Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence
– Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfunkel

As I prepared dinner tonight, I listened to a special version of Simon and Garfunkel’s Sound of Silence. It was a tribute by a band called Disturbed. Listen to it, and you’ll understand how reflective this song became to me. Search for it on YouTube, and I promise you’ll be blown away.

I lived in two worlds, carefully stitched together by the thread of secrecy. One world was the one they see—the version of me that fits neatly into expectations and doesn’t raise eyebrows or set off alarms. The other world was real, where I breathed in quiet spaces, in stolen moments, in the rare sanctuary of those who truly understood. I walked a tightrope between these two worlds, balancing survival and self, knowing that one misstep could unravel everything.

It’s not that I didn’t want to be seen. I did. Desperately. But the cost of visibility was too high. I’ve watched others pay it—observed as they were shamed, cast out, labeled deviant or misguided, and sometimes even dangerous. I’ve heard the whispers about people like me and felt the sharp edges of disapproval in conversations where those speaking had no idea they were condemning someone beside them. The message was clear: if I were known, I would be diminished in their eyes, perhaps even discarded altogether.

So, I chose secrecy. Not because I wanted to but because I had to. It was a kind of armor, a shield that allowed me to move through the world unscathed—or at least, less wounded than I might otherwise have been. Secrecy kept me employed. It kept me welcome at family gatherings. It allowed me to exist without constant confrontation, without having to justify my existence to those who refuse to understand.

But secrecy is not without its cost. It is a slow erosion, a gradual hollowing out of the soul. I feel a little less whole whenever I hold my tongue and let a false assumption stand unchallenged. There is a loneliness in being unseen, in knowing that the version of myself most people know is a shadow, a carefully curated illusion. I longed for the day when I could lay down the mask and speak my truth without fear of what it would cost me.

Yet, despite the weight of secrecy, it also had a quiet strength. There is power in knowing who I am, even if I cannot always proclaim it. There is resilience in navigating a world that demands conformity while keeping my essence intact. And there is hope—hope that someday, the world will be kinder, that the need for secrecy will fade, and that authenticity will no longer be something to be feared.

I walked this path as carefully as possible, balancing the need for safety with the longing to be free. I yearned for spaces where I could be genuine, even if they were few and far between. Looking back, I realize that I was not alone. Others must have been walking this same road, carrying their secrets, waiting for the day when the world would be ready to meet us as we are.

I held onto my truth, even in silence. Because even if it is unspoken, it is still mine.

But seriously, how does a person erase themselves to satisfy the world’s discomfort? How can one look in the mirror, see their truth staring back at them, and then spend their days pretending it isn’t there? What does it do to the soul to be told, over and over, that who you are is wrong—not because of any harm you have caused, but simply because you exist?

I often ask myself these questions as I lay awake at night. Other times, sitting by my pool, staring up at the stars, I wonder how those stars might have reflected on me differently had I not chosen silence.

Is it possible to breathe freely while holding your breath? To live fully while shrinking into the shadows? Can a person truly be whole when they must carve away parts of themselves just to be accepted?

And what does it say about a society that silently demands this erasure? What does it say about a world that forces people to choose between authenticity and safety? Between truth and belonging? Between being seen and being loved?

At what point does the weight of secrecy become too heavy to carry? When does survival at the cost of self become too high a price to pay? And most of all, why should anyone have to make that choice in the first place?

How does a person erase themselves to satisfy the world’s discomfort? How can one look in the mirror, see their truth staring back at them, and then spend their days pretending it isn’t there?

These questions have haunted me for as long as I can remember. They are not abstract philosophical musings but the beating heart of my lived experience. From childhood, I learned that being myself—truly, fully myself—was dangerous and shameful. I knew this from the offhand comments of adults, the jokes made at the expense of people like me, and how society policed bodies, behaviors, and identities. I learned that safety meant silence.

So, I became an expert in silence.

I lived a young life of careful omissions and strategic half-truths for years. I wasn’t just hiding from the world—I was managing perceptions, curating a version of myself that would be palatable to those around me. I laughed when I was supposed to. I played the role expected of me. I learned which words to avoid, which gestures to suppress, and which parts of me to keep locked away.

And in doing so, I lost myself.

How does someone truly live when they must carve away pieces of themselves to exist? I must have thought I could get by this way; I thought I could make it work. But as I grew older, I recognized that the cost of hiding was steep. 

Coming out of the closet a few years ago has helped me realize that there was a slow erosion of joy and exhaustion that came not from work or responsibility but from the constant effort of maintaining a mask. I have sensed a return of this joy, and my spirit has found a sense of peace I didn’t know I had available. I wasn’t just hiding who I was—I was negating myself, erasing myself, all to avoid shame. Screw shame.

But the thing about living inauthentically is that it doesn’t just make life more complicated; it makes it smaller. My world shrank to what was acceptable, and my relationships were shallow because I could never let anyone in too deep. And I was lonely—not because I didn’t have people around me, but because they didn’t know me.

For a long time, I convinced myself that survival meant secrecy. 

How long can someone hold their breath before they suffocate? I think it’s a fair question when I think of how I suffocated my psyche for decades.

So, I finally made a choice. A terrifying, liberating, life-altering choice.

I chose me.

Choosing to embrace who I am didn’t mean the fear disappeared, nor did it mean the shame imposed by society magically vanished. However, it did mean I stopped allowing those feelings to dictate my life.

At first, stepping into authenticity felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring into the unknown. I vividly imagined what would happen to everyone I cared about. What if I lost everything? What if the people I loved turned away from me? What if the world I had built came crashing down? These were real fears, and they still exist today.

But what if I finally felt free?

What if, instead of losing everything, I gained something I had never truly had before—myself?

The first steps were small. I let myself explore, even in secret. I allowed myself to imagine a life where I wasn’t pretending. I sought out stories of others who had walked this path before me, clinging to their courage when I couldn’t find my own.

And then, little by little, I started to speak my truth.

First in whispers, then in conversations. First to those I knew would understand, then to those I feared might not. Each time, the weight on my chest grew lighter. Each time, I reclaimed a piece of myself.

Of course, living authentically didn’t come without consequences. Some people did turn away. Some looked at me with pity, others with disdain. I lost relationships I had thought were unshakable. I encountered ignorance, cruelty, and the ever-present weight of societal judgment. I still encounter this same cruelty today.

But I also gained something I never had before: a real, unwavering connection. When I stopped performing, I found people who loved me, not the mask I had been wearing. I found a community of people who had walked this road, who knew the struggle, who offered me something I had never known before—belonging without conditions.

And most importantly, I found peace.

For the first time in my life, I could breathe without restriction. I could look in the mirror and see me. Not a disguise, not an expectation, not a compromise. Just me.

The world is still not always kind. It’s foolish to imagine it could be, I guess. I still feel the sting of judgment, the weight of shame that lingers in the corners of society. There are still moments when fear creeps in, and I wonder if it would have been easier to keep hiding.

But then I remember how much I lost when I wasn’t living as the person God made me to be. The loneliness, the exhaustion, the way life felt like something I was enduring rather than experiencing, and all the awful feelings they brought help me today with the idea that no matter how difficult this path may be, it is mine.

And for the first time, that is enough. I’m okay with it. I like me.

I have found joy in authenticity, in friendships built on truth, in moments when I no longer have to edit myself, and in the simple, profound relief of existing without apology.

I am still learning. Still growing. Still healing from years of secrecy. But I am no longer erasing myself and no longer choosing safety over truth.

Through it all, I have learned that the greatest danger was never being seen. The real me was at risk of disappearing altogether.

And I refuse to disappear.