Saturday, October 11, 2025, marked World Coming Out Day. In this blog post, my colleague, Simon Clark, and I want to take a moment to share our experiences with you. We believe in the power of relatability and how it can help others feel less alienated in their own experiences. So keep reading, because today, we’re letting you in.

Asmae speaking here:

Coming out has always been a complicated milestone to me, one that stirs up an immediate, slightly weary resistance in me. The very phrase “coming out” feels fundamentally and persistently flawed to me, a term I have always wrestled with for quite a while. Why is it our burden? Why does the simple act of stating one’s identity (sexual orientation or gender identity) have to be treated like a singular, dramatic event?

I am aware that in certain contexts, self-disclosure through self-identification can help give visibility to our communities, but in my experience, more often than not, it’s a much more complex experience.

It’s a relentless performance, one that is not only deeply anxiety-inducing for some of us but also constantly centers our truth as the exception, the one that requires formal disclosure. This is the quiet, ultimate victory of cis-heteronormativity: If you’re cisgender and/or heterosexual, you glide through the world without explanation, the normative, the expected. And we are handed a lifelong script for a high-stakes revelation, a process that reinforces the idea that we are otherised, and that our truth is a secret waiting to be revealed.

My younger years were defined by this crushing pressure. After years of having had to hide for my own personal safety, I would sometimes disclose just for the sake of being seen, hoping that sheer volume would somehow equal validation, that it would stop the relentless, incorrect assumptions – she, boyfriend. I treated my identity like a massive, fragile vase I had to carry across a crowded, unpredictable room without dropping it. The exhaustion was constant, shadowed by the ever-present, ringing question: How will this disclosure be received? But with age, and the slow, hard-won wisdom that comes with it, that entire, weary paradigm has organically shifted. I no longer feel the need to come out.

Now, I simply let in.

Simon speaking here:

Coming out is not a single event, like passing through a door; it is navigating a trail: you pick your step, observing the environment and others treading the path. On this trail, you discover a bridge stretched over a white-flecked torrent. A figure stands atop, blocking your path.

What do you say; should you introduce yourself and the motive that brought you here? While an appeal might warm the stranger to you, it also invites scrutiny. Knowing little about them, you assess the risks involved: in telling about yourself, maybe you will bond with a fellow traveler, or perhaps gain a sympathetic guide. They might exact a toll or throw you to the seething rapids. The safest move is to avoid the bridge for a longer path, or even step-stone across the river. This way you contend with the impersonal waters instead with the vagaries of human interaction.

There is no single coming out. It is a frequent assessment deployed each time you start a new job, go on a trip, or attend a conference. What you tell may result in indifference, friendship, or something more cruel. Often, connection is sacrificed to ensure safety. This is one of the devastating results of cisheteronormativity; deep and meaningful connection is lost in the (un)concious pursuit to fulfill its gendered and sexed requirements, whilst distancing ourselves from those who exhibit undesirable traits.

As a child, I was told that if you were queer, you will get HIV, and die alone; your soul will burn in perpetual torment; that many will wish for your erasure, if not existentially, then at least socially. Queerness was characterized by death. Even sympathetic media frames queerness as a tragedy, with queer characters more likely to die in film, usually in service to the development of cis-straight characters. Why would anyone come out if it meant walking into the abyss?

Growing up queer means forging yourself into an observer: a watcher of others, yourself, and yourself in the minds of others; a panopticon installed by cistheteronormativity, ceaselessly on the lookout for undesirable thoughts and behaviors, punishing yourself for producing them whilst surveilling the (re)action of others.

The mind is bent towards obsessively monitoring the self to fit in, to find connection, and to avoid exclusion and violence. This observer-self was shaped by everyday (and I mean *every* day) interactions with cisgender heterosexual folk: peers in education and play; adults at home and in school. These interactions reinforce the cisheteronorm by punishing deviation: how I talked or stood or dressed; how I related to myself or to others; how I thought and how I felt. My own meaning was written by others: my sexuality and gender, which emerged naturally to me, were twisted into a problem by others; they were presented as an aberration, a perversion, and I was asked to accept this wholly and uncritically.

My coming out was itself a product of this lifestyle: my attempts to fit in never worked. Often, they misfired – growing up became a tragi-comedy of misreading social convention; appeasement was never accepted by the most bigoted, and misunderstood by the rest. It was easiest to shut down: Be nothing. Do nothing. Appear & perform. Erase the self. All my life, I was told queerness was yoked to death, but it was this living was what brought me closest to it.

Liberation and the refusal to debate

Coming out was survival; it wasn’t death, but vivification. Accepting myself was incendiary: it attracted condemning fingers like needles pointing north. Despite this, by coming out I found a clarity of self that had long been absent. It was joined by a commitment to live and to slough off the desire to manage myself in another’s mind. It is liberating to finally write yourself by your own hand.

Yet, coming out, I still found myself performing for the cisheteronorm. I poured hours into reading the scientific papers on sexuality and gender, naively clinging to the idea that data and reason would be enough to convince others to accept me, if not just leave me alone. In reality, every rationale I presented only provoked further backlash: cutting down one argument would only multiply the queerphobic hydra; the hours spent constructing a reasoned riposte were quickly dismissed by thoughtless statements plucked from a bristling quiver. No matter the rhetoric adopted by bigotry, it is a belief rooted in unreason, and yet I was afflicted by an assumption that trips up many scientists: evidence is enough to change another’s mind.

Ultimately, the queerphobe’s response is one of control, ranging from slurs and violence to the insidious ways cisheteronormativity influences even allies: my identity is hypersexualised and politicized; I am asked to “tone it down” when talking about who I was dating, whilst cis-hetero colleagues could casually discuss their marriage and children, for example.

The result: even people I know who describe themselves as allies and friends still engage in control; uninformed advice and comments, even if well-meaning, join a life-long chorus which asks me to change, to be another; to erase. Stating I exist was interpreted as political, spoken on with confidence of cisgender heterosexual friends and colleagues used to being at the center; academics challenged my life and my experiences as if I were presenting a thesis, and not talking as a human.

When I was treated this way, it reinforced cisheteronormative standards. No culture is neutral, and what is considered “normal” is a product of the dominant culture. My identity was seen as “political” because it rubbed against that culture’s established norms. Being discussed as a “debate” rather than as a person only confirmed that I was perceived as an outsider.

The pattern is constant: cis-straight people ask the same questions, drawing on the same cultural assumptions that sought to erase me. The labour of addressing the same misconceptions, of identifying myself and correcting biases, is fatiguing. Eventually, this exhaustion forced a choice: continue to expend precious energy explaining myself to others, drawing out the fatigue, or stop.

To truly write my own life, I had to stop debating my existence; I had to be judicious about when I educate others, if not refuse to entirely. Instead, I speak from my own perspective and focus on issues that benefit our mutual liberation: cisheteronormativity affects the lives, bodies, and minds of both queer and cis-straight people. Today, I am done coming out into its shadow; instead, I invite others to meet me in an authentic light. I exist: as gay and non-binary. That’s enough.

The performance vs. the power grab

Asmae speaking here:

Coming out places many of us in a moment of vulnerability, while simultaneously granting power to the receiving person(s). You stand there, heart pounding, waiting for their reaction: the hope for normalisation, acceptance, the inevitable awkward questions, or the painful rejection that comes in subtle (and sometimes not so subtle!) forms. The focus shifts from not wanting to hide your identity to their capacity for tolerance.

The moment of disclosure here becomes a power grab sometimes, where the other person, suddenly feeling confronted by your difference, and dare I say idiosyncracy, rushes to re-center themselves.

I’ve heard it all. You reveal a piece of yourself, and they interrupt to say:

• “Oh, I also kissed a girl once in high school.” (The classic, awkward attempt to minimize one’s identity by equating it with their fleeting, low-stakes memory.)
• “Oh, I also think I’m queer… I know, I have a boyfried, but I always had “girl crushes!”” (A bid for inclusion that treats your identity as a fun, optional label rather than a lived reality.)
• Or my personal favorite, in the workplace: “I’m so glad you were brave enough to be open! It helps me feel like our organisation is really diverse now and I am now even prouder to work here!”

These are the moments you realize your identity has been co-opted; you are now their queer validation. You are no longer just a person or a colleague; you are the living, breathing proof that they are accepting, liberal, and culturally relevant. They didn’t hear your truth; they found a tool for self-congratulation.

Letting in: The intimacy of sharing

The shift to letting in changes everything. It reframes the space of my identity, my inner world, my childhood and teenage years and coming of age, as a beautiful, sacred, and private dwelling. I am the architect, the interior designer, and the bouncer. Therefore, I get to choose who gets an invitation. This concept is rooted in self-compassion and agency. I am granting access to an intimate truth, and in no way am I sharing my identity to expose a flaw; I am This is no longer this grand, tearful announcement across a crowded dinner table. It has become a quiet, deliberate invitation extended to people who have proven themselves to be trustworthy, kind, and respectful. The ones who have proven that their allyship goes beyond mere words to hop on the queer train whenever it’s trendy to take that ride.

When I “let in,” I am basically saying:

“This is a precious part of who I am. I believe you are safe enough, mature enough, and kind enough to treat this information with the respect it deserves. Welcome to my truth.”

This distinction is especially vital when we consider the complex layers of any given identity. The intimacy of telling someone how I want to be seen, who I want/prefer to love, who I want to be intimate with, and how,  these are not casual disclosures. These are vulnerable pieces of my most personal self. To share them is a privilege I extend, not a public service I owe. It allows me to define my desires and my self-perception on my own terms, rather than having them filtered through someone else’s assumptions. Letting in, unlike coming out, centers my safety: If a person or environment is hostile, indifferent, or prone to making my identity about them, the door stays firmly shut. My peace is not negotiable. It also dismantles the performance: I don’t have to rehearse a script or prepare for a debate. I simply allow a trusted person to see me as I already am. There is no applause break, just connection, and perhaps a beginning of an authentic one.

From disclosure to discovery (and rediscovery!)

The true reward of letting in is that it allows for continuous discovery, both of yourself and of your relationships.

Identities are not meant to be fixed, as fixing them is a person’s choice. They are not meant to be a neatly packaged entity awaiting disclosure. When you let someone in, you invite them to discover that evolving landscape alongside you. You are sharing your truth on the go, as it happens, as you understand it, as you construct and deconstruct it. In my own experience, I have adopted multiple gender identities, experimented with a few labels and pronouns, and that doesn’t invalidate how I felt or identified before, but it simply means that I am evolving and continuously metamorphosing. The coming out narrative fails us because it implies finality. The letting-in narrative, on the other hand, honours the ongoing, non-linear journey of self-exploration.

To conclude this blog, I want you to think about this: If the trail of self-discovery is ongoing, and you’ve found the peace of letting in, does this mean you’re finally done worrying about who’s trying to gatekeep your existence?