When literature gives words to what we don't yet know how to say

There are moments in adolescence when you don't yet have all the words to explain who you are, but you already notice that others have started to pick on you. A label, a rumor, a look that changes , a joke that doesn't seem serious to the person making it but that can stay with the person receiving it for a long time.

For many young LGBTI people, identity doesn't always come as a clear and orderly revelation . Sometimes it comes as an uncomfortable question. Like a silence. Like a fear that's hard to explain. Like the need to look around before saying anything, to know if that space is safe or not.

This is where literature can play a discreet but profound role . A book does not replace accompaniment, nor educational work, nor protection policies, nor adult listening. But it can do something very valuable: give words without forcing anyone to speak before they are ready.

When a teenager reads a story that resembles, even partially, what they are experiencing, they can recognize themselves without having to be exposed in front of everyone. They can think “this happens to me too” without having to say it out loud. They can understand that what they are feeling is not an anomaly, nor a fault, nor something they have to hide forever.

Young adult literature can also help adults . Sometimes, families and teachers want to accompany, but they don't know how to ask, when to intervene or how close to approach. A novel can open a conversation that, formulated directly, might be too difficult. It can allow us to talk about a character and end up talking about the group, the looks, the silences, the rumors or the need to listen before judging.

I think representation matters, but not just because a character “is” LGBTI. It matters when that character has doubts, contradictions, fears, desire, anger, tenderness and a future . It matters when they are not a label with legs, but a complete literary person. It matters when the story doesn’t turn pain into destiny or hope into an empty phrase.

That's why I think it's essential that LGBTI youth literature doesn't just talk about coming out , but also about being able to live afterwards . About building bonds. About finding community. About stopping apologizing for existing. About remembering that no young person should have to walk the path of discovering who they are alone.

This is the perspective I have tried to put into 'El ruido' , the novel with which I won the Todo Mejora 2026 Prize for LGTBIQ+ youth literature, linked to It Gets Better España , and which will be published by Kabo&Bero Ediciones in September 2026. The prize recognizes works that convey to young people a message of community, inclusion, visibility, inspiration and hope.

For me, this hope is not about telling a young person that everything will be okay. It is about showing them that they don't have to go through it alone.