I couldn’t help but wonder…
What happens when you’ve spent your whole life trying to fit into something that was never made for you?
At school, it meant shrinking. Changing how I walked, how I spoke, what I laughed at. Watching others mimic my mannerisms as a punchline, and forcing myself to laugh along too — just so I wasn’t the only one being laughed at.
Trying not to be “too much.” Trying not to be “too gay.” Trying not to be noticed. Which is funny, considering how much energy that takes.
It’s hard to try and not be who you are — especially when you’re more than most “straight guys” in how you walk, talk, act. You can’t dull a sparkle just by pretending it’s not there. And still, I tried. For years.
Then, adulthood hits, and you think — finally — you can be yourself. But coming out doesn’t delete all the code you wrote in your head. It doesn’t silence the voice that says: “Be careful.” “Don’t stand out.” “Blend in.”
Dating becomes a minefield. You fumble through firsts — first kiss, first hookup, first heartbreak — while still carrying the fear that someone, somewhere, might find out and not be okay with it.
And then you move to the city. To the Big Gay Metropolis. Where queerness isn’t just tolerated — it’s marketed, celebrated, rainbow-washed into shopfronts and Spotify playlists every June. You finally feel… freer. Kind of.
Because even in the city, the fear doesn’t vanish. It softens. You’re 70% yourself. Maybe 80% on a good day. But that last 20% still hesitates before holding someone’s hand in public.
You scroll past studies that say “74% of gay men don’t show public affection” and think, yep — that tracks. You walk home with keys between your fingers, not because it’s late, but because you once heard a story that stuck.
We grow up craving safety, but end up craving permission.
And the saddest part? We still think we need to be invited to be ourselves.