I didn’t grow up knowing I was gay.
I grew up knowing I was different—and that difference was something I needed to keep quiet.
In my house, love was loud but conditional. There were rules that were never written down, but everyone knew them. You study hard. You respect elders. You don’t talk back. And one day, you marry someone of the opposite sex and make your parents proud. Anything outside that script didn’t exist—or worse, was shameful.
So when I started feeling things I didn’t have words for, I learned very quickly to bury them.
Silence as a Childhood Language
Sex was never discussed in my household. Sexuality didn’t exist unless it was in the context of marriage. Being gay wasn’t explained as wrong—it was erased entirely.
I didn’t hear the word “gay” growing up, but I heard everything around it:
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“Don’t sit like that.”
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“Why are you so soft?”
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“Boys don’t behave this way.”
Each comment felt small on its own. Together, they taught me a lesson: watch yourself. Monitor your voice. Your walk. Your interests. Your friendships.
By the time I was a teenager, I had mastered the art of shrinking.
Learning to Hide Before Learning to Be
I learned how to lie before I learned how to come out.
I lied about crushes.
I laughed along when relatives joked about future wives.
I nodded when marriage conversations came up, even though my chest felt tight.
Home was a place of love—but also surveillance. Not intentional, not cruel, but constant. Every move felt observed. Privacy didn’t exist, and neither did emotional safety.
So I became two people:
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The son my family knew
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The person I only met when I was alone
Love, Fear, and Guilt Living Together
I loved my family deeply. That’s what made it harder.
I wasn’t just scared of being rejected—I was scared of hurting them. In South Asian households, queerness is often framed as betrayal. As selfishness. As choosing yourself over your parents.
That belief seeped into me.
Every time I imagined coming out, I also imagined my mother crying. My father going silent. Relatives whispering. The word shame hanging in the air, heavy and inescapable.
So I stayed quiet. Not because I was weak—but because I was surviving.
Seeing Myself Nowhere
There were no reflections of me growing up.
No gay characters on TV who weren’t jokes or tragedies.
No adults who lived openly and happily.
No stories that said, you’ll be okay.
I thought my feelings were temporary. Or broken. Or something I could pray away.
When you never see a future for someone like you, you stop imagining one.
The Cost of Growing Up This Way
Growing up gay in a South Asian household teaches you many skills:
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Reading rooms
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Hiding pain
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Adjusting yourself to fit others’ comfort
But it also leaves scars.
I carried shame that wasn’t mine.
I felt lonely even in crowded rooms.
I doubted my right to love, to want, to exist fully.
Unlearning that has taken years.
To Anyone Growing Up Like This
If you’re growing up gay in a South Asian household and reading this quietly, maybe on a phone no one else can see—I see you.
Your fear makes sense.
Your silence makes sense.
Your longing makes sense.
You are not weak for surviving the way you had to.
One day, whether loudly or softly, openly or privately, you will get to live as yourself. And that life—however it looks—will be worth the wait.