by Reece Thomas (they/them), LPC-MHSP temp

Reece is a Queer therapist specializing in working with QTBIPOC clients, autism and neurodivergence, and healing from trauma at Healing Umbrella Psychotherapy

When I was growing up, I was taught in subtle ways that my queerness was not okay. I laugh a little now thinking about how proud I am when people comment on how gay or androgynous I look. It makes me smile to look for rings and fits in the men’s section, to have my hair cut really short and anticipate top surgery.

One of my earliest memories around being queer was thinking in kindergarten, “I wish I could just live with a girl.” I really love the experience of looking back on my younger self and thinking “oh yes, this is who I have always been, my queerness was there all along.” As I aged and started having sexual and physiological feelings in my body, I became afraid of myself, I couldn’t trust my body because it wasn’t okay to honor those feelings.

I think many people who come out as adults, especially those who grew up in purity culture, have to grapple with the dissonance between what they come to know to be good (being queer) and the bodily reactions that are often stuck in the past; automatic feelings of shame and shutdown.

Slowly, over time, I started to welcome those feelings in little doses. But even then, there was the risk and experience of having to mask when I was around family, because they weren’t affirming. At some point when I first allowed myself to change the settings on dating apps to include women, there was a lot of fear around actually allowing myself to feel.

What if I felt too much and then risked being cut off by my parents? I wanted their love more than I cared about my own. I had read books and seen tv shows and movies where one partner was really frustrated with the other because they wouldn’t introduce them to family members – this often led to tumultuous conflict and eventually breaking up. It also showed up in navigating dynamics where one partner was out and another didn’t feel comfortable with public displays of affection for fear of being outed or even acknowledging the relationship outside of themselves.

I think the idea was, “if you really loved me, it would be worth risking your family’s reputation.” I have notice a shift in my narrative for a few reasons that I am entirely grateful for. I don’t know that I will ever come out to my parents, and that is okay. That doesn’t mean I am ashamed of my queer identity or that I love a potential partner any less. In fact, I’ve “come out” to only a few people. I guess I “come out” in subtle ways like talking about people I have crushes on who aren’t cisgender straight men, or talking about being a part of the queer community. I don’t think it has to be a big conversation where I sit down and tell people about my sexuality or gender – one, because those are fluid for me and not static, and also because I don’t feel I owe that to anyone.

I also have immense gratitude for queer elders before me who helped to make it so that I didn’t have to hold my being as a secret in so many ways, to live in a world where it’s not a secret I have to worry about people finding out and tightly guard – because that certainly takes a toll on the nervous system.

Here are a couple reasons why I don’t think you ever have to come out:

1. Safety. On the one hand, I think that being in a constantly hypervigilant state of existence is really dysregulating, and there are ways we can create more feelings of safety within our bodies. On the other hand, it is really not safe for many people to be out in public. This includes physical safety and emotional safety, financial safety, emotional, psychological, and more. Safety is a multi-faceted experience, and it is valid to not want to risk losing connection with family, especially if you are financially dependent on them. Or culturally, there could be greater losses around sense of self tied to potential ostracization.

2. You don’t owe others your truth, you aren’t obligated to share the gift of who you are with other people. Others can earn your trust and maybe they don’t deserve to be invited into the beauty of your queerness. I’m not sure who first shared the concept of “coming in” vs “coming out,” but I really love that concept – instead of “coming out” of hiding where everyone else is, which connotes being forced out of a quiet space, “coming in” denotes agency and a sense of empowerment in deciding who is allowed in.

As a child of immigrants and human with several marginalized identities, I understand the real embodied feeling of danger around being out in the world. I want to say that your queer identity is valid and real no matter how out you are. You were always queer even before you felt safe enough to consider coming out. If my experience resonates with you, remember that your queerness isn’t made more or less by how many people know it. And your queerness exists outside of being in a relationship. Queer is within you. It’s relational and exists in everything you do and throughout your very being. So really coming out is just one facet of it.

What does queerness outside of romantic relationships mean to you? 

I invite you to try this reflection: How do you nurture your queer identity beyond dating – maybe that looks like challenging longstanding systems, curiosity around community and care, or acknowledging your body feelings as they come up with gentleness. Maybe it looks like being in nature and thinking about your relationship to land, reading about the experiences of elder queers or those who share your identity but differ in other ways. Or you might try writing a letter to your younger self as if you were writing it to someone you really love!

Of course, it’s natural for this work to bring up a lot that you do not have to face alone. Please find a Queer-affirming therapist near you, or reach out to us we can help!