Coming Out

“Still Coming Out”

During rehearsals for Phenomenomaly at Meow Wolf, I became painfully aware of something I hadn’t expected to feel so sharply: I was older — much older — than anyone else in the cast or crew.

Age shouldn’t matter. And in the work itself, it truly doesn’t. But during improvisation, the differences in our references, instincts, and lived experiences were undeniable. I felt like the “one out,” the odd ingredient in the mix.

Only later did I realize that this difference didn’t separate me from the work — it enriched it. It added depth, texture, and history. But in the moment, it felt isolating.

And now, as Pride Month begins, that feeling returns in a different shape — not about age, but about the long shadow of growing up gay in a world that taught many of us to hide.

Learning to Hide Before Learning to Live

As a gay man of my generation, I learned early to tuck away the parts of myself that felt too bright, too soft, too visible. Some of us were taught directly. Some of us learned by watching. Some of us learned because survival demanded it.

I remember my mother telling me my laugh was too high‑pitched. So I practiced a “more masculine” one. Eventually, I learned not to laugh at all.

I remember my first big college audition. I thought I had dressed the part perfectly. I walked into the room and heard the director say, “Well, that one really came out this year.” I was devastated. I was cast — but I also learned, again, that fitting in might never be possible.

So I judged everything: my voice, my clothes, my gestures, my presence. And I watched my friends do the same. We shared one part of ourselves with one group, hid another part from another. Compartmentalizing wasn’t a flaw — it was a survival strategy.

But surviving is not the same as living.

My First Pride

My first Pride event was a collision of contradictions: fear and joy, angst and laughter, tears and belonging.

I spent most of the day terrified of being seen — and equally terrified of not fitting in. But somewhere between the music and the crowds and the color, something shifted. I saw people living without apology. I saw versions of myself I didn’t yet know how to be.

And slowly — painfully, beautifully — I began letting more of myself show.

Where I Stand Now

Today, I look at the people who came before me and the youth coming after, and I see a spectrum of courage. I see how far we’ve come and how far we still have to go.

Pride is not about being better than anyone. It’s about honoring yourself without shrinking.

It’s about recognizing what we endured, what we survived, and what we’re still unlearning.

I want to enjoy every part of myself without judgment — but that judgment was carved into me early and deeply. I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely free of it.

But I do know this:

I want the next generation to carry less of that burden. I want them to shine without hesitation. I want them to improvise in a room — or walk into an audition — without wondering if their laugh, their clothes, their voice, or their truth is “too much.”

Maybe Pride, for me, is this:

Letting the younger ones see the older ones still learning. Still healing. Still showing up. Still coming out — in new ways, at new ages, in new rooms.

Because sometimes the bravest thing you can do is simply let yourself be seen.