowed it,
It was also the moment I became an actor.
“I don’t think I am a girl,”
In one hand I held bravery,
And in the other I held a sippy cup.
And that was the last time I was honest for years.
The stone seemed to get a little bit bigger sometimes,
When I was told I couldn’t buzz my hair off,
When I was asked if I were a boy or a girl and I had to lie.
I will pretend it doesn’t hurt,
And if I could,
I would pretend it never happened.
But the silence still remains stitched into them hem of the clothes my grandma holds onto, “Just in case.”
And it comes out in an embarrassed whisper when I’m asked why I talk like a girl. The biggest I remember the stone being was at the state fair bathrooms, After I started presenting as male.
My knees pressed to my chest,
My back dripping with sweat,
I prayed,
My words slurred,
I stopped asking to live,
But just that they wouldn’t call me a girl in my obituary.
I stopped asking that the man with the anger would leave,
But just that he would stop yelling that word,
A word I refuse to say.
I survived it,
And I didnt tell a soul.
I left that bathroom enlightened,
I learned that men don’t cry,
Men don’t feel.
And I was going to be a man.
I punched walls,
I fought,
I broke my nose,
I cleaned it up myself,
I spat red into the sink,
I watched it trickle down the drain,
I pretended my plans were long term,
And I didn’t tell anyone.
Boyhood was built on silence.
One day I woke up early,
And I put my running shoes on.
I laced them up the same way I learned in elementary school. I went to Seattle,
And I saw a woman praying to god to be protected from the trans kids. The kids like me.
I remember that being the moment I got rid of the stone. It was also the moment I abandoned my lifelong acting career. Pretending to be a girl,
Pretending to be a cis boy,
Pretending to be someone not afraid of his own skin.
It was never on me.
They will pray to be protected,
They will pray that we will stay quiet,
They will pray that we will hide,
I will pray that they will learn better.
My boyhood was built on silence;
But my manhood will not be.
1st Place Prose
Flux
By Sky Hsi
I. September 17, 2017
2017 was quiet. Not “peaceful,” but the kind of quiet that comes right before something starts—the silence before a song, the waiting before the spark. On September 17th, 2017, I figured it out. Who I was. Not some movie scene with mirrors and tears, but a moment. A knowing. Like looking down and realizing your name has already been etched into your bones. Not the name they used. The one that was always there. The one I hadn’t had the guts to say aloud yet.
I didn’t do anything with it at first. It was just... there. A glowing ember in my chest. Not burning. Not shouting. Just existing. Waiting.
II. 2018 – Subtle Rebellion
I started small. Painted nails. Pastels. Soft, feminine-coded shades. Nothing too obvious, but visible to the trained eye.
But I knew. Every stroke of polish, every soft hoodie, every hint of color instead of camouflage—it was a rebellion. A whisper to the world that I wasn’t who they thought I was. I wasn’t who they told me to be. They didn’t call it anything, but I did. I called it freedom. Even if I still looked like what they expected, I wasn’t. Not anymore.
III. 2019 – Learning the Language
Books became my world. I hunted down anything I could find about being genderfluid, about dysphoria, about surviving in a body that I didn’t choose.
I started prepping for puberty like it was a battle. Not one I asked for, but one I knew I had to fight. Understanding myself wasn’t a luxury. It was survival.
And slowly, the idea of flux—of gender as movement, not something fixed—started to make sense. It was my truth.
IV. 2020 – Shut down, but Not Silent
When COVID hit, the world shut down. But me? I started waking up.
No classrooms. No hallways. No forced masculine clothes. No one to watch my every move. I could just… be.
I stopped dressing for them. I started dressing for myself. Some days were more femme, some days less. When my gender hit the extreme, I let it show. I didn’t hide it. The shifts didn’t hurt, they revealed something. They revealed parts of me I didn’t even know were there.
My room became my sanctuary. My clothes, my armor. My body, my battleground. But I never stopped showing up. Not once.
V. 2021 – Pride, Finally
Nothing much happened that year—until everything did.
June 26th. Virtual Pride on Hopin. A gathering of queer people from all over Seattle. And me—finally me. I chose my name, my pronouns, my truth. I didn’t destroy the old me. I edited it—made it mine.
The euphoria hit like sunlight. Like breathing after holding my breath for years. I was out, if only online. Still not at school. Still not at home. But out. Out in the world, in the space I carved for myself. For the first time in forever, I felt loud. Not in volume. In truth.
VI. 2022 – The Weight
Seventh grade came in like a storm. Unannounced. Taking over everything.
I was still me—but quieter. Heavier.
Not silent. Not hiding. Just… carrying more.
Some days, it felt like I could still breathe—like I could pull color from my notebooks, keep holding onto that last bit of light.
But depression doesn’t knock. It creeps in. Slowly. Like water seeping through the cracks in a wall. You don’t feel it until your feet are already wet. Your shoes stained, colors fading.
But I still had my notebooks. I still had clothes tucked in drawers. I still knew who I was, even when nothing felt good. That mattered.
That saved me.
Sometimes, all I could do was hold the line. Not moving forward. Not glowing. Just staying. I just kept being me, even when the world felt gray, and my chest felt like it was closing in. It didn’t erase me. Depression tried. But it failed. Because even when I felt nothing, I never stopped being me.
VII. 2023 – Little Victories, Big Joy
I remember the day I found them.
Concert blacks, from Goodwill.
Women’s. Feminine cut. My size.
I put them on and for a second—just a second, I forgot about the names I wasn’t. Forgot the wrongness, the classrooms, the weight.
They fit like a promise.
Like I’d crossed into some version of myself I only saw in dreams.
They lasted a month. Bodies change. That’s life.
But the lesson stayed: size up. Know your numbers. Know your power.
It wasn’t just a thrift store purchase.
It was proof. I was getting closer.
To them—because even on my softest days, my fluid days, I know exactly who I am. No blurriness. Only motion. Motion is not confusion. It’s freedom that won’t be boxed in.
That day, I looked in the mirror and saw not “passing.” Not performance. Just… truth in fabric.
VIII. 2024 – Doors, Detours, and Voices
Freshman year, I tried the girls' bathroom. Just once.
It didn’t go well.
Eyes. Whispers. That sharp feeling like I was intruding. Like I had done something wrong by walking through a door.
After that, I stuck to the gender-neutral bathrooms—when they weren’t locked.
A lot of the time, they were.
Locked because of vaping. Locked because of rules. Locked because someone thought it was easier to punish everyone than deal with what’s really broken.
But then something happened.
Voices started rising.
Not just mine—ours. Queer voices. Loud, relentless, brilliant. Students started pushing the admins, day after day, about those locked doors. About the message it sent. About kids like me being erased by inconvenience.
We even put up bathroom art. Real stories. Little posters explaining what it means when a door that’s supposed to be safe becomes just another wall. Some got torn down. Some stayed. But people saw. People knew.
It’s not over. There are still days where I don’t feel seen. Still names that don’t fit in other people’s mouths. Still looks that sting.
But it’s not because I’m a ghost. It’s a costume I never asked to wear. A version of me the world made up without permission.
And every time I walk the halls in that false skin, I feel the edges peel back—because now, we’re changing things. We’re showing up, showing out, and breaking that story wide open.
IX. 2025 – The Becoming
2025. I’m not just existing anymore. I’m shaping.
I joined Queer Voices—our school’s loud, unapologetic LGBTQ+ activism club. It’s a call to action. It’s joy, yes, but also a relentless push against the silence that tries to swallow us. We’re not just here. We’re rising. We’re going to break every door, shatter every wall, and when they try to lock us out? We’ll make them hear us.
My identity—it’s not a secret anymore.
Not in the halls. Not in my heart.
We’ve got big plans—visibility events, fundraisers, education. Making space where there wasn’t space before. Not just existing, but building. Not just surviving, but shaping.
And recently, on April 25, 2025, I had my first femme concert day.
Feminine outfit. Black attire. A stage. A moment.
It went well. I showed up. I was true to myself. And nobody cared. I was just me. But I do know one thing: this will be happening a lot more in the future.
And I’ll walk out in front of the audience wearing more than just fabric.
I’ll be wearing becoming—not just as fabric, but as my future—a truth in progress.
X. The Pulse
I used to think being genderfluid meant always shifting, never landing. That I’d always be floating—never seen, never still.
But now I know—flux isn’t confusion. It’s clarity in motion.
It’s walking into a room that wasn’t built for you and leaving your shape in it anyway. It’s not about saying no to the world’s wrong version of me.
It’s about saying yes to the truest one.
It’s a heartbeat.
And it’s mine.
And when the world says I don’t exist?
I say, watch me.