Tag: writing

The first time I came out, I lied.
I told a story that never happened.
But in that moment, it was the only way I could tell the truth.
I was 15. In a Catholic Sisters school. Closeted.
And carrying enough shame to light every candle at Sunday Mass.
So I made up a story.
A boy. A waterpark. Two accidental boners in the changing room.
I told my best friend at the time that I saw a naked senior guy at the waterpark, and we both got instant boners.
Was it believable? I mean… no.
Was it weirdly specific?… Maybe.
But it was the only version of gayness I thought she might accept — 
if it came packaged like a confession instead of a fact.
I wanted her to be curious. Supportive.
To say something like, “Oh my god, really? Tell me more.”
Instead, she blinked. Changed the subject. And that was it.
The closet door slammed shut again.

Second try. 
New story. New lie. New setting. New hope. Same best friend.
This time: a man in the library. We exchanged numbers. We texted. A whole made-up story, with some text messages to prove it.
(There was no library. It was a guy I met online.)
And she —bless her homophobia— told me to block him.
That it was the only way for “the thoughts” to go away.

Ma’am… they did not go away.
My coming out attempts were failing. But still, there was this urge.
An instinctive need to share what I was feeling.
Not because I needed to announce it —
but because I needed someone else to say, “It’s okay.”
Keeping it a secret made it feel wrong.
Made it feel shameful.

SHAME.

I gave up on telling her. We drifted.
Best friends turned into strangers.

*****

Then came camp.
No, not like that, I mean actual summer camp.
Religious, of course. Orthodox church this time, for range…

I met a girl. We hit it off instantly.
The camp ended. We exchanged numbers.
And a week later, I texted her. Told her the truth.
This time, no fake boys. No boners.
Why her? I think I just had a gut feeling.
I’d been attending church camps since I was a kid — and for the first time, I’d made a friend who wasn’t there for the Jesus of it all. 
She was there for the fun. And somehow, that gave me reassurance. 
That maybe —just maybe— she wouldn’t think I was going to burn in hell.

Part of me felt: If this goes badly, the stakes aren’t high. I haven’t known her long.
“Hey. I need to tell you something… I’m gay.” I said
She replied: “I hope you’re not joking. I don’t tolerate jokes like that — I have gay friends.”
I found out later… I was her first gay friend.
She just wanted to make it clear she was safe, before she even had the words to say it. She’s now my lifelong best friend.
And that’s when I learned: Some people just get it.
Even if they’re still figuring out how to say it.

*****

But from there, I wasn’t coming out as much as I was living out.

It became less about declarations and more about decisions.
Who deserves to know me? Who deserves access?
In the Middle East, coming out isn’t an event — it’s a strategy.
You don’t burst out of the closet. You leave little doors ajar.
You observe. You feel it out. You find your people.
I met so many who got it.
Supportive friends. Chosen family.
People who held space for me.
But I also had to let go of some people I thought I’d keep forever.
People who said they were okay with it — but their eyes changed.
They saw me differently.
As unserious. As broken. As someone struggling.
Even when I was not really struggling.
And honestly? That can be worse than rejection.
That quiet shift, from friend to case study.

SHAME!

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even angry. But it was necessary.
Their silence told me everything I needed to know.

At that point in life, I didn’t feel the need to come out anymore.
I had my people. My little queer bubble. My peace.
But there was always that question.
“Do your parents know?” “What about your brothers?”
“Have you come out to your family yet?”
There was no roadmap.
And I had distanced myself from my family. Partly because of geography…
and partly because of me.
Because of the life I was building, and the parts I wasn’t ready to explain.
I had seen how queerness was met in my family: reactions that made me afraid of what it could do to the dynamic we had; how it might change things, forever…

But there was my cousin. My closest cousin.
The one who told me everything: hookups, dating drama, men with questionable tattoos in questionable places.
She clearly trusted me, so it finally felt like the right time to trust her back.
When she asked about my love life, I told her. It didn’t make sense to lie anymore.
“Hey, you know I date men, right? I’m gay”
She blinked. Paused.

I could see her flipping through some imaginary “How to Talk to Your Gay Cousin” guide — one she hadn’t finished reading.
And even though it wasn’t long ago, the memory’s quite blurry now.
But I remember the awkwardness. She asked if something triggered it. If something happened to me when I was younger. As if there had to be a reason.
And she ended with: “I won’t bring it up again… unless you want to.”
That was the cherry on top of the shame sundae.

SHAME.

We haven’t spoken  since. Life drifted us apart.
But if I’m being honest… I chose to let it.

*****

In my last visit to Lebanon, I met my Catholic school friend again.
The one I lied to — just to say something true.
We ran into each other years later and were catching up.
And somewhere in the conversation, she figured it out.
She put two and two together and looked at me and said:
“I’m really sorry for how I reacted when we were younger.
I didn’t know how to process what you were telling me.”
And, for the first time, I didn’t flinch.
I understood. I had made peace with it, with her, with the past, with myself.
And I realized… That was maybe what I needed all along.
Not an apology. Not validation. I just needed to be seen.
To have someone look at me — not as who I was when I first tried to tell the truth, but as who I’ve become since.

*****

Living in a society that doesn’t tolerate your queerness isn’t just hard —
it’s disorienting.
It rewires how you see yourself. How you remember yourself.
How you imagine others will see you.
The way we’re raised makes it almost impossible to believe that “love is love,”
when every message you’ve ever received screams:

SHAME. SHAME. SHAME!

But somehow, despite all of that, we find each other. We find ourselves.
And once we do, we begin to learn — that Pride isn’t just a destination we reach.
It’s a practice we return to.

A conversation we carry. A story we tell. A quiet, rebellious act, not just for ourselves, but for those still searching for their reflection.
So maybe my story doesn’t end with one perfect coming out… but with a dozen imperfect ones. Some with lies. Some with silence. Some with pain.
But also, some with laughter. Some with apology. And some with peace.

And even now —living in Canada, a place I chose because I could finally breathe; because I could finally say “I’m gay” out loud without looking over my shoulder— even here, with all the safety and freedom I’ve found…
I still think about those who don’t have this.
Those who wake up every day to a cup of shame served by their families, their governments, their gods, their “friends.”
Those who have never had the chance to live their truth and are still told that love is wrong.
We still live in a world where Pride is a privilege.
And I don’t take that lightly.

So if I have it now —if I get to walk through life with my shoulders a little higher, my voice a little louder— I want to honour every version of me that never thought this would be possible.
Because, the pride I feel now?
That is one of the greatest blessings of my life.

And I’ll never stop being grateful for it.