People talk about “coming out of the closet” like it was some magical wardrobe from a fairy tale.

It wasn’t.

The closet wasn’t empty.

The closet was full of consequences.

For younger people, it can be difficult to explain what being gay looked like before it was openly accepted. They hear stories about hiding relationships or not telling people who you were dating and think that was the worst of it.

It wasn’t.

The fear wasn’t that someone might disagree with you.

The fear was that someone might destroy your life.

You could lose your job.

You could lose your family.

You could lose your home.

You could lose your military career.

You could lose your friends.

In some places, you could lose your freedom.

For those of us who grew up in the 1970s and 1980s, being gay wasn’t something you announced. It was something you concealed. You learned very quickly which parts of yourself were safe and which parts needed to remain hidden.

You became an expert at editing yourself.

You changed pronouns in stories.

You laughed at jokes that weren’t funny.

You pretended to be interested in conversations that made you uncomfortable.

You carefully calculated every sentence before it left your mouth.

You learned to live behind a mask.

Then AIDS arrived.

If being gay already carried stigma, AIDS turned that stigma into outright hostility. Suddenly an entire community became the target of fear, misinformation, and blame.

People weren’t just afraid of the disease.

They were afraid of us.

At the time I was still trying to understand who I was. While my friends were dating girls, I was realizing my interests were very different. I didn’t have a roadmap for that. Most of us didn’t.

So we hid.

We found each other quietly.

We kept our secrets.

We stayed in the closet because the closet felt safer than the alternative.

Then I joined the Army.

At the time, one of the questions asked during enlistment involved homosexuality. If you wanted to serve, there was only one acceptable answer.

So you lied.

Not because you were dishonest.

Because the truth wasn’t permitted.

Years later, in 1991, I spent four hours with CID after being accused of being gay. Their goal was simple: get me to confess.

I didn’t.

I continued serving.

But that experience teaches you something.

When an institution makes honesty dangerous, people become very good at hiding.

Eventually came Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. It was an improvement, but only in the way a smaller hole in a boat is an improvement.

You were still expected to hide.

You were simply hiding under different rules.

The day I left the Army was the day I finally felt free to stop pretending.

Not because I suddenly became gay.

I’d always been gay.

I simply became allowed to say it.

That’s the part people sometimes miss.

Coming out isn’t becoming something new.

It’s finally allowing people to see who was already there.

Today I hear people ask why Pride still matters.

The answer is simple.

Because there are still people sitting in closets.

Maybe not the same closets.

Maybe not for the same reasons.

But they’re still there.

The goal isn’t to shame them.

The goal is to leave the door open.

To let them know that when they’re ready, there are people waiting on the other side.

And if history teaches us anything, it’s that doors can close again if we’re not paying attention.

That’s why visibility matters.

That’s why Pride matters.

And that’s why the closet wasn’t empty.

It was full of fear.

The real victory is making sure the next generation never has to carry as much of it as we did.

My dog doesn’t care who I love.

He never has.

My mom eventually figured that out too.

Honestly, that’s a pretty good lesson for the rest of the world. ▌