I don’t think I ever thought about the whole process of coming out until it was right in front of me, like an unspoken deadline looming over my head. The funny thing is, no one was waiting on it but me. I had built it up into this massive, earth-shattering moment in my mind, but the world wasn’t in a rush for me to blurt it out. That’s the thing about coming out—it feels like it should be this climactic event, and sometimes it is, but most times, it’s not a party or a grand announcement. It’s a quiet realization, more internal than anything.
People talk a lot about the pressure of coming out, and yeah, I felt that too. It’s this odd weight, like you’re carrying around a secret that grows heavier the longer you hold it. But the truth is, no one is demanding it of you. There’s no rulebook that says you have to come out at a certain age or tell certain people. You can tell everyone, or no one at all, and both options are perfectly valid.
When I first came out, I expected everything to change. I thought it would be like crossing some kind of invisible threshold where suddenly, everything would make sense, where my identity would be fully realized, not just to me but to everyone. I told myself that once I said those words—”I’m gay”—my life would somehow snap into place. But it didn’t. The sky didn’t open up, there wasn’t some sudden wave of liberation washing over me. It felt… regular. Normal. Like saying I preferred chocolate over vanilla or that I wanted to move to a new city. No big deal to the world, but to me, it was seismic.
Coming out is personal, deeply personal. I remember thinking that there’s a right and a wrong way to do it, but the truth is there isn’t. You come out how you need to, when you need to, to whoever you feel safe telling. For some people, that’s their friends. For others, it’s just one trusted person, or maybe not even a person at all—just themselves. I didn’t tell my family at first. I told a friend, and that felt like enough. It’s a journey, not a race. And some people will never feel the need to come out at all, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you any less valid, it doesn’t make your identity any less real.
The scariest part for me wasn’t even the telling. It was the waiting, the silence after. I’d say the words and then brace myself, because you never really know how someone will react. I’ve learned that sometimes, even the people who love you the most need time. Not everyone will know what to say right away, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The awkward silences, the hesitant “thank you for telling me” can feel uncomfortable, but it’s part of the process.
You learn to gauge people, too. I started small, with people I knew would be supportive. It’s almost like testing the waters—drop a casual mention of something LGBTQIA+ related, see how they react. “Oh, did you hear Ellen got married?” or “I love how accepting this new show is of queer characters.” Sometimes, that’s all you need to know. Other times, it’s harder, more nuanced. But there’s no shame in picking your moments, picking your people. Your story, your identity, belongs to you. No one else is entitled to it.
For those still figuring it out, still carrying the weight of the secret—there’s no rush. Maybe you don’t want to come out at all. Maybe the stakes are too high, the risk too real, and that’s okay too. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to validate your identity to anyone, not even yourself. For the longest time, I thought not saying it out loud made me less gay, like I wasn’t “doing it right,” but I realized that’s nonsense. Who you are isn’t diminished by who you tell, or when you tell them. You’re allowed to take your time.
And here’s something that I think gets lost in the whole coming-out conversation: it never really ends. You don’t come out once and that’s it. I’ve had to come out again and again, every time I meet someone new. It’s this ongoing process, a series of small conversations that remind the world that yes, I exist, and no, I’m not going to hide. It’s exhausting at times, but it’s also liberating. Every time I say it, I reclaim it, a little bit more of my truth, my space in the world.
So yeah, coming out is scary, it’s messy, and it’s complicated. But it’s also yours, all yours. You get to decide who knows, when they know, and how much of yourself you share. It’s your story, your life, and it’s worth living on your terms, no matter what that looks like.
I have decided that the next post will be very personal and talk in more detail about the process that took me from who I thought I was, to who I am.
