National Coming Out Day: The Year I Stopped Performing (and Started Telling the Truth)
I didn’t fear people knowing I was gay. I feared they would see how long I’d lied.
When I finally came out, all I wanted was to escape - out of a tight-knit Hobart where history knew my middle name, out of the rooms where I’d learned to edit myself mid-sentence. I chose Sydney for anonymity and, hilariously, did the opposite: showed up everywhere, said yes to everything, tried to become liked by everyone. I mistook visibility for acceptance and performance for self-respect. It worked - until it didn’t.
The guest lists got longer; my circle got thinner. Social dread crept in. The more I performed “happy,” the lonelier I felt. I’d traded secrecy for spectacle, shame for overexposure. When the crash came (and it did), I asked smaller questions: Who are my people when I’m not useful? What rhythms make me steady? How do I tell the truth faster?
These days, my life is quieter and kinder. I know who to text when I need a friendship boost. Mornings, movement, and work I care about are the scaffolding. I’m not hiding. I’m also not auditioning. Coming out, for me, wasn’t a single day. It was the long unlearning of pretending.
The Day - and the People - That Made It Possible
National Coming Out Day began with organizers who believed disclosure could change culture. “Coming out is a political act of courage,” said co-founder Jean O’Leary in 1988 - a line that still rings like a bell. Their premise was simple and radical: if enough of us were known, we’d be harder to erase.
And yet, visibility is complicated. New Pew data shows 96% of LGBTQ adults in the U.S. are “out” to someone - but many are not out to parents (23%), extended family (32%), or co-workers (25%). Being “out” isn’t binary; it’s relational. It depends on place, power, and risk.
For many, risk isn’t theoretical. LGBTQ+ refugees are often outed by force and then required to “prove” their identity to strangers inside asylum systems that doubt them by default. One man told Rainbow Migration he fled after his mother found evidence and his father threatened to kill him. Coming out is brave. Sometimes, it’s unsafe.
And in institutions that historically demanded silence, the personal cost is real. Netflix’s Boots tracks a young gay recruit navigating Marine boot camp just before “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Its creators wanted to show “what these policies do to people psychologically, emotionally, spiritually”.
The Other Closet: Performing What Isn’t True
There’s the closet of secrecy - and the closet of performance. Philosopher Arthur C. Brooks calls it a form of self-betrayal when we say what we don’t believe to avoid rejection: “Stop lying,” he writes. “Live no longer to the expectation of these deceived and deceiving people”.
I know that closet. Post-coming-out, I wore a character: relentlessly fine. It worked… until the gap between the pose and the person hurt more than potential criticism. My way out wasn’t a speech. It was a pattern: fewer rooms where I felt performative, more rooms where I felt real.
Five years of street interviews taught filmmaker Atdhe Trepca something adjacent: happiness is a muscle you train by noticing what’s good even when life isn’t. He’s filmed people in grief and treatment saying “some days” - and still pointing at what’s worth living for. Coming out isn’t a promise of bliss. It’s a chance to stop splitting yourself in two - which is its own kind of relief.
Actor Russell Tovey put it plainly last week: we must stop punching inwards and be better allies to each other - “We must kick outwards”. Amen. Coming out is easier when community is kinder.
What Helped (and Might Help You)
Tell smaller truths faster. Not every reveal is a billboard. Choosing one trusted person today beats drafting a perfect speech for next year.
Choose containers, not crowds. Book clubs, sport, volunteering, recovery rooms, choirs - spaces where rhythm builds safety. (If a room spikes your performance anxiety, it’s data.)
Protect your nervous system. Sleep, sunlight, movement. It’s boring. It’s medicine. It also makes every hard conversation 10% easier.
Hold complexity. You can be out in one context and cautious in another. That isn’t failure; it’s wisdom. Safety first - always.
Be the friend you needed. If someone comes out to you, say: Thank you for trusting me. I’ve got you. Then show it - rides, texts, brunch, time.
If Today Hurts
If you’re not ready to come out, you haven’t missed the train. If you’re grieving the time you spent hiding (or performing), you’re not alone. If you came out and lost people, I’m sorry. Loss is real - and so is what waits on the other side: mornings that feel honest, friendships that don’t require costume changes, a body that isn’t bracing for impact.
I used to think coming out would fix my life. What it did was give me the raw materials to build one. Slower. Truer. Sturdier.
Wherever you are - closeted, cracking open, loudly out, or re-starting after a hard season - you’re part of a story bigger than any one day. O’Leary’s line still stands: courage changes culture. Sometimes that courage looks like a march. Sometimes it looks like a text that says, Can I tell you something real?
Start Here (gentle, doable)
One honest message to one safe person.
One room this week where you don’t have to perform.
One kindness to someone newly out (or newly honest).
One boundary with a space that makes you smaller.
One reminder: Your pace is perfect.
If you want to share your story (publicly or anonymously), send us a message or e-mail on brodie@getout.global. We’ll hold it with care - and, if you want, help someone else feel less alone next year.