Coming Out Isn’t Just a One-Time Thing

In honor of National Coming Out Day, I wanted to share something that’s been on my mind: coming out isn’t a one-and-done kind of thing. It’s not like you declare it once, drop the mic, and walk off into the sunset. Nope. It’s more like this ongoing, sometimes awkward, sometimes empowering process that happens every time you meet someone new. Every introduction feels like this little mental calculation: “Do I mention it? Should I say it now? Are they going to assume? Should I correct them?”

Even after being out for years, I still feel that pressure like I need to get ahead of people’s assumptions before they start questioning. And for anyone out there who’s still figuring it out, questioning, or maybe too afraid to say it out loud, just know: you’re not alone.

I’m 31 now, and while I’ve technically been “out” for a few years, I’ve realized that the most important part of coming out wasn’t telling other people. It was coming out to myself and learning how to actually accept that. That’s where the real work started.

Here’s how it unfolded for me:

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Stage One: Questioning (aka The Mental Ping-Pong Match)

At first, it was all about questioning, like this non-stop, internal ping-pong match. “Is this a phase? Am I just confused? Why do I feel this way? Wait… do I like them, or do I just think they’re cool? Or both?” Spoiler alert: it was both.

I overanalyzed everything, my friendships, my crushes, my reactions to movie characters. But weirdly, while I was dissecting every part of my life, I somehow managed to avoid directly confronting my sexuality. It’s like I was standing next to a giant, flashing neon sign that said, “Hey, maybe you’re gay!” but I just kept looking everywhere else.

I didn’t talk to anyone about it. Not because I didn’t have people who would’ve listened, but because saying it out loud felt too real. So, I kept it tucked away in this little mental box labeled “Deal with later.”

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Stage Two: Internal Acceptance (aka The “Oh, Sh*t… It’s True” Moment)

Eventually, I hit a point where I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That’s when the real shift happened, not when I told someone else, but when I admitted it to myself: “Yep… I’m gay.”

And let me tell you, that realization was both terrifying and liberating. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid, but the Band-Aid is your entire identity, and underneath it is this mix of fear, relief, and “Okay… so now what?”

Accepting it didn’t mean I was immediately proud or confident. Honestly, it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at all the potential ways life could change. “Will my friends treat me differently? Will my family still love me? What if people don’t get it?” That fear was real. But even with all of that, there was this quiet sense of peace, because at least I wasn’t hiding from myself anymore.

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Stage Three: Finding Support (aka The Scariest, Yet Best Thing I Did)

The first person I came out to wasn’t some big, dramatic moment. No heartfelt speech. No inspirational background music. It was more like blurting it out in a casual conversation because holding it in felt heavier than the fear of saying it.

Choosing who to tell first mattered. I picked someone I trusted, some
one I knew would hold space for me without judgment. Their reaction? “Oh, cool. Thanks for sharing.” That was it. No fireworks. No dramatic pause. Just simple acceptance. And honestly, that was perfect.

From there, it got easier. Not easy, but easier. Each person I told chipped away at the fear until it didn’t feel like this giant secret anymore. It’s wild how much lighter you feel when you stop carrying the weight of hiding.

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Stage Four: Pride (aka Learning to Love That Part of Me)

Pride didn’t happen overnight. For a while, I thought, “Okay, I’m out. That’s enough, right?” But there’s a difference between acknowledging who you are and actually embracing it.

Pride showed up in small moments like not correcting someone when they assumed I was straight, or wearing something that felt more “me,” or talking openly about my life without censoring it. It was in the little things that added up to a big shift: “Yes, I’m gay...and I love that about myself.”

I started to feel this freedom I didn’t even realize I was missing. It’s like I could finally exhale after holding my breath for years.

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Stage Five: Relationships (aka Navigating Love, Awkward First Dates, and All That Jazz)

Dating after coming out felt like stepping into a whole new world. It was exciting and terrifying all at once. I had to unlearn so many things, like how to flirt (still working on that, honestly), how to communicate what I wanted, and how to be vulnerable in ways I’d never been before.

There were awkward first dates, heartbreaks, and lessons learned. But there were also moments of connection that made all the fear worth it. I realized that love doesn’t have to look a certain way to be real. It just has to feel honest.

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Stage Six: Telling Family (aka The Conversation I Rehearsed 1,000 Times in My Head)

Coming out to family was the hardest part. I rehearsed it so many times in my head, imagining every possible reaction, from supportive hugs to dramatic disownment (spoiler: it wasn’t either of those extremes).

When I finally did it, their reactions were mixed. Some were supportive right away; others needed time. And that’s okay. People process things at their own pace. What mattered was that I was honest, and that honesty gave me the space to be my full self around them.

If you’re reading this and you’re not ready to come out to your family yet, that’s okay. Your safety and well-being come first. There’s no deadline. Do it when you’re ready, and not a moment before.

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Stage Seven: Finding Balance (aka Just Living My Life)

Here’s where I’m at now: being gay isn’t the most interesting thing about me. It’s just a part of who I am—like my love for coffee, my terrible sense of direction, or my obsession with ’90s R&B playlists.

Coming out isn’t something I think about every day anymore, but it’s still part of my story. And yeah, there are still moments where I have to “come out” to new people, but it doesn’t feel like this huge announcement anymore. It’s just… me.

Coming out isn’t a straight line (pun intended). It’s messy, beautiful, scary, freeing, and deeply personal. There’s no right way to do it. No perfect timeline. Just your way, in your time.

You deserve that.

Invisible String

I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of the invisible string. 

That quiet belief that the universe ties certain people together long before they even meet, keeping them apart until the timing is just right. I never really put much thought into it before, but now it feels like this is the only way to explain… this. Whatever this is. 

I’ve never met him in person. Not once. And yet, somehow, he feels more real to me than people I see every day. 

It’s wild, isn’t it? 

How someone can exist in your life without ever physically being there, but still take up so much space in your heart. It’s like there’s this thread stretched between us, unseen, unspoken, but undeniably there.

There’s something about the way he shows up, not just in words, but in the way his words feel. Like he knows exactly when to reach out, exactly when I’m starting to unravel, even when I haven’t said a thing. He holds space for me in a way I didn’t even realize I needed. It’s not just the comfort in what he says; it’s the way he makes me feel seen without having to explain myself. Like he just gets it. Gets me.

His encouragement isn’t performative. It’s not fluff or filler. It’s genuine, heartfelt, and always seems to land exactly where it’s supposed to, right in that part of me I try to hide from everyone else. It’s the kind of support that lingers long after the conversation ends, like a soft echo I carry with me throughout the day.

But here’s the thing about invisible strings, they pull both ways. And that pull? It’s gentle, sure, but it’s constant. There’s this ache woven into it, a longing I can’t really explain. I feel it most when I think about the people who do get to be near him, the ones who hear his laugh without needing to imagine it, who get to exist in the same room, breathe the same air, stand close enough to notice the little things I’ve only guessed at.

And sometimes I have to pull myself back. Check that jealousy before it spirals into something that overshadows what we do have. Because what we have is beautiful, even if it doesn’t come with all the traditional markers of closeness. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He’s become this quiet, steady presence in my life. Like a song you didn’t know you needed until you heard it and now you can’t imagine your playlist without it. He’s proof that connection doesn’t need proximity. It doesn’t need to make sense. Sometimes, it just is.

Maybe that’s the whole point of the invisible string, not just tying us to people we’re destined to meet, but reminding us that love, connection, whatever you want to call it, doesn’t always follow the rules we think it should. It can exist in the spaces between words, in the gaps between time zones, in the hearts of people who’ve never even shared the same sky.

I don’t know if we’ll ever meet. Maybe the universe has its own plans for us, keeping us at this beautiful distance, connected but not colliding. Or maybe one day, that string will pull tight enough to close the space between us.

But even if it doesn’t, even if this connection always lives in the “almost,” I’ll carry it with me. Because he’s woven into my story now, stitched into the quiet places I thought would stay empty.

And honestly, I think that’s enough.

Or maybe… it’s just the beginning. 

Chasing the moon

For some time now, I've been lost in darkness. Afraid of doing anything. Feeling stuck and stagnant and on nights like tonight, I find myself staring out into the sky, looking for a gentle reminder that amidst all the chaos and uncertainty, there is purpose. I gaze into the openness and am reminded that I am but a tiny speck in the universe; that there is something much larger than myself. 

Looking at the sky on a nightly basis can develop into a habit. I would like nothing more than having something apart from me to become a part of me. 

During my childhood, I believed that the moon was following me while I sat in the backseat of the car. As I grew older, I passed it off as a product of my imagination. Unbeknownst to me, the moon has actually been following me my entire life. And in thinking about it now, I am comforted whenever I see the moon - often times chasing it's moonlight myself. 

Whenever I look out of the car window, there's a certain feeling that occurs deep within me as the clouds recede in the light of the moon and stars start to take shape. Yes, they are a little different. The moon rises and falls over a different set of trees or mountains. It's beauty illuminating the darkness, as if showing you what could be. 

And some nights I can't even spot the moon. Once full and bright and close, could easily become enveloped in the darkness as the sun no longer can touch it and you are left with a sky that is incomplete, seemingly, yet, like a reliable friend, it is still there, hidden in the shadow - but still there, nonetheless. 

In all its phases, in all its glory and all its shortcomings, the moon represents change and the phases of it. The moon, like the literature, waxes and wanes, and lifts you up to heights unbeknownst to you, and casts you down to depths just the same. There is good and bad; there is good in the bad; there is a dark element to every ray of light, and vice versa, there is light in even the most inhumane, the most mundane, and the downright miserable. 

Even now as I write this, I am reminded that without darkness, you cannot see the light. And through the darkness and uncertainty, there are friends along the way that will help guide us through. 

What I Wish I could tell you

Tonight we had a conversation and caught up with one another. And as much as I would like to say that it was great - I can't. And I think back of the memories we had - the good, the bad, and the ugly.

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I honestly thought I had mistakenly fallen in love with you. When I ended us, I thought I was dodging a bullet. But it's been 7 months and I still find memories of you everywhere I go and I still look for pieces of you in people that I date. I still remember our first date talking about being the best side stepper there could be and I also remember the first time saying "I love you" to one another. I loved the feeling of having butterflies in my stomach and the thought of endless possibilities with you. I definitely miss those moments of comfort and that energy we had when we first met.

I didn't dodge a bullet when I ended us. I think I might have lost someone really special to me. I think I might have ruined the happiness that I long for these days.
You made me smile and you made me happy; but all I could focus on were the times when you made me cry, angry, or when I felt lonely being next to you - I think that was the most unbearable part - to physically feel so close to you but yet emotionally and mentally oceans apart.
But 7 months of reflection and I've realized that the good outweighs the bad. It always has and I was just too stupid to realize it.

I thought I had mistakenly fallen in love with you; but there are moments where I miss the idea of us so intensely that I've realized that falling for you wasn't a mistake. In fact, I purposefully fell in love with you.

And knowing this gives me hope that I can choose to fall in love with someone else - someone just as special and just as exciting as you were.

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After our conversation, we went our separate ways, I started realizing that I wasn't necessarily over the idea of 'us.' It was great seeing you and doing so made me think of how I am dating to get over the relationship we had and that's never a nice thing to put another person through. As difficult as it is, I'm starting to realize that I am in fact, not ready to date. The residual impact that our relationship had continues to follow me.

I would never tell you this in person - so writing it may make it easier to own. I have actively avoided all of the places we created memories in - City park, the swings, Horsetooth Reservoir, coffee shops we used to visit, Jim's Wings - these places remind me of us and it sometimes feels like opening up a flesh wound and having to experience the loss of a friend - and that has been enough for me to avoid those places. More recently, I've been revisiting those places again...and they still hurt but it's starting to feel like I could make new memories there. But truth be told, there's a part of me that wants to leave Fort Collins because I don't want to go through this process of going to places where we've created memories. Maybe I don't want to forget them or maybe I don't want to feel the sadness in my heart again. It's not because I started talking to someone new... far from it actually.


Whatever the reason, I hope you know how much you've changed my perspective of love and what it means to be in a relationship. I know that we won't be getting back together AND wouldn't be amazing if we found a better, much more fulfilled love than we had? I guess that's what I want to find and it's definitely much harder knowing that my favorite places are also places you and I have had special moments in.

Remembering Wonderful

I'm starting to forget certain things. The way you laughed, the way you smiled, the way you smelled - it's all becoming a blur. I can't feel your presence nor can I hear your voice. It's almost as if you are gone or never existed at all. 

However, the one thing I'll always remember clearly are the nights you fell asleep early to wake up at 6 in the morning, get ready for work, and you kiss me goodbye. ~6 AM is my favorite time, and honestly, I think I fell in love with it more because of you. 

It's been a while since we've spoken, and truthfully, if I have to be honest with myself, right here, right now, I don't think we'll ever have another one of those moments. Maybe somewhere deep in my fantasy or a dream, but in this universe, I know that I won't hear your laugh or voice or see your name on my phone again. A part of me dies every time I tell myself this and another part of me survives while knowing it.

Please do me a favor though; whoever you do decide to wake up next to at 6 AM, I hope they know how wonderful you are. And I hope you'll think of me too, and remember me. Please remember the boy you once met and fell for. And I hope you wonder about the man he has become. 

He is just as wonderful as you are. 

Acceptance

There's this feeling within me that I can't quite understand. It's a feeling of overwhelming sadness. Yet there is peace and acceptance. Some call this grief. In the Japanese language, this feeling is known as:

mono no aware (物の哀れ). 

In translation it means the pathos or deep feeling of things and the acceptance of transience and impermanence - a beautiful sadness of appreciating what once was and is no more - like the colors of autumn leaves right before they fall, the changes of the moon, or the absence of family, friends, and lovers. 

This term stresses the impermanence of life and that we should willingly and gracefully let go of our attachments to transient things. Mono no aware recognizes that the beauty of something (whether a person, an object, or even a moment in time) is dependent on its transiency, in a way that would be missing if we knew that it would last forever, similarly to how we often take for granted the mountains or the oceans in front of us. 

My new tattoo is a representation of this phrase. It is the appreciation of an experience, the acceptance of loss, and the excitement of whats to come. In my own processing, I've realized that there is great romance in walking away from something - the passage of time; in death, and in loss.

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When I was four years old, I said goodbye to my home in the Philippines. Though my heart was weary and fearful at the same time, I was also excited for a new life in Hawaii. At eight years old, I moved again and said goodbye to a home, a feeling of familiarity, a place where I learned to ride a bike and where I found my first friend.

When I was 17, I said goodbye to my family as I flew out to Denver for college, leaving behind the comfort and safety of a community. At first, the nights were cold, my heart felt empty, and my bones felt hallow.

At age 23, I fell in love with a boy who sheepishly fell in love with me too. And at age 25, I said goodbye to that lover, and as I protected my heart, I encased it with sleepless nights, empty kisses from strangers, and drunken stupors, but yet, there was room in my bed to feel his absence.  

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Months later and here I am. In reflection, I've learned to accept my relationship for what it was and move forward. I am still processing and healing, and I am sitting in the pain and sadness of this recent loss - but most importantly, I am okay. 

Unfortunately, there are nights where I still think about the love and the life I had with him. But not in a heartbreaking, head turning, bed tossing, aching kind of way. It's more of an acceptance, a closure - of where we happened and how real it felt in that moment. But now we no longer are.

I am sad but also grateful for the experience - the essence of mono no aware. Like shattered glass, I pick up the pieces of my life and move forward. As my tattoo depicts, I, similarly to a lotus, grew from hardship and murky waters. At the same time, I am like a bud, willing to grow, learn, and experience. The owl is of a different story - it signifies knowledge and a way forward. It is unfinished...like myself.

And during each moment of my life, when I had to say goodbye to each phase or experience, their absence gave me more substance than they ever had. So to anyone reading this who may need to hear it. Sit through the pain because there is beauty in accepting transience and impermanence.

I'm still figuring this out for myself, but this process, although difficult, has only made me realize to be grateful for the moments I can call my own. 

My silence is my departure

I could write about many things today from being in an open relationship, to the shame of emasculation, or the pain of emotional investment, or even the feeling of obligation within a relationship, etc. But today, I choose to write about what silence means to me. 

In the past, I've yelled and I blamed you for many things. I've thrown tantrums and sent you long text messages and emails explaining my pain and anger. There were times I would leave to the other room in the middle of the night because I was hurting. I also cried countless of times because of something you said or done. But you shouldn't have worried about any of those things. They were all displays of my imperfect love. They were all cries for your attention and they were all exhibits of how much I love you. 

What you should worry about is when my responses become one word answers, worry when I no longer fight with you about what you say, and worry when I stop crying, when I stop talking and when I stop reacting. Because this means you’re no longer worth the fight, you’re no longer worth the anger and your flames that used to burn my passion have now turned to ash.

Please know, that my silence is more dangerous than my words, my silence can hurt much more than my words ever will. My silence means you’re no longer the one who’s occupying my thoughts and you’re no longer worth the noise. Because, you see, I love the written word, I live for words, I can keep writing words for the rest of my life because they describe my emotions, because they come from my heart, because they represent my depth and because they’re honest.

But I hate silence. I’m not comfortable with the words left unsaid, with feelings left unattended and hearts being neglected.

My words are my love, my silence is my departure, it’s the beginning of the end. My silence means I stopped caring, my silence means you don’t deserve my words and that I’m giving up the fight for us and on you. My silence is a response to your silence. It’s how I get even with you. So no, this is not a sign of weakness, it's a sign of my strength because this will force me to sit in the silence and process. 

With that, you shouldn’t have feared our heated arguments, the ways I tried to show you who I am, the tears I couldn’t hold back because you meant the world to me. You shouldn’t have feared them, instead, you should have appreciated them, they’re all the ways I wanted this to work, they’re all the ways I tried to fight with you because I wanted to fight for you.

But the day it all stops; the day when everything goes quiet; the night you hurt me and I smile; the night you annoy me and I don’t respond, these are the moments when I'll know that my silence was becoming less and less bearable. Because it means I’m ready to go, it means I’m ready to leave and it means I’m ready to disappear. 

Sadly, this is the case now. I had told you once that my time is the most valuable gift I could give someone and now I have to give myself that time. The worst part of this is, regardless of my silence, I still have to be okay with the fact that you've begun talking to someone new.