Coming out as a writer mirrored my journey to come out as a lesbian. (Stay with me, here.)

I realized when I was young that I wasn’t like all the other kids. I wasn’t sure of the difference, but I knew it was there. As I got older, I found myself dating boys because it’s what was done, not because it’s what I wanted to do. Older still, and I realized I was in love with a girl. I kissed a girl for the first time. I was engaged to a boy when the realization struck, so I knew I was about to destroy lives and make things really hard for lots of people – but I myself would be miserable if I did nothing.

So I told my mother. “I’m gay.”

She said it was just a phase; I’d grow out of it. It would pass. It would be too hard to be actively gay; no one would accept me, there would be too many challenges to face. I had a nice fiancee; I needed to just go ahead and get married, and everything else would work itself out.

My aunt found out through strange circumstance, and she was even worse; she told me she would never accept me if I chose to be gay.

I figured that, if my own family couldn’t support me or love me or understand me, I must be really fucked up – and would be better off not being gay.

I spent over ten years firmly behind locked closet doors. I did get married, I had a wonderful child. But then the daydreams began; I had fantasy after fantasy of running away and being happily, openly gay. I kept wishing I would just be okay. But still I stayed stuck. Until it became less okay to be in there than it would be to come out – until it became harder to pretend to be straight than it would be to be open about being gay. I did a lot of soul-searching. I was terrified. I knew I wouldn’t be okay anymore with how things had been before.

I came out to my family. “I’m gay.” I was met with mixed reactions, but largely positive – for some reason, the passing of time softened the blow. And now my sexuality isn’t an issue for most of them at all – I am who I am, and it’s not that big a deal.

I just do my thing and life goes on.

It’s so parallel. Look through the mirror with me.

I realized when I was young that I wasn’t like the other kids. I wasn’t sure of the difference, but I knew it was there. As I got older, I found myself watching movies and listening to music too loudly because it’s what was done, not because it’s what I wanted to do. Older still, and I began filling notebooks with angsty poetry and terrible fiction. I began my first novel. I was already employed in a traditional job when the realization struck, so I knew I was about to make things really hard for lots of people – but I myself would be miserable if I continued doing other things.

So I told my mother. “I’m a writer.”

She said it was just a phase; I’d grow out if it. It would pass. Too many people are writers, there’s no money it in, no one would read my stuff, there’d be too many challenges to face. I had a lovely job; I needed to just stick with it and write in my spare time. Everything else would work itself out.

My friends found out through strange circumstance, and they were even worse; they mocked me. One of them tore up one of my notebooks.

I figured that, if my own friends wouldn’t support me or love me or understand me, I must be really fucked up – and would be better off not being a writer.

I spent over ten years doing anything but writing. I had job after job after job, wishing it would align with my soul, wishing I would just be okay. I wrote a little here and there, but nothing like what I dreamed of writing. And still I stayed stuck. Until it became less okay than it was hard to admit it, until it became harder to not write than to write. I did a lot of soul-searching. I was terrified. I knew I would never be okay with how things had been before.

I came out again. “I’m a writer.” I was met with mixed reactions, but largely positive. My family was more supportive, and I’d now surrounded myself with other writers (without even trying!). And now my career isn’t an issue for most people at all – I am who I am, and it’s not that big a deal.

I just do my thing and life goes on.

We spend so much time stifling ourselves. So many years spent trying to be who we aren’t, who we don’t even want to be. Gay, writer, witch – even things we think are no big deal, we often hide from the world. We hide from ourselves. We trivialize pieces of our identity, trying to be normal or small or unremarkable, because we’ve learned that that’s the way to be.

Today, I’m calling us out.

Big and remarkable, powerful and proud. That’s the new regime. That’s the wave, that’s the paradigm shift – that’s the connection revolution.

So tell me, friends, who are you?