Over the Rainbow, Eventually

I used to joke that the door to my closet was a revolving one. I flew in and out so many times I lost track of which sexual orientation I was wearing at the time. The truth was, it didn’t matter which label I chose because beyond that door, I was never really being my authentic self.

I was recently asked in an interview what my younger self would think about me winning Mr. CMEN Leather. It’s hard to picture, honestly. Growing up, I didn’t even know this title, or that entire world even existed. My younger self would probably just blink in disbelief.

“You stood naked on stage, in a leather corset, and won a contest?” 

Yeah, kid. I did.

Of all the places in a home to serve as a metaphor, the closet is surprisingly accurate. It’s a space to hide, a space to imagine, sometimes even a space to survive. You can close the door and be alone with your thoughts, frightened and comforted all at once. For me, it was a place of safety. A dark, familiar room where I could tuck away my feelings until I was brave enough to face them.

The first time I cracked the door open was senior year of high school. I was terrified people would forget me, and in some twisted teenage logic, I thought if I shared something big, they might not forget about me. So, as we said our goodbyes, I started confiding in a few close friends that I was bisexual. At the time, that label felt like the safest stepping stone. And in fairness to actual bisexuals, I owe an apology for perpetuating that cliché.

But thank goodness for that revolving door, because once I moved to New York City, I stepped right back inside. Of all places to go back into the closet, right? But I was scared. I thought if people knew, it would ruin the acting career I didn’t even have yet. I was juggling two identities while trying to survive an intense acting program that broke me down before building me back up.

For a while, I kept that part of me locked away. I remember one afternoon at work when employees were being asked to volunteer to donate blood. I eagerly offered, until the older gay gentleman signing us up hesitated, “But you…”—and stopped. My coworkers didn’t notice, but this person taking our names froze. He knew. And without saying another word, he saved me from a sentence I wasn’t ready to finish. He allowed me to continue the lie I was living.

I officially came out in 2008, at age 24. By then, I was working in an office where nearly every man was gay, except me and the IT director. Or so I said. Then came a business trip to Houston that happened to fall on my birthday.

My “work wife,” Megan, and I were vendors at a conference, and I had already scoped out a local gay bar called Tony’s Corner Pocket. I told Megan beforehand that I was gay, definitely not something I broadcasted back home, but something she should know since we’d be together the whole trip. That little confession was my first real act of trust.

I ended up falling in love with that bar, not just for its divey charm, but for a bartender who caught my eye and made my heart skip. We talked for hours, and before the night ended, discovered we shared the same birthday. That Saturday.

The next day, I told Megan all about it, and she decided we had to go back for a joint birthday celebration. That sounded great until she invited her conference friends. Suddenly, my secret birthday plan at a gay bar wasn’t so secret anymore. Sweat formed, my pulse quickened, every instinct screamed to run. Then something remarkable happened: nobody cared. They were excited to celebrate, grab drinks, maybe catch a drag show. Just like that, my panic dissolved.

That night, surrounded by laughter and light, I realized how simple acceptance could be. On the flight home to New York, I decided to stop hiding altogether. I started coming out to everyone—friends, coworkers, anyone who’d listen—and the responses were mostly wonderful. Some said they’d already suspected (never my favorite reaction), but their support still meant everything. Others simply listened and let me be myself. The best moments, though, were when I didn’t have to come out at all—when it was just instinctively understood, an effortless part of who I was rather than something I needed to announce.

Of course, tougher conversations followed. But in my New York bubble, surrounded by queer friends and allies, I finally felt free. The revolving door had stopped spinning.

Every coming out story is different. Sometimes it’s loud and proud; sometimes it’s quiet and trembling. Mine was both. But no matter where you are on that road to self-acceptance, know that there are people who will embrace you exactly as you are.

When I finally opened that door for good, I realized the world outside wasn’t waiting to judge me, it was waiting to meet me. And stepping through it felt exactly like Dorothy opening the door of her house and seeing Oz for the first time: color, light, life, and possibility everywhere.

The land over the rainbow isn’t some faraway dream. It’s right here, waiting for you to arrive.