I am bisexual. If that is a surprise to you, then congratulations! I have now come out to you. To be honest, I do not care if you know. I don’t care if anyone knows, as long as my parents don’t find out.
And therein lies the paradox, one that countless queer people live in.
This is not just my internal conflict; it’s a reflection of a larger societal tension that demands we navigate our authenticity while protecting relationships that may not fully embrace us.
For those of us shaped by cultural, religious or generational expectations, coming out is not a singular moment of liberation, it is a lifelong negotiation. It is a choice we make again and again, learning to live boldly in the face of uncertainty.
My paradox is interwoven with my family’s history. My parents immigrated from Sri Lanka, leaving behind everything they knew to carve out a future that was safer and more promising for my sister and me.
Their sacrifices allowed me to dream of a life that they never could, but those dreams came with a checklist: a good education, a respectable career and a husband by my side. Their vision for my life is steeped in love, but it is also bound by cultural expectations that leave little room for my truth as a bisexual woman.
For many first and second-generation immigrants, there is a constant push and pull between honoring the sacrifices of our parents and forging our own paths. For queer individuals within these communities, the stakes are even higher. Coming out does not just feel personal but like a rejection of the cultural values that have held our families together for generations.
Therefore, I exist in the paradox, and as I have sat here for many years, it has helped me ponder and redefine what love, identity and authenticity truly mean.
Yes, I wish I could be fully open with my parents and for a world where their expectations did not affect my identity. But I also know that my love for them, and theirs for me, is not invalidated by what I choose to withhold.
Love is as complex as the people who give and receive it.
This paradox invites us to expand our understanding of queerness beyond rigid narratives. Coming out has been framed as the singular moment where one earns their freedom and self-acceptance; while it is beautifully empowering for many, not everyone has the privilege to do so as fully.
As a society, we must allow and acknowledge the space for the nuance, the middle ground, the paradox.
This does not mean rejecting our traditions or dismissing the sacrifices of those who came before us. It means creating a world where those traditions can evolve, where love and acceptance can coexist with cultural pride.
Will I ever come out to my parents? Maybe. Maybe not. The truth is, I have no definite answer. The uncertainty will be stifling, but I choose to see it as part of my journey.
There is something deeply human about learning to exist in contradiction, about finding love and peace in our opposing truths. The world often paints queerness in binaries: out or closeted, authentic or disingenuous, but the truth is that most of us live somewhere in between.
For anyone reading this and also navigating the in-between, know that you are not alone, and you are not failing. You are not less queer, less brave or less deserving of love because you are making the choices that feel right for you.
You are still you, even in the paradox.