How young is too young to plan your estate when you’re Queer?
When I came out as gay, I was told, “This isn’t what God wants for you.”
That line comes back to me sometimes, ringing in my ears even years later. I was the only grandson of the youngest daughter—a position that came with a strange kind of spotlight. I watched my great aunts and uncles disappear, one by one, until funerals felt familiar. For years, death felt like a room I’d already walked into and learned the rules.
I guess that’s why I started thinking about my own eulogy earlier than most people do. Not in a dramatic, teenage way, but in a practical sense—who would stand up and say words about me when that final day would eventually come? My biggest fear wasn’t dying; it was having my life summed up by someone who would look at who I loved and see it as a flaw, a sin, an abomination. “Now he’s free from all pain and struggles,” they may say or some other thinly veiled judgement implying that being gay was a source of suffering needing release.
So I started writing my will when I was too young to have much of anything to leave behind. I was 18. It wasn’t about money or property—it was about control. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happened, my life—and my love—would be described the way I wanted.
For queer people, estate planning, or the process of making legal arrangements to ensure your wishes are protected after you’re gone, is more than just a precaution. It’s a necessity. Creating estate planning documents gives you a legally binding way to protect your legacy—even if your family disagrees.
Marriage had been seen as one vehicle for obtaining some protections. Although in 2015, the Supreme Court ruled in Obergefell v. Hodges that same-sex couples have a constitutional right to marry, consider the makeup of the Court has changed. In 2022, Justice Clarence Thomas wrote that the Court “should reconsider” all of its substantive due process precedents—including Obergefell. That’s not just legal jargon; it’s a warning that’s deeply concerning. He’s saying out loud that the right to marry might not be as safe as we hoped, and that’s got queer communities raising the importance of estate planning.
“That’s why writing a will, and making other legal documents like power of attorney, health care proxies, and guardianship papers is so important for LGBTQ+ people, especially couples,” says Ayako Nagano, a queer estate planning attorney at Midori Law Group. “A marriage certificate might not be enough. If the law changes, your spouse could be treated as a legal stranger in the eyes of the state. Your wishes about your home, your kids, your end-of-life care—those could all be ignored if you don’t have clear, explicit documents. The state could step in, or distant relatives who never accepted you could get the final say,” she adds.
Going through the estate planning process in my twenties was… an experience. I sat with a lawyer, answering questions I’d never thought about—Who should make medical decisions for me? Who would inherit my things? Who would be responsible for my funeral and my memory? Again, it wasn’t dramatic, but it was sobering.
What surprised me most was how much there is to consider, even when you don’t have a partner or kids. I learned that if you don’t spell out your wishes, the state has a script ready for you—and often, that script defaults to the next of kin, regardless of what your relationship was actually like. I realized that naming a trusted friend as my healthcare proxy or executor wasn’t just possible, but crucial, if I wanted someone who truly understood and respected me to be in charge.
I also learned about the importance of things like a living will, which lets you outline your wishes for end-of-life care, and a durable power of attorney, which can allow someone you trust to handle your affairs if you’re ever unable. These aren’t just documents for the old or the wealthy; they’re for anyone who wants a say in their own story.
Some questions stung more than others, like “Would your family contest this?” or “Are there people who might object to your choices?” But each answer felt like a small act of resistance—a way to quietly insist that my identity and my wishes matter, no matter who’s left standing in the room.
Finishing my estate plan didn’t make me feel morbid or paranoid. It made me feel prepared. I’d taken steps to make sure my life, and the values I hold, would be honored—even if the law changes, or if the people in power don’t see me for who I am. That’s the real lesson I learned: estate planning isn’t just about money or property. It’s about making sure your truth is protected, and your story is told the way you want it—by you.
