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People often ask what it was like to come out.
The truth is, I never felt as though I had been inside a closet to begin with.
Long before I understood words like sexuality, identity, or orientation, I already knew there was something fundamentally different about me. It wasn't a revelation that arrived in adolescence or adulthood. It was simply a quiet certainty that had always existed, woven into the earliest memories of my childhood.
I remember telling people, as early as four years old, that I would never have a wife, never get married, and never have children. Adults laughed, dismissing my words as childish imagination. Some smiled and assured me it was only a phase, convinced that time would eventually rewrite my future.
It never did.
What changed was not who I was, but the world's willingness to believe me.
I grew up in a time when being gay was rarely understood and even less accepted. People like me were visible enough to become the subject of jokes, yet invisible whenever dignity or acceptance entered the conversation. We existed on the margins—tolerated in certain spaces, mocked in many others, and seldom embraced without conditions.
Before I ever experienced rejection from others, I had already learned that I belonged to a group society preferred to misunderstand.
Yet despite everything, I never doubted myself.
I knew.
The certainty lived deeper than language. It was not something anyone taught me, persuaded me to become, or convinced me to question. It was simply the truest thing I had ever known about myself.
Adolescence, however, complicated that certainty.
As my peers began discovering who they were, I found myself trying to understand not only my sexuality but also the countless ways identity could be expressed. I struggled to fit into the expectations placed upon young men. Conversations with boys often felt forced, as though I had been handed a script written for someone else. I naturally gravitated toward girls, finding their company easier, gentler, and strangely more familiar.
There was always a quiet distance between me and conventional masculinity.
Curiosity led me to experiment with my appearance. I wore women's clothing in private, applied makeup, painted my nails, and explored forms of femininity that fascinated me. For a while, I believed these expressions might finally reveal the version of myself I had been searching for.
Instead, they taught me something unexpected.
Even those identities did not fully belong to me.
I realized I wasn't trying to become someone else. I was trying to understand the person I had always been.
Identity, I discovered, is rarely found at the extremes. More often, it exists in the quiet spaces between the labels people insist upon.
Still, understanding myself did not make living as myself any easier.
Without realizing it, I became an expert at shape-shifting.
At church, I carefully dressed the part of the devoted young man. My clothes were modest. My mannerisms measured. Every gesture was filtered through the expectations of the congregation. I knew there were parts of me that would be difficult—perhaps even impossible—for many people there to accept. So I folded those parts away before stepping through the sanctuary doors.
In school, the boundaries loosened. I allowed fragments of my personality to surface, enough to breathe but never enough to feel completely free.
When I traveled or found myself in places where no one recognized my face, everything changed.
Distance became permission.
Among strangers, I discovered a version of myself untouched by reputation or expectation. I laughed more easily. I moved without calculation. I no longer worried about who might be watching or what conclusions they might draw. For brief moments, I experienced something that had become increasingly rare.
I felt whole.
Then I would return home.
The masks returned with me.
Each environment demanded a different version of who I should be, and I became remarkably skilled at changing costumes without changing rooms. The faithful church servant. The reserved student. The curious traveler. The quiet son. Every identity contained pieces of the truth, yet none of them held the whole of it.
The constant performance was exhausting.
Ironically, the place where I spent the most time was the place where I revealed the least about myself.
At home, I retreated into silence. Solitude became both my refuge and my prison. My introversion deepened, not because I disliked people, but because pretending had become more exhausting than loneliness.
Looking back, I realize I wasn't living multiple lives.
I was living one life divided into carefully guarded fragments.
Each version of me was real.
Each version was incomplete.
And somewhere beneath them all was a man quietly waiting for the day he would no longer have to choose which parts of himself deserved to be seen.
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