Growing up, I didn’t know any queer women that looked like me.

In fact, I didn’t know any queer women at all. The only queer culture I saw was via the occasional lesbian sighting on TV; inevitably the women represented all looked the same—a masculine presenting person with short hair, probably wearing plaid. I’m not going to lie—some of these women were pretty cute (who doesn’t like a gal in plaid…), but I never saw myself on that screen. While it almost seems silly now, this narrow visual representation made me question whether I could possibly be queer.

The truth is, when we don’t see ourselves reflected in mainstream media, it’s hard to believe that we even exist.

This past month, Postmedia announced massive layoffs across the country, meaning that our small Canadian media is being concentrated in fewer and fewer hands. As ownership shrinks to a powerful few, I join the chorus of those who are afraid that the little diversity that exists among media voices will be lost. When we don’t tell our own stories, inevitably people get them wrong.

So often we only hear one queer or trans narrative.

The flamboyant, gay, white, cis male who works in fashion and is every woman’s best friend (see: every romantic comedy from the last decade). Or, more recently, the glam, white transwoman whose biggest concern is fashion (see: Caitlyn Jenner). These narratives are not necessarily untrue, but they are singular—herein lies the danger.

The brilliant Chimamanda Adichie warns that if we hear only a single story about another person or country, we risk a critical misunderstanding.

She writes:

“The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”

Without a multiplicity of queer and trans voices in the media, we risk believing that all trans folk are able to easily access health care, gender appropriate clothing, and material security—the reality is anything but. We risk believing that it is impossible to be a muscular, gay, black, professional male athlete in the NBA/NFL/MLB; that sexuality is defined by our so-called gender expression. I once believed that queer women could not look like me.

There is a danger in a single story.

Yet, our voices are loud—they’re simply not on the newsstands.

The most interesting, diverse, and challenging material I access comes from blogs, social media posts, and YouTube videos that raise up a rainbow of queer and trans voices and experiences. Using our own platforms, we are telling stories and fighting to hold space in a saturated marketplace where it’s often easier to ignore the nuance of experience.

So I read, I watch, I learn, my mind continues to expand.

While I fear the concentration of mainstream media, I am excited that we are living in an unprecedented time when privileged voices are not the only voices that have reach. Social media makes it possible for all of us to tell our stories, to share our stories, and to make sure that everyone knows that none of us are a single story—that we are a community with a multiplicity of experiences that make us stronger as a whole.

Keep carving out your space—somewhere there is a young person looking to see themselves reflected in that story.