The Queer Ultimatum Made Me Give My Own Ultimatum

It’s been about two years since the launch of The Ultimatum: Queer Love. As someone who indulges in the Netflix reality TV shows universe, where fresh seasons seem to drop once or twice a year, waiting that long for a new Queer Love season felt like some sort of cruel, diabolical experiment on its viewers. Like the rest of the viewers, I slurped down that hot tea, burned my tongue, and now I’m complaining about it.

Reality TV has become one of my favorite pastimes with my fiancée. We listen to recap podcasts, tune in to post-show interviews with former contestants, and after reunions air, watch the tea spill across social media before sending each other links with the shocked-face emoji. It’s a shameless guilty pleasure and, honestly, a kind of refuge from the chaos of the political climate that clogs our newsfeeds and timelines. After a long day of work, we curl up on the couch, laugh, and gossip about strangers on reality TV that we’ll never meet and can’t fully relate to—a perfect blend of escapism. So when season 2 of Queer Love finally dropped, I was ready to binge, meet the new faces, roll my eyes at petty antics, and stalk Instagram stories for the latest hot gossip. Don’t get me wrong; this season had all the usual drama. But the contestant Pilar’s story held up a mirror to my own—one we both have been avoiding.

This season introduces eight all-female and nonbinary couples. In each relationship, one partner has issued an ultimatum to get engaged. Meanwhile, the other isn’t ready or doesn’t believe in marriage at all. The eight couples then “mix ’n’ match” partners for three weeks to get a fresh perspective on their own long-term relationships. One couple, Hailey and Pilar, caught my attention. Hailey gave Pilar the ultimatum after nine years together, frustrated that Pilar couldn’t meet her halfway and commit. Pilar’s hesitancy came from something deeper: her struggle to accept that her family couldn’t embrace her for who she is or who she loves. She was denying herself happiness, and Hailey’s happiness, too. While Pilar’s story isn’t new in the queer community, seeing that wound on a modern, public stage felt refreshing.

When I was in my MFA program, I had a classmate say he was tired of reading “coming-out” stories. On a different occasion, a close friend of mine who’s been out since his adolescence said, Being out now isn’t anything compared to the gay experiences before. I didn’t push either of them for follow-up explanations. As a person who came out later in her life, and is in a same-sex relationship, I wasn’t sure how to respond to either of them because I wasn’t confident about how I felt about my own queer journey. On one hand, I felt my journey was outdated and redundant. On the other hand, I understood their point: being queer and out is now, in many circles, seen as normal enough that people no longer want to dwell on “sad queer stories.” We want to see queer people thriving, loving, building lives. But that doesn’t mean the struggles have disappeared.

Barriers remain political, personal, and everywhere in between for queer folks. I think the dismissiveness toward modern queer struggles comes from the illusion of acceptance. Social media and consumer culture push a shiny, performative version of inclusivity: rainbow merch every June, brands tweeting “Love is Love,” and more queer characters on-screen than ever before. And while that visibility matters, it can also erase the personal, messy, and ongoing journeys of real queer people. Every queer person still has a coming-out story, whether it’s short and painless or decades-long and complicated, and each story shapes their ability to thrive. In Queer Love, Pilar, a grown woman of color, was still navigating hers. So was I.

Every queer person still has a coming-out story, whether it’s short and painless or decades-long and complicated, and each story shapes their ability to thrive. In Queer Love, Pilar, a grown woman of color, was still navigating hers. So was I.

With the help of steady, year-after-year therapy, I finally came out to my parents at twenty-eight years old—the same year I met my partner and knew I wanted to spend my life with her. We’ve been together for nearly four years now, and for most of that time, my parents treated her like family. We went on a family vacation to Hawaii together. They helped me throw a little birthday party for my and my partner’s dogs. They bought her Christmas gifts and invited her over for my mom’s birthday while I was out of town. When we bought our house, they came over to help us build furniture and organize the kitchen pantry and linen closet. My dad even introduced her to my abuelita as “my girlfriend.” Despite their religious and political beliefs, it seemed their love for me was grander.

Last year, my partner proposed on my birthday. We both had high hopes that my parents would be excited for us. Surely, they’d want to hear all the details, to be part of the planning. Instead, we were met with silence and dismissiveness. I told myself they just needed time. Time to process. Time to adjust. Time to accept that their youngest (and only) daughter was engaged. Weeks passed. They never asked to see my ring, never called to say “congratulations.” I let it go, thinking maybe they’d come around. Months later, we started wedding planning anyway. We shared our date with them. Again, silence. At family functions, they acted like the conversation never happened, like our wedding didn’t exist. They’d text us about other plans, skipping over our messages about the ceremony. Eventually, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. I confronted them. My mom’s response: Well, what would you expect us to say? You know how we are. We’re not going to the wedding.

I was stunned. In that moment, I couldn’t make sense of it. How could the same people who welcomed my partner into their lives, who vacationed with us, celebrated with us, and helped us build our home, now refuse to stand by me? Surely, it wasn’t because I’m queer. Surely, it had to be something else. Surely.

No matter how much I tried to rationalize it, my parents’ abrupt rejection sent me into a spiral. They had worn the mask of acceptance for my entire relationship, for my entire outness as a queer person. Then ripped it off without warning. It was heartbreaking. I couldn’t fathom that my parents were capable of something that felt so cruel and selfish, especially when I had worked so hard to be the “good” daughter. I called often. I visited. I hosted game nights and karaoke parties. I picked the perfect gifts. I did everything I thought would earn their love and approval, for both me and my partner. If they were turning away now, I had to have done something wrong. I just needed to figure out what it was—and fix it. I needed to hear their side. I needed to know the real reason because I was convinced it couldn’t just be their beliefs.

I agreed to meet my mom for lunch. I wanted to hear her out and see if there was an opportunity to move forward; maybe we could find common ground where our differences can coexist. Well, I definitely regret letting her choose the location because within forty-five minutes, we were both crying in the middle of Panera. Any part of me that hoped I could change her mind quickly diminished once her words turned into daggers: You’re surrounding yourself with evilness; you’re opening doors to the enemy; your soul is going down the wrong path. The same fears she repeated to me as a child. I wish I could say I stood up for myself with confidence when she reintroduced the fears to me, but I slipped back into the small, voiceless child I once was. Reliving the fear I once had as a child, I knew I had to take a step away from my family altogether and let the mental whiplash settle down.

When I’ve shared what happened with friends and family, I’ve gotten a mix of reactions: It’s 2025! People are still upset about someone being gay? Or, Maybe they’ll come around. Or the dreaded shrug: Who cares? Just get over it. Trying to find community and support made me feel even more isolated. I even considered if I really was “demonic” and not worth understanding. But watching Pilar struggle with her family’s lack of acceptance reminded me I wasn’t alone, I wasn’t evil, and I was worth being seen. While the media often presents the modern world as progressive, it isn’t the reality for many queer people of color. Most of us are born into traditional family structures shaped by colonized values, expecting us to meet high standards, uphold the very systems that oppress us, and reinforce the silence of our unique struggles.

I now understand that my parents’ reaction, and the way people respond to it, fits right into where we are as a country. In the backdrop of my story, political and social systems are getting ripped apart and rebuilt to keep power in the hands of a few, and part of that is this quiet rollback of progress. Corporations, colleges, and government departments are ditching their DEI programs. Public allies are going silent. Education is becoming limited. Banning transgender rights is enforced for all ages. The performance of acceptance fades, and what’s left is what was always there. That trickle down from the big systems to the personal ones? That’s exactly what I see in my and Pilar’s stories: two queer women of color whose families can embrace them in theory, but not when it counts. Because being queer and a person of color means setting boundaries with your family is wrong. It means letting down your family is inevitable, and your identity becomes a losing battle. No matter what I do to prove I am a “good” daughter, I am still a failure if I am choosing myself. And you know what? I’d rather be a failure at being anyone else because being queer and a person of color also means letting go of the idea of being someone else. It’s decentralizing toxic family values and standards. It’s trading internal guilt for peace.

I haven’t spoken to my parents since, and I’m not sure the next time I will. Even though I am doubtful about receiving an apology, or any acknowledgement of their actions, I don’t resent them or harbor hatred toward them. I’m disappointed in their choices as parents and as people, but I can’t say my distance will last forever. When I reflect on my relationship with my parents and my queer identity, I like to believe their rejection is bigger than me, a projection of their unhealed wounds. Regardless, if their reasoning for rejecting me is taken at face value, this means a new trajectory where I’m leaning into the excitement of marrying my partner, focusing on the unconditional love present in my friendships, and appreciating the pockets of joy in my life. I’m returning their energy back to my family and claiming the space in my own queer narration. I’m learning to create my own closure and carving what resilience looks like for me along the way.

I don’t know if my parents’ earlier acts of acceptance were entirely genuine or if it was just easier for them when it didn’t require any real risk or sacrifice. Maybe it was love, maybe it was convenience, probably some of both. But I do know this: We can’t lose empathy. We can’t stop recognizing and validating people’s experiences. I feel almost privileged to even experience familial trauma compared to the horrors occurring outside of myself, but it’s not about comparison. It’s about community. We can’t stop telling these stories even if some people think they’re “overplayed,” or “too sad,” or no longer “relevant.” Because the truth is, queer struggles haven’t vanished. The narration of them has just changed—they’ve gotten quieter, more polite, easier to ignore and pretend they don’t exist.