Coming Out in a Pandemic: ‘We Really Don’t Have Time to Waste’
Coming out is, at least in part, about shaping how other people see us. So what happens when much of the world retreats to their homes for more than a year, eliminating so many of those opportunities to be seen?
The pandemic restrictions have provided ample opportunity for some to wrestle with their identities in private. Others have had to shelter in place in environments decidedly less conducive — and in some cases outright hostile — to personal reflection.
At Times Opinion, we wanted to know how the coronavirus pandemic affected the way people came out — to themselves, their spouses, their families, their friends and their colleagues. We invited readers to share their experiences.
Technology helped smooth the process for a college student waiting out the pandemic at her family’s home in North Carolina. She found comfort in TikTok’s queer community. A 63-year-old widower announced his bisexuality to friends in a statement on Facebook. A young transgender man in the San Francisco Bay Area used a slide presentation to share his gender identity with his parents.
These stories highlight the diversity of L.G.B.T.Q. experiences and reflect just how complicated it still can be to come out of the closet.
— Joanna Pearlstein, Opinion staff editor
‘I don’t just walk out in
public as a woman, but as a proud
transgender woman.’
‘I don’t just walk out
in public as
a woman, but as a
proud transgender
woman.’
was secure
‘Having that kind of toxic
homophobia confined to a Zoom
room was freeing.’
‘Having that kind of
toxic homophobia
confined to a Zoom
room was freeing.’
classes went remote Jacob, 19, told friends at his Christian high
school after classes went remote
‘I turned to TikTok for clarity and
instead found a mirror.’
‘I turned to TikTok
for clarity
and instead found
a mirror.’
in with her parents Sawyer, 20, questioned her sexuality after
moving back in with her parents
‘The pandemic underscored
for me that life’s too
short to operate out of fear.’
‘The pandemic
underscored for me
that life’s too
short to operate
out of fear.’
after his wife’s death Dale, 63, came out as bisexual to
his children two years after his wife’s death
‘Now that I’ve had this time
in my cocoon, I’m
ready to burst out and show my
metamorphosis.’
‘Now that I’ve
had this time in my
cocoon, I’m
ready to burst out
and show my
metamorphosis.’
pandemic bubble Chris, 21, embraced a nonbinary identity
in the safety of a pandemic bubble
‘I had to work at girlhood.
Boyhood came more naturally.’
‘I had to work
at girlhood.
Boyhood came
more naturally.’
presentation to tell his parents
‘I realized I couldn’t
envision a holiday dinner without
my girlfriend there.’
‘I realized I
couldn’t envision
a holiday dinner
without my
girlfriend there.’
non-monogamous marriage Sarah, 44, decided to tell her
parents about her non-monogamous
marriage
‘It gives me this bittersweet
feeling because if we had known
that about each other as
teenagers, we would have been
less lonely.’
‘It gives me this
bittersweet feeling
because if
we had known that
about each other as
teenagers, we
would have been
less lonely.’
her bisexuality on a chat thread Leonie, 29, prompted friends
to come out too when she shared her
bisexuality on a chat thread
I began living my life publicly as a woman in March 2020. I had quietly been on hormones for a year or so prior and was slowly inching toward revealing myself when the pandemic hit. After the initial shock wore off and it became clear that my job wasn’t going to be eliminated, I decided it was time, and told all of my co-workers and friends that I was in active medical transition.
Lockdown afforded me the luxury of taking it at a measured pace. As the weeks turned into months and neither a lightning bolt from the sky nor Westboro Baptist Church descended upon me, I gained more and more confidence.
Employment security was key to moving forward with my decision to come out. I had taken on a huge amount of student loan debt in order to move from the skilled trades (I was a third-generation journeyman union steamfitter/welder) into academia so that I could work in a place with protections, understanding and acceptance rather than constant fear of discovery and humiliation. I am very lucky to now be employed by a college with a rock-solid policy on gender identity. Having trans co-workers and being surrounded by all manner of queer life was the sine qua non of coming out; to know that I would be safe, sound and financially whole was everything to me and my family.
I am fully aware that I am in a “bubble”; I sought it out. Everyone deserves the broad legal protections that my curated existence contains. Financial insecurity is a major reason most trans folx stay hidden. I can't imagine what a young person trapped in an inhospitable environment must be going through.
Since coming out, I don’t just walk out in public as a woman, but as a proud transgender woman, inheritor of that particular legacy of pain and pride. To my unending delight, I am consistently gendered correctly by friends and strangers alike, and living a life, not full of revelation and revolution, but of quiet content; a middle-age woman carrying on, unremarkable in most ways except for the joy that every step outside gives me, unburdened by the stone I had been dragging for 30 years.
— Leith Campbell
I went on my first date with a woman about a week before pandemic restrictions began in March 2020. In 10 minutes I confirmed what I had been trying to ignore since middle school: My love for women was greater than any compulsion I felt to be with men. The world could not have felt any bigger or more full of joy than it did that night on my college campus in Massachusetts.
A few days later, I sat on my bed in my dorm room with my roommate and cried. Students were being pushed off campus and my newfound freedom to be my true self was already ending. Soon I was sitting in the bedroom of my childhood home in the mountains of North Carolina, harboring a secret I felt would eat me up from the inside.
The first person I came out to there was my best friend from high school, one of the only people I could physically spend time with outside of my family. It was May before I worked up the courage to tell her. It was liberating, but I was struck by the paradox of it all. I was coming out while staying in, exposing myself while never leaving the house.
For the next six months, I woke up each morning and checked to make sure I was still gay. I was worried that in all that time alone, removed from the influences of college life and social pressures, I had somehow deluded myself into a quarantine pipe dream of lesbianism. I mulled over failed relationships with men, parsed infatuations with women.
I turned to TikTok for clarity and instead found a mirror. The experiences of content creators reflected my own. In between crash-course videos on queer flirting and sapphic couples, I started to understand life devoid of social pressures. I was free to determine who I was and who I loved for myself. It was all very alarming before it was freeing, but in a time of total upheaval came the opportunity to affirm something beautiful and authentic.
— Sawyer Taylor-Arnold
Early in 2020, at 61, and following two years of grief and celibacy after my beloved wife passed away from cancer, I was approached by a gay man through a social networking site. He was handsome and successful. I was intrigued and a bit flattered. One of my first dates with him involved the surreal experience of driving through downtown Chicago at the very beginning of the pandemic shutdown. It was an eerie, seemingly empty ghost town, a post-apocalyptic landscape. There was the sense that we really didn’t have time to waste.
I have always been bisexual but had never shared that part of myself with others. It was so much harder to be open 30 years ago. I met my wife and fell in love, so I felt that part of myself was not relevant. In a way, I feel like a coward. I was never forced to admit the full extent of my sexuality, and I never did. I knew a few folks who were gay and it was hard for them. I could have chosen either path and I feel like I chose the easier one.
I came out to my children in person that March. Then I called my brother and a few close friends. One of my sons had a hard time with me dating at first. It wasn’t about my sexuality; I think he had more of a problem wrapping his head around the idea that Dad was going to date anybody. But he and his brother are supportive and happy that I’ve been able to find companionship and love again after the loss of their mother.
Later that year, after I had worked up the courage, I made a blanket statement on Facebook that also emphasized that I had been happy and completely faithful in my marriage to my remarkable late wife. I got more responses to that post than I had to any other, and they were positive.
My affair with the impressive fellow who had contacted me did not last, but the experience opened my eyes — and heart — to not only the possibility of love again, but love with another man. It took nerve to make that initial declaration, but my family and friends were all supportive and I’m now in a loving relationship with another widower with children.
I think the pandemic underscored for me that life’s too short to operate out of fear. That love is too important and precious to deny.
— Dale Kiefer
I was raised as a man — taught to not express my emotions, to rely only on myself, enrolled in the Boy Scouts. Still, over the last few years, I began to notice that I wasn’t like what much of society considers a typical man. I am quiet, passive, non-confrontational, dainty, emotionally expressive, and I hate cargo pants. While none of those qualities individually makes me who I am, each contradiction picked away at my perception of my identity.
With the pandemic, my social responsibilities were lifted and I was given the chance to do some soul searching. I thought about the way that people viewed me, their assumptions about me. I had always gone along with them. Without the constant reminder from others that I was a man, there was nothing to go along with.
Eventually, I stumbled on some online communities like the queer side of TikTok and subreddits like r/nonbinary. I met some gender nonconforming people through dating apps who helped me express some of the feelings that I didn't even know I had. By July 2020, I figured out that my gender identity lies somewhere in the nonbinary spectrum.
It took me a while to share this with my best friends, but once I did they were all very supportive. Coming out to my family was much harder. I called and told my sister first since she and I are the closest. She didn’t make a big deal out of it and let me know that she would be there if I needed support. That gave me the courage I needed to tell my parents and my brother, who I live with.
I played out in my mind what felt like thousands of scenarios for how it could go but when I actually told them, they did something I hadn’t expected: they didn’t ask any questions and haven’t brought it up since. My parents grew up in a time when people like me were shunned and silenced. They don’t understand, and they’re not in a place where they want to learn any more.
Having a “found family” — my friends — brings me comfort, that I can choose to surround myself with people who accept and validate me. The pandemic allowed me to put myself in a bubble with those people. Now that I’ve had this time in my cocoon, I’m ready to burst out and show my metamorphosis.
— Chris Raynes
All the hours at home in my head during the pandemic have given me a chance to re-evaluate the different pieces of my life. I’m a college varsity swimmer and I considered quitting. I considered changing my major. I considered dropping out of college (briefly, Mom, don't worry). I considered much darker things, too.
I also considered my gender, how I understood it and how I wanted it to be understood by others. I was already out as bisexual, implicitly or explicitly, to everyone in my life and I had always felt like I didn’t completely understand the “girl code.” I had to work at girlhood. Boyhood came more naturally, especially when I was younger.
I came out to my parents as a trans guy in April 2021. I started with a PowerPoint presentation, quoted statistics and definitions to start, then built to owning how I feel about myself, my pronouns and all the things that led me to this recognition. They had some reservations but I believe those came from a place of wanting to understand. Their baseline was, “We love you and support you.” I’ve been really lucky.
Over the next few months, I told my sister over the phone, set up a Zoom call to tell my coaches, sent a video to my extended family and to my teammates (my school family) explaining everything I needed them to know and, finally, posted an announcement on Instagram for everyone else. The support has been incredible and I’m grateful every day.
As a student athlete, coming out as a trans guy put me in a weird position. I could start hormones to align more with myself, or wait, transition socially, and keep competing on a women's swim team. I decided on the latter. I value my contributions to the team and recognize that my boyhood doesn't hinge on whether there's more or less testosterone running through my veins. At least, that's what I’ll try to remember when I put on the women's swimsuit for competition and am reminded of a self I no longer feel attached to.
If there hadn't been a pandemic, I'm not sure I would've come out during college. I think I would've gotten to those questions about myself at some point, but not for a while. It feels like the pandemic did that across many sectors: accelerated the growth or decay of different organizations already trending in that direction.
— Izzi Henig
When I was younger I knew that I was attracted to women as well as men, but I met my husband quite young and we married, which put the question on the back burner. It might have stayed there forever, but over the past few years I have spent many hours learning about body positivity — learning to love my fat body and indeed all bodies. That led me to a variety of queer and trans authors and to social media.
As part of this exploration, I realized that I needed to own my sexuality, so my husband and I began to read about and consider ethical non-monogamy. We decided to open our marriage to the possibility of additional relationships and created online dating profiles for each of us. On a whim, I clicked “bisexual” in mine and described myself as seeking both men and women. I thought nothing would come of it.
Two weeks later I had a hit on my profile from a woman. I wrote back and we ended up chatting online for nearly two days straight, at the end of which she arrived at my house to meet in person. Now, nine months later, I’m not sure how a person can have two unbelievable, intense, overpowering loves in their lives, but I’m so grateful for each.
I never imagined coming out to my parents until the day I realized I couldn’t envision a holiday dinner without my girlfriend there. She was terrified for me to tell them, afraid that I’d become estranged from them, as she was from some of her family members. It’s one thing to be bisexual; it’s another to be polyamorous.
But I am a deeply honest person and I felt uncomfortable keeping this big part of my life hidden from them. I asked my parents to get on a Zoom call. “Mom, Dad,” I said, “I want you to know that I am still happily married and my husband knows everything I am about to tell you. I’m bisexual and I have a serious girlfriend. I’m not sure what you’ll want to know about the situation. Do you have any questions?” I held my breath.
“Well,” said my dad, “I think you should enjoy the pleasures of life.” Longer pause.
“Does she play bridge?” asked my Mom.
— Sarah Raynor
I told my high school bhangra dance team that I was bisexual this past June. I had reunited some of us on a WhatsApp chat thread during the first months of the pandemic lockdown. It was so lonely and boring, and I wanted to know what their lives were like. I was dating my first nonbinary partner at the time and kept having to hide that from them, which made me think, why not just come out?
I was 15 when I realized I was bisexual. These were some of my closest friends at the time but I had never shared this with them. I dearly love my South Asian community in Tampa, but as a queer youth in the early 2000s it didn’t offer me a strong support system. It was a small community where everyone talked.
In 2014, I moved to Western Massachusetts for graduate school, just 10 miles from Northampton, which some refer to as the “lesbian capital of the U.S.” There I became involved in nonprofit work and was able to connect with L.G.B.T.Q. people all over the world. Now I draw from a deep well of support. When all else fails, I am buoyed by their love.
Maybe it was the feeling that the pandemic brought us all closer to death, but I decided I no longer had anything to lose by coming out to the team. After I told them, a couple of others came out, too. It gives me this bittersweet feeling because if we had known that about each other as teenagers, we would have been less lonely.
— Leonie Barkakati
The first people I told I was gay were three close friends from my small, evangelical Christian high school in the Pacific Northwest. In order to attend that school, I had to sign what they call a “statement of faith,” which declared homosexuality and same-sex marriage to be sinful and against God's design. A few weeks prior to going remote, our Bible class teacher shared a list of Bible verses supporting the idea that being gay is a sin.
Having that kind of toxic homophobia confined to a Zoom room was freeing. It gave me a taste of what my life could soon be when I started college in California, out of the oppressive and inescapable physical environment of a Bible class. That freedom made me exponentially more comfortable with myself and my sexuality.
Telling my friends was an impulsive decision. We were sitting in a car in the parking lot of a local McDonald's in May of 2020, just chatting. It was the first time I had seen them in person since pandemic restrictions began that March. We were all graduating soon and I figured that if they took it poorly I would be making new friends in a matter of weeks. I wanted to be my most genuine and whole self to the people I liked the most.
It didn't change the way they acted around me at all, which was extremely validating.
A few weeks later, I came out to my sister. She and her boyfriend had moved in with us after their college campuses closed. Living in quarantine at home, we finally started to acknowledge each other as adults and began to trust each other. She told me about her own personal revelations and we talked about what our high school lives were like. Sharing our suffering, an understanding has built up around us, and she and her boyfriend have become an invaluable support for me, especially as I prepare to come out to my parents.
— Jacob Atkins