I was introduced to the concept of gayness probably before I could even spell my last name. I grew up with friends who had same-sex parents, and I was also raised reading picture books about families with two dads. My parents taught me, through their words and their actions, that love is love. My mom also made sure to supplement my real-life exposure to the LGBTQ+ world by religiously putting on an episode of “Will & Grace” each evening.
All that to say, I understood it’s totally cool and fine to be gay. Yet it somehow didn’t occur to me until later in life that I, myself, could possibly be gay.
Even after the topic of boys entered my middle school social circle and I found myself not being able to relate to my friends’ talk about who they like-liked, the question of “Could I be gay?” never came up. I just assumed that one day, I, too, would start having crushes on boys. But lo and behold, that never really happened.
It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I began to question if the Jakes and Blakes of this world were really for me. During the dreaded year that was 2020, in isolation and away from the pressures to date or engage in pleasantries with the opposite sex, I realized that I wasn’t actually interested in men at all.
As I began to reflect on my past entanglements, I was able to see that whenever I did make an effort to pursue something romantic with a member of the opposite sex, what I was really seeking was male validation – and to some extent, the approval of my friends and family. Clearly, even my very liberal upbringing couldn’t shield me from internalized homophobia.
My pandemic-induced introspection led me to see that I always thought getting married to a man was one of those adult things I’d eventually have to check off, kind of like getting a job and paying your taxes. And since I’d always prided myself on living in a very LGBTQ+-friendly environment, I’d discounted the effects the media I’d consumed my whole life had on me. Every teen magazine I’d read assumed that I was on a desperate hunt for my tall, dark, and handsome male soul mate. The “Will & Grace” episodes couldn’t outweigh the fact that every movie I’d ever watched ended with a woman finding a mediocre dude with washboard abs who “completed her.”
As I began to understand my queerness, the apprehension set in. Even when I was starting to accept that for me there might be no happily ever after with a man, I couldn’t help but wonder if those around me would judge me – even knowing that my family and friends were vocally supportive of LGBTQ+ rights.
I dreaded having “coming out” conversations. I anticipated a lot of intrusive questions, because that’s how it always went on TV. I figured there would be tough conversations with family (“What about grandkids?” I imagined my aunts and uncles asking), logistical questions from friends (I even planned on how I’d field, “Wait, so is scissoring real?”), and even “Can you explain what a pronoun is?” questions from coworkers.
But in reality, coming out was anticlimactic at best. My dad’s response fell somewhere between “Can’t wait to meet your partner.” and “Yeah, water is wet. Anyway, have you seen that article about the bagels in LA? Horrible!” – in other words, he was supportive, but certainly not surprised or overwhelmed. My friends and coworkers also didn’t care and largely just said, “cool, cool, cool,” and moved swiftly on. No drama, no nothing.
To me, this somewhat apathetic response felt almost comforting. As it became clear that the people closest to me weren’t the ones judging me, I was able to accept that it was me (hi) judging myself. That realization was the first step to letting myself move past my own internalized homophobia and start to be honest with myself, and the world, about who I actually was and what I really wanted.
The relief I felt at putting down a burden I hadn’t even known I was carrying was indescribable. And I think that experience is why, to this day, I want to impulsively divulge my sexuality to every single person I meet within the first five minutes of meeting them.
When I first began coming out, I thought that being gay would eventually become just another part of my identity, no different from being someone who loves the gym or enjoys tuna salad. But as it turns out, the years of repression have sent me into a sort of gay pendulum swing in the opposite direction, where now it’s the only thing I want people to know about me.
When I’m working out, I make sure to tell my trainer in great detail about how I met Charli XCX at a gay bar. At the grocery store, I tell the cashier all about how much my girlfriend loves the artisanal sodas I’m buying. And when I’m at work, I spontaneously yell, “Well as a lesbian . . .” whenever asked how my weekend was. It seems I am absolutely obsessed with being a lesbian.
That’s partially because lesbians are really hot and cool and I’m proud to be one. But also, part of accepting my queerness was recognizing how terrified I was of questioning my own expectations and the stories I’d told myself about what success and adulthood looked like. Even though I had the immense privilege of being surrounded by people who I knew would accept me, I still had to really work hard to let me accept myself.
But as it turns out, being yourself and feeling really good about it is addicting. So much so that now, just a few years after my coming out, I can’t stand the thought of people thinking that I’m straight.
Telling the world I’m a big ol’ homosexual is my way of flipping my own narrative. I once was afraid to even let myself question if dating men was something I enjoyed. Now, being gay is my favorite thing about myself. And honestly, I want to celebrate that all day, every day. If one way I do that is by word-vomiting breadcrumbs to my queerness – like “U-Haul” and “carabiner” and “iced oat milk latte” within five minutes of meeting a new person – so be it.