What gay men learn when we ask each other, ‘When did you come out?’

It usually happens within the first few minutes of meeting another gay man. After you’ve asked, or at least I ask, where you live and what you do for work, the conversation inevitably shifts to the oldest, most enduring rite-of-passage question in queer culture:

“So, when did you come out?”

It is a question that has stood the test of time. As long as there are barriers to being gay, so long as homophobia exists in this world, that question will remain relevant. It isn’t just small talk; it is the moment a new or casual relationship invites you into a common circle, a trade of sexuality origin stories meant to find mutual empathy.

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This past summer, at my apartment building’s pool, I got to know my new neighbor and his boyfriend. They are both 30, considerably younger than me. We hit it off instantly, but our friendship really started to gel that afternoon after I asked the inevitable question.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they both answered rather nonchalantly. For them, even though each had a small story behind their response, their experiences weren’t earthquake moments. They recounted their tales with casual ease. It made me realize that all my life, I’ve asked that question, expecting dramatic responses. That didn’t happen.

Then they turned the question back to me, and of course, they got a dramatic response, albeit with a bit of a history lesson.

“Thirty years ago,” I said.

Sure, they could understand that it was a defining moment, but I knew they couldn’t register that long-ago landscape of crushing chaos. To a 30-year-old in 2026, “the mid-90s” sounds like a time when dinosaurs roamed, and a time they couldn’t possibly relate to. As we sat there, whether they wanted it or not, I felt the need to explain what it was like to step forward, to partially come out, and the obstacles that made doing so quite difficult.

At least to me, coming out 30 years ago wasn’t about taking a big breath and letting it all hang out. No; it was more about trying to eke out my truth against a tidal wave of ominous circumstances.

No mainstream role models, no visible pride flags, and no widespread social acceptance on the other side of the closet door. But the heaviest weight we carried was one younger generations have thankfully never had to confront: the shadow of HIV and AIDS.

In the 1990s, telling someone you were gay didn’t just mean sharing your secret. In the public imagination, it was an immediate, terrifying synonym for a terminal illness. Saying the words out loud instantly invited suspicion that you were sick, or soon would be. It was God-awful terrible. It was such an isolating time. And when you finally did find the courage to tell a friend or family member, it was, again, at least for me, almost always followed by a desperate plea: “Please, promise me you won’t tell anyone else.”

Seeing the look on those guys’ faces was a revelation in itself. They weren’t dismissive. To the contrary, they were genuinely rapt. I don’t think anyone had ever provided them with an account of what those days, 30 years ago, were like. Particularly the “don’t tell anyone” anecdote. One of the guys told me he posted a picture on Instagram with his first boyfriend and let the adulation and congratulatory comments flow.

To me, it seemed more about the news of having a significant other than being gay.

I know that being 22 or 30 and queer today is not a walk in the park. Today’s younger generation is navigating a terrifyingly polarized political landscape, fighting religious trauma, and facing a brutal surge of hostile anti-LGBTQ+ legislation in red districts across the country. Those hurdles I faced seem to be rearing their ugly heads again.

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When my neighbors came out, they had support on their social platforms. They had visible role models on TV, in movies and politics, local and digital peer-support communities, and a mainstream culture that, at least more broadly than the one I knew, validated their right to exist.

Thirty years ago, I couldn’t even imagine a world like that.

That afternoon by the pool, I thought our friendship bridged a historical gulf. By asking that simple, timeless question, my neighbors gave me the opportunity to share the frightening secrecy of my youth. And I reveled in their ease.

On National Coming Out Day, I am sure we’ll have a flood of celebratory social media posts, public declarations of visibility, and, yes, we will no doubt read about others’ coming-out stories. And I think that is amazing, because young queer people will see the support, read the stories, and contemplate a coming-out story of their own that will last a lifetime.

National Coming Out Day shouldn’t just be a day to look forward to, nor should it be a day to dwell on the past. But it can be a national day of intergenerational listening, and of relishing the answers to each other’s questions about when we came out.

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