Beyond the Binary: My Journey to Embrace My True Identity
My parents were proud of our roots and their role in the community. I was their golden child, the obedient son who excelled in studies and never caused trouble. But even as a child, there was a part of me that felt like an outsider in my own skin.
I first noticed it when I was 14. My friends would spend hours talking about their crushes, exchanging stolen glances, and blushing over harmless teasing. I laughed along with them, but deep inside, I felt nothing but confusion. My gaze didn’t follow the girls in our class the way theirs did. Instead, I found myself drawn to both Aarti, with her radiant smile, and Rohit, whose voice had a warmth that lingered long after he spoke.
I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. In our town, no one talked about things like this. Boys grew up, married the girl their family chose, and built a life that mirrored generations before them. Anything outside of that was labelled as shameful, sinful even. So, I kept my feelings locked away.
By the time I turned 18 and moved to Jaipur for college, the pressure of keeping it all inside began to eat away at me. I tried to distract myself by immersing myself in studies and making new friends, but the questions wouldn’t stop. At night, alone in my hostel room, I’d lie awake for hours wondering what was wrong with me. Anxiety wrapped itself around me like a suffocating blanket. Some days, it felt like I couldn’t breathe.
Then came Aman, my roommate. He was the kind of person who seemed effortlessly happy. He loved late-night chai runs and blasting Bollywood music while we studied. He had this way of making everyone feel at ease. For the first time in years, I felt like I didn’t have to wear a mask around someone. But with that comfort came something terrifying: I began to fall for him.
It was confusing and exhilarating and utterly terrifying. I tried to suppress it, telling myself it was just admiration or friendship. But one evening, while we were sitting on the hostel terrace, sharing stories about our lives, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “I think I like you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I like you.”
The silence that followed was unbearable. My heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the distant noise of the city below. Aman looked at me, his face unreadable, and all I could think was that I had ruined everything. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t know if I understand, but I’m here.”
Those words became my lifeline.
With Aman’s encouragement, I found the courage to seek help. I reached out to a counselor in Jaipur, someone who was LGBTQ-friendly. Walking into that office felt like stepping into a spotlight, every nerve in my body screaming at me to turn back. But I stayed. And for the first time in my life, I said the words out loud. “I think I’m bisexual.”
The counselor didn’t flinch. She didn’t judge. She just listened. Over the weeks and months that followed, I began to untangle years of fear and shame. I learned that being bisexual wasn’t a flaw to fix but a part of who I was. Slowly, I started to accept myself.
But the hardest part was yet to come. Telling my family.
I dreaded it for months, imagining every worst-case scenario. My parents were traditional, their world shaped by societal expectations and rigid norms. When I finally sat them down, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold my cup of tea. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I began, my voice barely a whisper.
When I said the words, “I’m bisexual,” my mother’s face crumpled. She started crying, her tears falling silently at first and then turning into sobs. My father sat stiffly, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the floor. No one said a word for what felt like an eternity. Then my mother spoke. “Why? Where did we go wrong?”
Those words cut deeper than anything I had imagined. The days that followed were filled with silence and tension. My father avoided me, and my mother’s eyes were red from crying. I felt like I had shattered their world, and a part of me wondered if I had made a mistake.
But I didn’t give up. I started leaving articles and resources about sexuality on the dining table. I talked to them, even when they didn’t want to listen. I reminded them that I was still their son, still the person they had loved and raised. It wasn’t easy, but slowly, things began to shift.
One evening, weeks after I had come out, my father walked into my room. He sat down, looked at me, and said, “I don’t understand everything, but I don’t want to lose you.” It was the closest thing to acceptance I could have hoped for at that moment.
Today, I work as a software engineer in Jaipur. But my true passion lies in Spectrum Dialogues, an initiative I started to create safe spaces for people in smaller towns to share their stories and seek support. I also run workshops on mental health and sexuality, helping others navigate the same struggles I once faced.
My parents, who once struggled to even say the word bisexual, now attend some of my workshops. They sit quietly in the back, watching as I stand in front of a room full of strangers and share my truth. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress.
If I could go back and talk to that scared boy lying awake in his hostel room, I would tell him this. “The world will try to tell you that you don’t belong, but they’re wrong. You are more than their fear, more than their expectations. You will fall, but you’ll rise stronger every time. Your truth matters, and so do you.”
The road to self-discovery isn’t easy. It’s filled with fears, tears, and moments where everything feels like it’s falling apart. But it’s also filled with moments of triumph, with connections that heal, and with a strength you never knew you had. And in the end, it leads to the one thing that makes it all worthwhile. Freedom.
