Though I’ve never lived “in the closet” over the years, I realized I hadn’t fully stepped out of it in every aspect of life. While I embraced being out, certain moments hindered my personal and professional growth.

Have you ever let someone assume something about your life, like having a wife or girlfriend, because it was easier than correcting them? Perhaps you thought, “I’m not in the closet, so it doesn’t matter.” But looking back, did it matter?

This question lingered in my mind for far too long. We must ask whether our actions reflect who we are or if we’re choosing a more convenient version of ourselves. When someone asked, “Is your girlfriend coming to happy hour?” I wasn’t offended, but I wasn’t being entirely authentic, either.

As a gay man, I found it flattering when people assumed I was straight. Was I accepting it as validation of my masculinity? Perhaps. But over time, I realized that allowing these assumptions to persist wasn’t as harmless as I initially believed.

I’ve been fortunate never to experience the closet. The unwavering support from my family, friends, and colleagues has empowered me to live authentically. 

Having a family was, and still is, my guiding light. But by my late 20s, that vision began to fade. By my mid 30s, I saw family life, as a gay man, was a possibility, but I buried myself in building a company. I convinced myself that balancing family and business was unattainable since finding someone with shared values seemed impossible. But was it? 

As an entrepreneur, I’ve experienced the highs and lows of building something from scratch, always embracing challenges. It’s easy when you love what you do. Like building a business, personal growth is shaped by what you choose to invest in and what you attract into your life. Despite my successes, something still felt misaligned. What was I doing wrong? 

I remember moments like vendors taking us to after-hours bars or strip clubs. I recall one instance at a national expo when a vendor took us to a female strip club. I’ve never enjoyed strip clubs, gay or straight; I’d instead host a dinner party. Early into the night, someone arranged a lap dance for me, and I jokingly asked if she could switch places with the security guy. We both laughed, but here’s the issue: I never told them why I got up and left, only her. At that moment, did I sell myself short? Would it affect our partnership? I wasn’t in the closet but wasn’t entirely out either.

Another moment came in my 30s when I was learning how to navigate dating. A friend suggested I downplay my career to avoid intimidating potential partners. I agreed initially but eventually asked myself: Why should I downplay my accomplishments to make others comfortable? By minimizing my worth, I wasn’t just being inauthentic; I was undervaluing myself and the hard work I put into it. What was I trying to attract into my life?

As my journey continued, I became increasingly aware of what I was inviting into my life. My personal and professional lives were out of alignment. When I opened an office in India, I came out to the local director before signing business documents. Why? Friends and colleagues struggle because their business partners don’t know their authentic selves, and I refused to let this happen. More importantly, I owed being genuine to myself.

Many of us create barriers between our personal and professional lives. While change can be difficult, I needed to align them. We believe we’re not lying because we’re “not in the closet.” But by not fully expressing our authentic selves, we hold ourselves back. For me, dismantling those barriers allowed me to transform what I was attracting into my life, personally and professionally.

Had I not become self-aware, I’d still be stuck in a cycle of inauthenticity, missing out on my full potential. Without changing my mindset, I would have continued letting others’ assumptions define me and limit my growth. I only began breaking free from that cycle by fully embracing my true self.

Even though I’ve never lived in the closet, I still fear what being this open might bring. But that’s precisely why I need to do it. My personal and professional allies have shown unwavering support, standing by me through everything. To those who have supported me on this journey, thank you, it’s now my turn to support others.

Authenticity isn’t just a choice; it’s essential for a fulfilled life. You must ask, you must act, and yes, you will fail and learn along the way, but that’s OK. Every time you act, you move closer to your authentic self. Embrace vulnerability and the discomfort of feeling exposed, it’s then you will begin to reclaim your strength.

To the person on the partner track who’s afraid to bring their partner to a company retreat: bring them! To the young adult worried about being kicked out of the house: seek local support; someone will help you! To the person fearful of losing their job because of who they are: quit! To the person who wants a family, look around; someone shares those values! If someone offers to set you up with a girl or guy, ask if they have a brother or sister, and you might get a date! To those still searching for the right partner, ditch the apps and be present! 

I kept my personal life “private” for years because I thought, “I’m not in the closet.” I’m not referring to social media; this is about deep-rooted beliefs that live rent-free in our minds, filtering our responses and decisions. While writing this piece, I mistakenly typed, “I’m not out,” perhaps it wasn’t a mistake; it was a sign. I am grateful those filters expired long ago and are now evicted for living rent-free.

We live in a world where mental health is still stigmatized. Small acts of inauthenticity can cause anxiety that spills into our professional lives. It makes us seem “off” and can lead to missed opportunities. Worst of all, you may feel trapped and remain silent.

It’s time to stop allowing these things to hold us back. We must discuss mental health, authenticity, and their impact on our lives. The journey isn’t about becoming someone new; it’s about shedding what doesn’t define you so you can fully embrace who you’ve always been.

As I continue my journey, I will do so boldly, out loud, and unapologetically. Note to readers: If you’re struggling, want to discuss this topic further, or just need a virtual coffee chat, feel free to reach out via Instagram, @gregorybarretta. 

Gregory Barretta is a serial entrepreneur overseeing several companies, committed to mentoring, leading, and empowering others to grow.

(Author’s note: The content of this article may be triggering for some readers. If you or someone you know struggles with suicidal ideation, support can be found by calling or texting 988.) 

In becoming a barback, I dove headfirst into the underbelly of fast-paced, homoerotic nightlife, which can be as stressful as it is fun but almost always entertaining. For me, though, the best part has been the camaraderie formed with my staff, in particular the other barbacks, all of whom bust ass behind the scenes while sharing laughs and memes along the way. Among this crew I’ve formed solid, healthy friendships, although it’s Marsel in particular who sees me in a way most in D.C. never has. 

At first, I wasn’t sure if Marsel and I would get along. He’s ripped, tatted, confident, and hot, which is essentially the recipe for intimidating. Then we worked bar shifts together and I finally got to know him. Turns out he’s insanely witty, kind if you’re not an asshole, and overall easy to talk to. As it so happens, he and I are quite similar: two gays in our mid-30s working as barbacks who ended up in D.C. after growing up in rural, ruby-red states. Still, one parallel stands out above the rest: we both also have daddy issues. 

That’s right—it’s a cliché and often a punch line of jokes (which can still be funny, by the way), but the reality for many queers is rejection from one or both parents. For some, including Marsel and me, the traits of a toxic parent warps childhood beyond just conservative thinking. Case in point: both of our dads harbored deeply rooted anger and resentment, making their reaction to learning who we are seemingly inevitable. 

For Marsel, that pivotal moment came when his parents discovered he had a boyfriend in high school. In addition to filling his mind with fears about being gay, “they made me switch schools, severely monitored all my communications, what I would wear to school, and who I could hang out with. I spent the remainder of my high school years alone with no friends, isolated in a rural town outside of Nashville.” 

A few years later, Marsel’s parents kicked him out upon learning he engaged in sexual activity with men. “They expelled me from the family home and, for many years, treated me as though I no longer existed to them. I spent the better part of a year living in my car and the rest of the time couch-surfing, relying on the kindness of friends.” 

As for me: my dad served dual roles as patriarch and specter of my family. He was abusive physically and verbally, though still I tried maintaining a connection to the guy, likely fueling my attraction to mean guys but that’s another story. Despite my efforts, my father abruptly ended our relationship shortly after I came out. In our last phone call, he couldn’t even say the word gay, choosing instead “the way you are.” From there he listed everything he disliked about me, none of which was my homosexuality because these days no one admits so boldly to prejudice. Instead, they gaslight you with every other vulnerability as justification for mistreating you. 

It’s been well over a decade since I’ve spoken to or even seen my father, and at this point I’m certain he’ll happily march to his grave without seeing me again. Losing a parent is always hard. Losing one because they don’t want to love you anymore, well—it’s a searing pain that rips your heart wide open. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. 

Sadly, stories like these are far from unique among queers, nor are they the sole trauma we experience. From living in shadows and in shame, to schoolyard bullying and alienation, to pressures of religion or toxic masculinity, to a higher likelihood of sexual violence or discrimination in the workplace, we are affronted with so many traumas they’re nearly a marker for our kind. This also doesn’t include intersectionality with other traumas, such as a growing up in America a woman, a person of color, or poor. It’s no wonder, then, that the National Institutes of Health (NIH) published a review last year declaring, “LGBTQ people are at higher risk of PTSD compared with their cisgender/heterosexual peers.”

To most queers, what I just described is neither new nor surprising. In fact, in the face of this collective trauma, queers often come together in the form of fundraisers or Pride events. Yet despite rallying around the common inputs of our trauma, we rarely discuss the outputs. That’s right — emotional trauma has outputs, as neuroscience has proven, and when left untreated those outputs emerge as toxic traits in our adult lives.  

To illustrate, let’s take it back to Marsel. While he hoped to leave his past behind in Tennessee, that wasn’t the case. “For things I hadn’t fully processed or dealt with, my past trauma would bubble up to the surface in the form of emotional triggers, which would inevitably spark my anger. My anger manifested in various ways, and I would often find reasons to justify my behavior. I was angry about my relationships, angry about my body, angry about my career – basically, I was angry about everything. And the root of all that anger was the unresolved trauma I hadn’t properly addressed.”

I couldn’t relate more. I tried to be tough and pretend I didn’t care that my father abandoned me, but the thought still crossed my mind and crushed me every time. Then I took that pain and subconsciously projected my anger everywhere — onto friends, onto other gays, onto myself, but especially onto my relationships, where I’d swing like a pendulum between states of hyperattachment and hyperdetachment with almost no in-between. Steadily, my unresolved trauma chipped away at my self-worth, and once that goes, self-destruction is inevitable. 

Since the path to self-destruction is riddled with more trauma, the downward spiral only gets steeper. “My most impactful and lasting piece of trauma occurred two days before my 25th birthday,” Marsel told me. “The summer of 2013 I had been more than reckless with the frequency of my sexual encounters. I had often done pretty dangerous and wild things in regard to meeting up with guys. Then, on Dec. 10, 2013, I found out I was HIV positive. 

 “At the time it was quite Earth-shattering news because I knew no one who was positive and had no idea what this would mean for me. I was pretty hard on myself for being reckless, and it took a bit to pick myself up, but over time I used it to inspire me to live my life fully and authentically.” 

Often it takes Earth-shattering events to serve as a wakeup call for change. When my PTSD transformed into social anxiety, it was easy to suppress at first with sex, drugs, and most often alcohol, which inevitably led to the occasional outburst, or the loss of a friend. Yet still I’d go out, even more anxious I’d run into newly formed enemies, so I’d drink more, at times pre-gaming by myself before pre-gaming with others before eventually stumbling into the bars. Naturally this facilitated more outbursts, cost me more relationships, and once landed me a night in jail. The further I unraveled, the more I numbed it with heavier drinking, darker sex, harder drugs, until finally — it pains me to write, but for the sake of honesty I must — I was contemplating, threatening, and attempting suicide. 

Sorry to get heavy, but it’s important to dissect why and how queers experience emotional hardship. We don’t struggle simply because we’re queer but rather due to the trauma thrust upon us by a world that still fears queers. As a result, normal events — such as a breakup or losing a job — can feel insurmountable, like proof that those who rejected us were right all along.  

Thankfully, queers can rely on each other for support, right? Sounds nice in theory, but in practice we D.C. gays are pretty fucking mean to each other. Sure, we find our friends, but often our community is itching to judge us at every corner. We throw insults, ostracize those deemed “crazy,” and constantly seek validation from people we (Instagram) deem perfect. And no, I am not above this. I’ve been a narcissist. I’ve burned bridges with glee. Looking back, it was my inner turmoil bursting at my seams.  

Marsel summarized our behavior well: “Everything is a trauma response. That mean gay you see at the bar – trauma response. That gym obsessed muscle queen – trauma response. That career-driven type-A Capitol Hill gay – trauma response. Most of the time I find when people are treating me a certain way, it has little to do with me and everything to do with their own trauma.” 

So, we find ourselves amid a queer trauma cycle in which hurt queer people hurt more queer people. Sounds bleak, but the good news is we also have the power to change that. And we must, for a recent survey by the Trevor Project found a staggering 41 percent of LGBTQ+ youth aged 13 to 24 considered suicide in the last year alone. Queer trauma isn’t going away, so it’s on us to avoid bestowing our trauma to younger queers and instead provide a safe community not only to thrive but to experience inevitable lows as well. That may seem like a tall order, but based on what I’ve learned from Marsel, two measures can move us closer.

First is simple self-reflection, for when trauma goes unnoticed it grows steadily like mold, potentially upending your behavior without you even noticing. “As I moved through different stages of my life,” Marsel explained, “I began to see how this unprocessed trauma and anger influenced so many aspects of who I had become. It colored my reactions to conflict, my relationships with others, and even my relationship with myself.” 

The only way to process trauma is to excavate your mind and dissect underlying memories and feelings, which can be accomplished in many ways including journaling, art, or my personal favorite: therapy. While I didn’t start therapy until my 30s, taking that leap became a life-changing, and potentially lifesaving, decision. “Through therapy,” added Marsel, “I was able to uncover the reasons why this trauma continued to follow me throughout my life and how it manifested.” 

It all sounds so simple: get therapy, and you’ll get better. However, therapy only goes as far as you let it. Progress is never linear and brutal honesty is a must; as a result, not everyone gets there (no judgment though, for I’m not all the way there myself). In fact, my hardest step was admitting I needed therapy at all, for seeing a therapist is often treated like spotting a UFO — no one wants to admit it out of fear of looking insane. However, often the fear of appearing crazy leads to the most toxic behavior, as I’ve witnessed in D.C. time and time again. 

To heal requires dissolving the ego. While tough, it’s truly the first and most important step. 

As for the second measure: we need to cut each other some slack. No, this doesn’t mean excusing terrible behavior, but it does mean holding the belief that others — including and especially your queer enemies — can grow. If not, then tell me: who’s supposed to believe in your growth if you don’t believe in the growth of others? And if your response is you don’t need to grow, you likely have the most growing to do. 

Writing off one of us is writing off all of us, and if we keep burning each other at the stake for every flaw, we’ll grow weaker as a community. Besides, the rest of the world already does that to us. Why do it to each other as well? 

My hope is for more queers to see each other the way Marsel and I do. Not because he and I are perfect — if anything, we’re far from it. Instead, in between inside jokes, we share our mistakes, our hardships, and the work we’re putting in toward self-love and improvement. That feels rare in a city obsessed with perfection, but that’s also why it feels genuine. 

And genuine feels worlds better than perfect ever could. 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer and barback.

I was 21 years old when I walked into the offices of Chicago’s GayLife newspaper in the spring of 1984. Fresh out of journalism school, I had just learned about gay media and was excited that there might be a career ahead for an aspiring lesbian journalist. I had been afraid that being out would limit my choices — and it did. Fortunately, the only choice was the right fit for me.

When I started 40 years ago, I had no idea that 60 years prior, a postal worker named Henry Gerber joined forces with a few brave men to launch the country’s first gay-rights group, the Society for Human Rights, and the nation’s first known gay newsletter, Friendship & Freedom. The men were soon arrested, and their organization shut down.

But we can trace the descendants of gay media to those roots 100 years ago. There were some short-lived and long-running “homosexual” publications — from Lisa Ben’s Vice Versa to the Mattachine Review, The Ladder, Gay Community News, BLK, Lesbian Connection and hundreds more. These media especially thrived after the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion in New York City, in part because of the growing movement, and in part because the tools to produce media became more affordable and accessible.

Now, as many community media outlets are looking at ways to counter the narrative of a collapsing ecosystem, News is Out, a collaboration of six LGBTQ+ media representing more than 250 collective years of experience covering the community, is launching the first Local LGBTQ+ Media Giving Day Tuesday, Oct. 8, 2024, during LGBTQ History Month. The timing for this first annual event is to celebrate the 100-year anniversary work of Henry Gerber and his peers. 

Tax-deductible donations are being accepted now at https://givebutter.com/LGBTQequityfund. With one click, you can support six of the top LGBTQ+ outlets: Bay Area Reporter, Dallas Voice, Philadelphia Gay News, Tagg Magazine, Washington Blade and Windy City Times. News Is Out plans to expand the campaign in year two. 

LGBTQ+ media has always had a vital and symbiotic relationship with the LGBTQ+ movement. Since most mainstream media either ignored or vilified our community for most of the past century, media by and for us helped document, amplify and change the trajectory of our movement. Whether it was covering the joy and celebrations or making sure we had ways to advocate for our rights and safety, or when we covered the start of HIV/AIDS in a way that was empathetic and educational, the LGBTQ+ press has been there, on the front lines, writing the first draft of our history.

Forty years later, I still feel so lucky to have found my niche in LGBTQ+ media. When I walked into GayLife, tucked between a men’s bathhouse and a men’s leather bar, I had no idea that my own life, and the whole movement, would have made it this far in a relatively short period of time.

But if the next 40 years are to continue to bend the arc of the moral universe forward, we need to make sure LGBTQ+ media are here to document and amplify the fight.

Donate here: https://givebutter.com/LGBTQequityfund.

Tracy Baim is co-founder and owner of Windy City Times.