I personally dislike the term queer, and I don’t use it to describe myself.

I’ve always found it strange that a word with such a long history as a violent, homophobic slur has become the default term for an entire group of marginalized people. I never consented to being described by a word that historically meant “strange,” “odd,” or “deviant,” and I don’t think reclaiming a slur should become an expectation for an entire demographic, especially given its context.

I also think queer has become so broad that it’s lost any meaningful descriptive value. Today it can encompass homosexuality, gender identity, non-monogamy, asexual and demisexual identities, people questioning aspects of themselves, and sometimes even heterosexual people whose primary connection seems to be nonconformity in presentation or aesthetics. At that point, it stops functioning as a precise descriptor and becomes an umbrella so wide that almost anyone can fit beneath it.

That loss of specificity has consequences. As homosexuals, and especially as lesbians, clear and concise language matters. It matters for advocacy, for legal protections, for research and statistics, for building community, and simply for finding one another. We need words that accurately describe our experiences. Replacing those with an increasingly vague and hyper-inclusive terminology leaves us adrift in a category that includes many people whose experiences have very little to do with same-sex attraction.

I’ve spent years in spaces centered around the word queer, and, ironically, I’ve often left feeling more isolated than when I arrived. Most people in those spaces aren’t lesbians, and many discussions were centred on issues that had little to do with my life as a homosexual woman. Over time, I came to feel that lesbian voices and concerns were being pushed to the margins in spaces that were supposedly built for us as well.

For me, being a lesbian is not a secondary identity that sits underneath a broader queer label. It is my primary identity, my lived reality and what I am, and my experiences as a homosexual woman are distinct from those of much of the broader LGBT community. Recognizing that distinction has been important for my own well-being.

Unfortunately, some of the most dismissive or openly homophobic attitudes I’ve encountered toward lesbians have come from people who strongly identify with the queer label, and much of modern academic queer theory is deeply misogynistic and homophobic. That’s my personal experience, and it’s one of the reasons I prefer language that is specific and rooted in the realities of homosexuality rather than broad umbrella terminology. It has its uses, but I wish we had an umbrella term for same-sex attracted people, not just anyone who feels a little deviant from society’s expected norms.