In honor of Pride Month and the importance of sharing our individual stories, here is a revised version of a piece I first wrote in 2013—a story of a young man coming out all those years ago.

At the end, you’ll find The Space Between: Bridging Then and Now—a short reflection on the time that’s passed since this was first written. 

You can also read Becoming (Part Two) here for more of the journey.

I believe our stories matter. They add to the fabric that ties us all together. I hope this one reaches you on some level.

Picture it: early 2000s, small town Indiana.

Becoming (Part One)

When I think, hear, or read the phrase “coming out,” I always picture Diana Ross singing that overly joyful song. In my head, the “little gay boy” dances and sings along like there’s no tomorrow. After that quick over-the-top moment plays out, I return to the serious meaning behind the phrase. In most cases, “coming out” leads to a significant memory or a life-altering story. These moments should always be treated with care. And sometimes, though I wish it happened more often, those stories come with a bit of humor too.

What follows is my coming out story, one I’ve never really shared in full detail. It’s written into the pages of my life, woven through moments of joy, heartbreak, growth, and becoming. I feel like I’m finally at a place where I can tell it and not just to look back, but to show how it shaped who I am today. And it begins with the seventeen-year-old version of me.

About twelve years ago, I came out as a gay man. That summer changed me. Until then, I had lived quietly—shy, introspective, always writing poetry as my way of coping. Some poems longed for love. Others poured out my repression, depression, and frustration. I dreamed of unconditional love. But I also carried the weight of bullying and solitude.

Still, I wouldn’t change it. Those moments taught me more than comfort ever could.

Even after finding a little confidence in young adulthood, I still kept myself hidden. My shell cracked a bit, but it didn’t shatter. I was afraid. There wasn’t one big epiphany that freed me. But I took one firm step forward, and that shift opened my heart, mind, and life. I started experiencing the world differently.

That’s when I discovered something priceless: a love and respect for myself I didn’t know was possible.

That love for myself is still one of my most treasured possessions.

Back then, in the small town where I grew up, I didn’t know any openly gay people. Not anyone I was close to, anyway. It sounds cliché, but it’s true—I felt completely alone. I wrote a poem once called “Black Bubble, Emotion Troubles” and created a piece of art to go with it in class. I remember that moment clearly. It wasn’t the darkest thing I’d ever written, but it marked a shift in me. A recognition. A spark.

Looking back, I imagine myself standing in the center of a colorful whirlwind—memories spinning around me, moments blurring into one another. I was the cause of the storm, but I was also the calm inside it. These were the moments where the art in my imagination started to become real. And no matter how much I’d imagined the future, nothing could have truly prepared me for it.

When I first confided in someone about my “secret self,” I didn’t realize there’d be no turning back. I told one person, someone I thought was a friend, and by the end of summer, many people knew I was gay. When school started, I became the punchline to the jokes I’d already lived through in middle school—only now they had confirmation. Some classmates felt entitled by this and used it as permission to be cruel.

The verbal abuse was frequent. There was even some physical abuse. One day in gym class, a student punched me in front of the teacher. She saw it happen and said nothing more than a passive word to the other student. Another time, as I walked down the aisle of the school bus, someone slapped me and made a crude comment. That walk off the bus? I dreaded it every single day. Moments like this continued to happen are hateful words continued to be thrown my way. But somehow, I kept going.

Even when things got worse, I found ways to stay grounded. I made new friends. I wrote more. I spoke up. Slowly, my confidence grew. I still had a long way to go, but I knew then that I had a choice: to fall deeper into silence or to choose a life of visibility and growth. I chose growth.

Part of that growth meant coming out to my family and others who didn’t already know. I decided to face whatever challenges came with that decision, knowing I had to do it for my own peace of mind. I needed to come out for my sanity, for my happiness, for my life to move forward.

That moment still stands as one of the most important choices I’ve ever made.

My sexuality is only one piece of who I am, but it touches every part of my life. And I’ve come to embrace that. Choosing joy, choosing to live openly, choosing to love myself completely—these have been some of the most powerful things I’ve done.

One warm summer day, I placed a letter on the seat of my dad’s truck. My parents were about to head to my grandparents’ house, and I had plans of my own. In that letter, I shared my truth. I didn’t have the courage to say it out loud just yet, so I wrote it down. My heart was racing. I was overwhelmed by both fear and relief. In that moment, everything changed.

That evening, I met with my aunt and uncle. I wanted them to hear it directly from me. We talked for some time about my identity, my life, the choices I was making to live fully. They were concerned that certain events in my childhood led to this “choice” of lifestyle. It was one of the most honest conversations I’d had at that point in my life. And I knew it mattered. That honest conversation changed their perspective. Conversations like that matter, even if they take us out of our comfort zone. 

When I returned home, my mom asked questions. My dad stayed quiet. But even through the silence and uncertainty, I felt something else—love. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, maybe it wasn’t fully understood yet, but it was there. And in that moment, I began to understand something deeper too—what unconditional love really means.

The months after that were blurry. Things didn’t unfold exactly how I thought they would. Some people viewed me differently. Some said they already knew and it didn’t change a thing. I was lucky, in a sense, because some people don’t have anyone after coming out. I remained grateful through it all. There were more positive reactions than I expected, and those moments helped carry me.

There were arguments too. Hurtful words, from both sides. Even when coming out isn’t met with hostility, there’s still a lot to navigate. There was one moment I’ll never forget. It was Christmas—my favorite time of year, a time for family and reflection. I was invited to dinner, but my partner at the time was not. I couldn’t bring myself to go. I couldn’t stand the idea of leaving someone I cared about behind because others didn’t approve and wanted to choose their comfort over being truly open and loving. I stayed home. That decision hurt, but I believed it was the right one. I hoped it would help others see, even if just a little.

In all the dealings with my coming out, there is one change that rises above all. By the influence of her parents, I had become mostly removed from my cousin Jennifer’s life. This was one of the hardest parts of my story. We had been inseparable growing up—dancing, singing, dreaming of performing together as a duo called “Us2.” Thankfully, that following summer we reconnected. One day we sat on the deck at my parents’ house, writing a song together. She was learning to play the guitar and we wanted to write a song. She sang. We laughed. It felt like no time had passed. I still have the yellow lined paper we wrote the lyrics on. We even signed it, joking that if either of us got famous, it’d be worth something.

I never imagined that moment would be one of the last times we saw each other. It was only a short time later when Jennifer passed away. The worst day of my life.

The pain of that loss is something I can’t put into words, though I’ve tried many times. I remember being in the hospital counseling room with family—holding hands, praying, hoping. When the doctor came in and said they’d done all they could, something inside me shattered. But in that same room, our hands locked together, I felt a love so deep that I carry it still. I believe Jennifer’s spirit held us all together that day.

I share this story not just because it’s a chapter in my life, but because it shaped so many others too. Jennifer’s loss brought something rare—an awakening in our family. A new understanding. A softening. A willingness to love harder. To forgive. To grow. The wounds of the past didn’t disappear, but they were painted over with love, compassion, and a desire to do better. A lesson of love was learned that day.

And I believe now, more than ever, that becoming never really ends and love is always the answer.

Remember to BE love.

The Space Between: Bridging Then and Now

It’s been nearly twelve years since I first shared this piece.

In that time, I’ve learned a lot about love—what it is, what it isn’t, and how it grows. Through it all, I found my person and got married. I’ve built a life and a business, traveled, healed, and become more grounded in who I am. And yet, I’ve also learned that becoming doesn’t always follow a straight path.

In this journey of becoming, I realized that the support and love I once believed I had from some family and friends was, in fact, not unconditional. The wounds I thought our love had painted over didn’t hold. You can try to cover them—hide the cracks, smooth the surface—but eventually, in some cases, the paint chips. And when it does, what’s underneath is often deeper than we remembered, harder than we admitted, more painful than we allowed ourselves to feel.

For years, I tried to show them the beauty of living openly, of embracing others, of listening with empathy. I shared stories, extended grace, gave them the benefit of the doubt.

But when push came to shove—when it came time to stand up for human rights, for decency, for truth—they chose silence. Or worse, they chose leaders and ideologies that harm the very communities I belong to and love.

It opened my eyes. It deepened my healing and expanded the journey of becoming who I am today.

We are at a point in time when neutrality is complicity. Silence is permission. And I have no space left in my life for those who are unwilling to stand up for others, or even just to listen and learn.

That doesn’t mean I don’t love them. I always will. But love does not require proximity. And I will not sacrifice my peace or my purpose to maintain relationships that cannot honor my humanity—or the humanity we all deserve to have seen and respected.

Maybe with enough time and shifts in life, things can change—even with the raw pain revealed beneath that chipped paint. Rebuilding is possible, but only if there’s a willingness and truth in them to change their behavior, to open their mind and heart fully for the greater good, to do the hard work of repair, to apologize—not just sweep it under the rug to ‘keep the peace.’ Because real peace doesn’t come from avoiding differences—it comes from facing them with honesty, love, and a willingness to grow.

So here I am. Still becoming. Still loving. But stronger now. Clearer. Louder.

As Pride Month begins, I want to remind you: Pride is not just about celebration. It is about visibility. It is about survival. It is about truth.

And it is always about love.

Not just for ourselves—but for all people. Every day. Not just in June.

Becoming doesn’t end when we come out. It begins there. And it continues every time we show up, speak out, and choose love over comfort.

So wherever you are in your journey—loud or quiet, certain or unsure—know this: You are worthy.

You are becoming.

And the most powerful thing you can be is yourself.

Much love,
Chad

Added bonus:

Black Bubbles, Emotion Troubles

It has rained all day

Putting me in a gloomy way

Yet, A strike of happiness hits

My mind feels like it’s in bits

I made the bubble black

Put mixed emotions on the back

Sad faces with tears falling

And hearts that are forever calling

Black bubbles,

I guess are for emotion troubles

I choose the color with no reason

Maybe it’s my mind changing with the season

Who knows, because I don’t

I always said I could, or was it couldn’t

Well whatever it may be

Some minute I will be happy

October 11, 2001