When I saw the first season of Our Flag Means Death, something in it spoke to me, as it did to a lot of people. There is something deeply relatable about a man who feels he belongs nowhere, finding friendship and love among a gang of misfits, and there is something deeply relatable about a gang of misfits who become freer in a place where no one will judge them, or oppress them, or ask them to be anything other than what they are. There is something equally relatable about a man trapped in a persona he no longer needs, who believes himself unlovable, perhaps even incapable of love, discovering an identity in which he can be free, and a person he can be free with.

But the first season ends with heartbreak, as Edward Teach submerges himself in a storm of anger and grief, imprisoned again by an oppressive system that tells him he cannot be who he is and still live. It also ends with hope, a coming-out moment as Stede Bonnet realizes, almost simultaneously, that he’s gay and that he’s in love with Ed, through the words of a woman he never loved and who never loved him, but whose care for him helps to set him free.

The second season begins in the midst of that heartbreak and hope, as they move towards each other, and healing, again. And while there are certainly criticisms to be made, about the show as a whole and the two seasons (so far) individually, the story has resonated and continues to resonate with many.

Including me. I’ve never been open about my sexuality—barely even wanted to discuss it, with friends or family—and what I do or don’t do, and with whom, remains something I have no need to share. While I will write about sexuality and feminism and gender, I will not discuss it as it pertains to me, except in some distant, at least semi-academic mindset. I filter much through stories and media, find resonances for myself and who I am and express that in writing. I will talk a lot, but not really, wholly, about myself.

I won’t say that’s changed. My friends have occasionally called me a mystery, and I am fine with that. When I was a child, I wore the clothes in which I felt comfortable, and then was told I wasn’t “a girl,” or at least not a proper one. When I was a teenager, I tried to do the correct “girl” things, but could never bring myself to be really comfortable in dresses or skirts, though makeup has always been a different matter. As a university student, I feared being labeled “belligerent” by male friends (my fear, not their words), but could never quite suppress my words or my sarcasm or my occasional anger. As an adult, I’ve still tried to perform, to pretend that, yes, I want to get dressed up to go out, not wear ripped jeans and T-shirts, I want to get a manicure, I want to grow my hair out—not because of anything my friends or family have impressed on me, but because of what social rules have impressed on me, and what I have impressed on myself.

Beneath all that has always been that fear, that internalized homophobia—what if you look…gay? What if you look…like a boy? And although I’ve been ashamed of that fear, as soon as I was able to put words to it, it remained.

Not anymore. I won’t say that Our Flag Means Death suddenly gave me a moment akin to Stede’s, but it did show me, in terms I can understand better than any, that being the person you are, whatever that means, is far preferable to pretending to be the person you’re not. Especially to yourself. I’ve never felt conditional love from my friends; I’ve never felt conditional love from my parents or my family. I’ve never felt I had to perform for them. They love me because I’m me. Loud, intense, opinionated, sometimes angry, sometimes funny (hilarious). I don’t know, because no one can never know for certain, if their feelings about me will change if they read this. I don’t think they will.

I’m not gay. I’m not a boy. I am bisexual; perhaps that will change. I am a woman; I don’t think that will change. I know who I am, consciously, perhaps for the first time since I was eight or nine years old. That came not from anything that someone told me or any heartfelt conversation I couldn’t really have, but from, strangely but inarguably, a TV show about the gayest pirate ship in the Caribbean.

Who says representation doesn’t matter?

“His name is Ed.”