Today, on National Coming Out Day, we honour the stories of 2SLGBTQIA+ individuals from rural Alberta and small cities like Medicine Hat, where openly affirming spaces remain few and far between. Many adults in these areas face heightened risks of homelessness, poverty, and mental health struggles due to a lack of supportive resources. Transgender and gender-nonconforming people, in particular, experience disproportionate challenges, including severe poverty, homelessness, and barriers to mental health and substance use support. The stories shared today come directly from members of the Prairie Pride Guild, showcasing both the struggles and triumphs of coming out in smaller communities.
SafeLink Alberta is proud to offer affirming, compassionate support to the Medicine Hat community. Our dedicated staff provide system navigation, guiding individuals through housing, healthcare, and social services. Your donations directly support these crucial services, helping us ensure everyone can access a safe and welcoming space. We extend our heartfelt thanks to the Prairie Pride Guild for sharing these powerful stories and for their commitment to 2SLGBTQIA+ inclusion in rural Alberta. Donate Here to help us continue this vital work.
“You have to take it all at the pace that works for you and listen to your own feelings. Ultimately, your life has no rules other than live it for yourself.”
“Coming out is a process. Sometimes, people think it’s an event – but really, it’s a marathon. Coming out isn’t something you do once and then never again. It’s something that you do sometimes daily. It can be exhausting. I first knew that I was queer around when I was 7 years old. The exact time, again, is not really a one-time event – more of a process. The first time I said it out loud to myself wasn’t until I was 14 years old. At that time, I said it very casually: “I think I like boys and girls.” I said this in a diary entry I hoped no one would ever find.
I told my friends when I was 16 years old. Everyone was going around and explaining which celebrity they had a crush on. I chose a female celebrity, mentioned it quickly, and my eyes darted around to see if anyone would acknowledge it. Your queerness can be a suit that you have to try on a few times to see how it fits. Maybe you’re bisexual for a while, maybe you’re gay for a while, a lesbian afterwards or, in my case, the descriptor “queer” suits me best.
I came out to my parents in the same way that I did with my friends. In a way, this was much too casual. I had my partner over; they were meeting my parents for the first time. I said to my parents, “This is [—], and we are engaged.” That was the first time that I had told my parents that I was queer, let alone that I was getting married. I regret telling them that way because I didn’t give my parents any space to understand or digest this. At the time, it was a challenge. I was challenging my parents — almost daring them — to say something about it. They didn’t say anything, but in the same way I wouldn’t accept their criticism, I also didn’t give them the chance to give me praise, or understanding. It wasn’t a time in my life where I could accept either of those things.
Altogether, I have probably come out to people 400 times. Maybe even more. I came out to the plumber on the phone, who asked me if my husband had turned off the hot water tank. Well, sir, no husband here. At times, you decide you don’t want to come out; you smile and nod when someone assumes your straightness. It’s the “norm,” after all; you can’t necessarily blame them. But wouldn’t it be nice if we left the assumptions at the door?
I have come out within four seconds of meeting someone. I have come out on television. I have come out in writing, in person, on film, on a podcast, to a group of 300 people at an event, and sometimes, I don’t come out at all. I have an imaginary “husband” that I use at coffee shops or grocery stores or late at night when I don’t feel like being queer – or worse when it’s not safe to be. It makes me feel ashamed that I don’t want to be out. Really, though, it’s not that I don’t want to be queer, it’s that I want to be safe and understood. If I feel uncomfortable, I practice self-preservation. I hope one day, the world is a safer and more caring place so I don’t have to do that. Maybe one day I can hold a funeral and retire my fake husband. Coming out is a marathon, but there’s no winning the race, and there’s no right or wrong way to do it. You have to take it all at the pace that works for you and listen to your own feelings. Ultimately, your life has no rules other than live it for yourself. “
– Submitted by Anonymous
I do experience some guilt and shame for not living fully out and proud because I know that visibility helps our community. But this political climate and landscape has become more inhospitable for gender and sexual minorities. I hope and long for a day when none of us need to be scared to be who we are – when the joy of finding ourselves isn’t tarnished by fear.
Anonymous
“It took me many years to realize who I was, and since I have come out to my partner, a boss, friends, and some acquaintances, but I feel like the most important person I came out to was myself.”
Before you can come out to the world, you must first come out to yourself, which can be very difficult in a world that assumes us all to be cisgender and heterosexual. When I was growing up, no one spoke about the possibility of being trans. There was conflict at home when I wanted to build model cars with my dad instead of playing with dolls with my sisters. I expressed the desire to play baseball and was told it was for boys, but I could play softball instead. I was adamant that I didn’t want to play with the stupid girls, that I, in fact, belonged with the boys, but of course, it was softball that I was enrolled in. The phrase, “You better make sure she knows she’s a girl,” still goes through my head. Words spoken from my mother to my father.
As I got older, my body started to betray me. My budding chest made it harder for me to play sports. I hated the way my clothes started to fit me. In my 20s, I had a partner who picked out my clothes and accessories to make me more feminine. I went along with it because that’s what women are supposed to do. At the height of my femininity, when I spent over an hour every day doing my hair and makeup and putting on the right costume, I was consistently referred to as sir. Someone asked my boss, “What even are they?” in reference to me, within earshot. I felt like a failure. And worse than that, I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror or in photos. I couldn’t recognize this stranger; I couldn’t find myself. Did I even exist?
That relationship ended, and I slowly stopped conforming to gender norms. First, I shaved off my hair, and then I stopped shaving my body. I moved to the country where I found gender norms to be much more slack. I slowly stopped wearing makeup and feminine clothes. I felt so much more confident and comfortable just existing as a person. I started to talk openly about the distress my body caused me.
It wasn’t until I was in my mid-30s, watching a TV show with a trans person, that my thoughts and feelings started to make sense. He spoke of his childhood growing up as a girl and how he longed to wear his brother’s clothes. I found the things he was saying relatable and thought strange. So I turned to Google to search for how someone knows if they are trans. I read many other stories that are very reminiscent of my own. I looked up online gender dysphoria quizzes and took 10 in a row… I was shocked, but also, so many things in my life were making sense now!
It took me many years to realize who I was, and since I have come out to my partner, a boss, friends, and some acquaintances, but I feel like the most important person I came out to was myself. I am not living fully openly trans, however, and as I have been on T for over a year now and moved to a new place, I pass pretty consistently, so I do enjoy the comfort and privilege of being stealth in certain spaces. It is a scary time to be trans, and I fear for my safety in certain environments. I do experience some guilt and shame for not living fully out and proud because I know that visibility helps our community. But this political climate and landscape has become more inhospitable for gender and sexual minorities. I hope and long for a day when none of us need to be scared to be who we are – when the joy of finding ourselves isn’t tarnished by fear.
– Submitted by Anonymous
Help Us Open Tomorrow’s Doors Today
“I didn’t like that the concept of ‘coming out’ felt very othering.”
“I was in my 20s before I realized that I think I felt attraction toward women, and in looking for a community that I could feel safe to explore those thoughts and feelings with, I met a woman whom I fell in love with. As this was the first person I felt love for, and as I dated men in the past, I thought that meant I must be a lesbian.
As things progressed in our relationship, the topic of meeting family came up. I decided that I didn’t want to ‘come out’ to my family, or anyone for that matter, because it made it seem like my attraction to her and our relationship was abnormal and needed a disclaimer or explanation. Being homosexual may be a minority experience for humans, but it is still perfectly within the sphere of normal animal behaviour/psychology, and I didn’t like that the concept of ‘coming out’ felt very othering. In the past, I had taken a couple of boyfriends home to meet the family, and I never had to sit down and have a big discussion about it beforehand, so I treated my family meeting my girlfriend in the exact same way as if she was a man. To me, this normalized our relationship. In reality, even though I never did the coming out troupe in a big way with family and friends, I still came out in 100’s of little ways just through my everyday casual interactions with people.
That relationship ended after some years, and in time, I met a man whom I fell in love with. This was very confusing for me as I previously thought I was a lesbian, now I prefer the label queer. Even though I am now in an opposite-sex relationship, the constant small instances of coming out still haven’t stopped, and it feels like when I do express my queerness, it isn’t always taken seriously. People have asked why I refer to him as partner instead of boyfriend or husband because “partner is a word that gay people use”. Or they express obvious shock when I casually talk about my past and mention my previous same-sex partner. I have sometimes felt like I have lost a piece of my identity and that people no longer see me for who I really am.”
– Submitted by Anonymous
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