National Coming Out Day 2025- Reflections from our CEO
I knew I was different from around the age of 10 or 11. But back then, being gay wasn’t something you could see or speak about. There were no role models at school, no representation on TV, no conversations at home. Just silence.
That silence was deafening. It told me that being different was something to hide. And so, I did.
I tried to fit in, forcing myself into a relationship with a girl, convincing myself I could learn to be “normal.” But deep down, I felt like I was living on an island, cut off from the world. I could see everyone else living freely, while I was stuck, trapped in my own mind, pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
At school, everything revolved around football, rugby, and masculinity. To survive, I learned how to blend in. I laughed at jokes that made me uncomfortable. I stayed quiet when others spoke cruelly. Every day was a performance.
My mum’s family were Catholic, my grandparents born in 1929 and 1932, and relationships were between a man and a woman. My dad’s family, from Northern Ireland, shared the same beliefs. They were good people, but they lived in a time where gay people were invisible, unknowingly, they passed that invisibility on. Despite being supportive, when I couldn’t see it, I just couldn’t be it.
When the internet arrived, it changed everything. It became my lifeline, my window into a world that finally reflected me. That’s how I met my first boyfriend. He was from a Pakistani background and had lived his life in total secrecy. Our connection was real, but it existed in the shadows. We couldn’t be seen together, couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t live freely. Fear was always there, fear of being found out, fear of rejection, fear of losing everything. When it ended, I was heartbroken. I’d built my whole sense of hope around that relationship, and when it was gone, I felt completely lost.
The first people I told were my friends Ruth and Jonathan. I rehearsed the words a hundred times. Each time I opened my mouth, I panicked and changed the subject. But when I finally said it, they didn’t just accept me, they embraced me. They listened. They cared. They saw me. And for the first time, I started to feel a little less alone.
Next came my mum, in 2004. I remember it so clearly, a bright day that felt impossibly heavy. My heart was racing, my hands were shaking, and I couldn’t find the words. It took three attempts before I finally said them: “I’m gay.” She smiled, but I could see a worry in her eyes. Later, she told me she’d struggled, not because she didn’t love or accept me, but because she was scared for me. Scared that the world wouldn’t be kind.
I told my dad later, by letter. He was the football man, strong, straightforward, and lots of fun. I ended my letter with, “I hope nothing changes.” His text back simply said: “Got your letter. Nothing has changed son.” I cried with relief.
But coming out wasn’t a one-time thing. It became a pattern, at university, while travelling, and then again when I started my career. Each time, I had to do it all over again. Each time, the same fear: Will they treat me differently? Will I be rejected? Will I belong?
Even now, all these years later, I still occasionally dream about those moments. About it all going wrong. About being rejected or ridiculed. Every now and then, the same dream returns. It’s a reminder that while acceptance changes everything, the scars of fear take time to heal.
And it wasn’t just sexuality that made me feel different. Coming from the north added another invisible layer. Moving south, I noticed how I spoke, how I sounded, how I carried myself. I became hyper-aware of my accent, of being “the northerner” in professional rooms where privilege and polish felt like the unspoken language. Social mobility brought opportunity, but it also brought pressure, the feeling that I had to prove my place at every table and work even harder. That, too, took a toll on wellbeing.
The truth is, coming out is never just one moment. It’s something LGBTQ+ people do hundreds of times in their lives, every time they meet someone new, join a new team, or enter a new space. And it takes courage every single time.
For me, it took years to rebuild what hiding had taken away, my confidence, my peace, my happiness. Years to stop apologising for existing. Years to believe that I deserved to be seen, loved, and accepted just as I am.
That’s why visibility matters. That’s why allyship matters. And that’s why the work we do at LGBT Great matters.
Because no one should have to shrink themselves to fit in. No one should have to choose between success and authenticity.
When we create workplaces where people can bring their full selves, without fear or compromise, they don’t just do better work. They live better lives.