Contributor: Rhowen del Rosario
“The real ‘coming out’ is an inside job.”
Let’s be honest: most of the time, we are taught to keep secrets. For family, for reputation, and for keeping the peace. That habit was passed down through generations to prioritize harmony over some messy truth. So, when Pride Month comes around, saying, “Be free!” on our social media feeds, we can’t help but wonder—what does freedom even mean when we’ve spent a lifetime perfecting the art of hiding?
We tend to talk about “coming out” as this one-time kind of liberating moment, or the final episode of your personal teleserye where you finally tell the world who you are—the end. (Spoiler alert: That’s a lie, or at least it’s not the entire story).
For most of us, the revealing of our true selves isn’t a public announcement; it’s a quiet and internal shift. And for me, who was raised in a house where the play was already rehearsed—a good daughter who follows the straight lines and has no ad-libs. The casual homophobia of it wasn’t just background noise; it was the rulebook that told you exactly who you should be and not to be.
So, you improvise. You memorize the lines. You create a version of yourself that is acceptable and digestible. And I would have to say my version was fine. I was even believable. The straight woman navigating the beats of life. Though it wasn’t a complete lie—my attraction for men was real, however, it was the half-truth.
And the most suffocating part was being surrounded by love that was directed at an impostor. The applause for the role you’re playing feels good for a minute until you’re alone, and the silence is deafening. The point is, the ultimate Filipino irony is to be so deeply connected to the community, yet you feel completely alone in your own skin.
The quiet work of coming home
My breakthrough wasn’t a grand speech or public announcement. It was the slow, painful, and freeing work of building a home inside myself. It was the quiet rebellion of telling myself, “I’m bisexual” in the dark until it stopped sounding less like a dirty word and more like a plain truth. It was me, finally meeting myself to… myself.
And that’s the thing we need to talk about more. The real work isn’t going to be giving everyone a front-row seat to your identity. More often, it’s about taking your seat and being the first person in the room to accept you.
So, forget the question, “Is it necessary for me to come out?”.
Let’s ask this instead: “Am I ready to come home?” Because the still and personal moment in which you look in the mirror and no longer see a stranger—that’s the only validation that really matters.
That’s the real work, and that’s the actual pride.
