What We Leave Behind: Reflections on 25 Years Outside the Closet: An Inspired Reflection by Chris McLaughlin, MSW, LCSW

I “officially” came out to my parents at the ripe old age of 25—ancient in gay years, or so it felt—just as I was entering my graduate school Era at the University of Maine. Unofficially, though, I had been coming out in fits and starts for years. There were so many times where it felt like simply opening my mouth or moving my body was an unintentional act of outing myself to anyone within earshot or eyesight.

Like so many in the LGBTQIA+ community, I had peeked out from behind that well-worn, clichéd closet door long before I finally kicked it open. Coming out is often framed as a singular event: a bold declaration of truth, a courageous unveiling of self, a crossing of an invisible—but impenetrable—threshold. But in reality, coming out is rarely just one moment. It’s an unfolding. A nonlinear process. A high-stakes game of Chutes and Ladders.

Some of us come out, only to be pushed back in by rejection, shame, or fear. Others make our courageous stand on the other side of that door and never look back. I was incredibly fortunate. My own coming out was met with a blend of the “no shit” and the “we love you no matter what” responses. My heart breaks for those who do not receive the same affirmation I was so blessed to be swaddled in.

As I reflect on my own journey (and hold space for the personal stories of so many I’ve connected with, both personally and professionally) I’ve been thinking less lately about the freedom that can come with coming out, but more about what we leave behind us when we walk forth from the closet. What did we pack away in those dark, confined spaces we once called “home”? Did we leave our closet doors cracked to let the air in, or did we bolt them shut forever in our rear-view mirror, hoping (praying!) never to confront what may still be lingering inside?

For many of us in the queer community, our closet was a place of shame, secrecy, silence, and survival. Once we find the strength to finally step out into the light, we may leave behind younger versions of ourselves—those who shrank, who rehearsed every word, who tried to mimic the stylings of the “cool” boys and their perfect, effortless straightness. Some of us have buried early relationships, documented only in the tear stained pages of private angst-filled journals. Others abandon entire versions of themselves. The versions that were too loud, too queer, too tender to survive in the world we found ourselves in.

As Taylor Swift confesses in Sweet Nothing from the Midnights album: “To you, I can admit that I’m just too soft for all of it.” And the heavens know that back then, I indeed was just too soft for it all…

As we break out of these cages, some of us lock that door tight, grateful to be out but still fearful of what remains inside. Maybe we’ve “forgotten” the code or thrown away the key, all to convince ourselves that once we’re out, we never have to go back. But here’s what I’ve been sitting with lately:

What if going back is a part of our journey towards healing and self-acceptance?

These are some of the questions I’ve been exploring in my own therapy work with an incredible LGBTQIA+ affirming clinical social worker. Yes, my friends, even us seasoned clinicians need therapy too, and I'm so thankful that I’ve got a great one! Together, we’ve been working through the book The Velvet Rage: Overcoming the Pain of Growing Up Gay in a Straight Man’s World by Dr. Alan Downs. The book dives deep into the psychological and cultural challenges faced by gay men growing up in a heteronormative world. Each week, we dissect a new chapter, tracing the connections between our adult lives and the shame so many queer folks still carry like invisible anchors that have been weighing us down since childhood. Our conversations have touched on internalized homophobia, the search for validation, and the lifelong journey toward emotional authenticity, intimacy, and self-acceptance.

And through these conversations, I’ve come to believe that we maybe we actually need to give ourselves permission to leave our closet doors open, just a crack. Let the sunlight in. Let the air circulate. Let the shadows shrink. Keep the mold from growing, you know? These intentional breaches ensure we don’t forget what’s still in there. They allow us to revisit when we’re ready, to retrieve what was buried, to reclaim and rewrite our stories, to tell our younger selves, “You were never wrong to feel what you felt. You were not broken.”

Because those closets didn’t just hold our shame.
They held our creativity.
Our resilience.
Our survival skills.
Our private joy.
Even our love.

So, I ask my LGBTQIA+ siblings this: What’s still in your closet? What might be worth revisiting? What needs to be grieved, forgiven, or even celebrated?

Friends, our closets aren’t just metaphors.
They are sacred sites of memory. Of meaning. Of possibility.
They offer us an opportunity to practice self-compassion. An invitation for reflection, for gratitude, and for celebration of what was.

Liberation doesn’t come from leaving the closet.
It comes from going back in—not to hide, but to heal. To reclaim what we leave behind.
To gently say to those abandoned parts of ourselves: “You belong with me, too.”

"Commit to loving yourself completely. It’s the most radical thing you will do in your lifetime." – Andrea Gibson (08.13.1975 - 07.14.2025)

Rest in Power, Andrea. Thank you for holding space for both my heart and my hurt.

In community,

Chris McLaughlin, MSW, LCSW
Owner & Lead Consultant
Inspired Consulting Group, LLC