I had to come out to my mom twice. The first time, I guess was too subtle. I said I didn't think I was straight in between the dining room and the kitchen, and my parents both nodded contemplatively and said supportive things. But it must not have stuck because I mentioned my sexuality again a few months later during the second intermission of "The Laramie Project," a play about the murder of young, gay Matthew Shepard. The production was at my high school, and I mentioned casually that it was strange to watch something so intensely, heartbreakingly connected to the gay experience in a place where no one knew that I was gay. She looked over at me in shock: "You're gay?" I thought she was joking and I chuckled until I realized she was serious. So I came out again, just before the two of us cried through the dramatic third act of the play. She was nice about it though, despite my poor timing.

In a Media Studies intro class, the professor had the class do an exercise in casting a romantic comedy. She asked the women in class to pick an attractive guy for the male lead and asked the men to pick the female lead. Setting aside the heteronormative pretend storyline of this film, something about this made me feel weird. I offered the name of some actress when there was a long silence as the men in class couldn't think of anything, but the professor said this was a question for the guys, that they would know best what kind of look media creators would consider attractive. So I didn't say anything. I didn't come out in that class, that room full of strangers. I was suddenly filled with discomfort at being that thing no one talks about, barely even alluded to.

These two little examples are just a couple of times I have or haven't come out. All of these moments, of big and small significance weave together a story about being not-straight. Unlike Hollywood narrative and "Glee" plot lines, or iconic celebrity addresses like Ellen Page's, few people have a "One Big Moment" type of story that they can use to summarize their experience with leaving the closet. There are good and bad and funny and awful stories about coming and not coming out. And that's alright. I think it's time we start to acknowledge the faults in our cultural narrative regarding what coming out is like and what it means.

My parents have never given me a hard time about who I am and the ways that I diverge from their expectations, so I feel that I must include this caveat because I am absolutely unqualified to talk about parental rejection that many LGBTQA+ people still face. That is a part of lots of lives, though, and a part that can't be ignored or forgotten— rejection by family, friends, workplaces—any number of moments all are real and hurtful. But the stories of people who face adversity for their identities don't end at the point of hurt. Telling these stories without looking at how people move on or how to help people who can't find acceptance is an unbalanced perspective and endangers vulnerable people who need support and hope.

Another narrative we need to lose the one where a person is only a Real Gay when they're out, out, out of the closet at any cost. There is value in encouraging people to be free from fear, but this notion of not truly being a member of the LGBTQA+ community until you're out jeopardizes lots of people. People who can't come out for their safety, people who are afraid, people who could really use a community even if they aren't out in every aspect of their lives. Nobody hands you an official laminated card marking your official entry into gayness. Making coming out a credential for acceptance is unfair, as people who need it will not have access to the community they need.

Another facet of coming out is the process of self-understanding and how that plays out interpersonally, over time. For example, someone may initially come out as bisexual or pansexual but discover they are gay or lesbian. Or they may come out as gay or lesbian but move toward as bisexual or pansexual. This shifting isn't strange or indecisive or evidence of "faking" or an invalidation of their experience or identity. The same principle holds for people who identify under the trans umbrella; they may feel comfortable with certain pronouns or gendered language at one point but find that changes. These adjustments are not weird, they are part of navigating gender for people who don't fit into the binary. People change, people learn more about themselves and people are more complicated than the labels they use.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie gave a famous talk about "The danger of a single story" and her words on the subject apply here. The LGBTQA+ community is too varied for one iconic closet-exit moment to define the different experiences of so many. Also, what a waste of the many voices who all have something to contribute regarding this facet of the human condition. Let people have unique stories, let them have many stories from a lifetime of gayness.

I've come out a lot. Shyly to my college roommates, casually to a professor while discussing some interesting literature, holding hands with my girlfriend. This article. Ask anyone about what coming out was like for them and I promise they will have many, many stories of all levels of importance sprinkled throughout their lives. Don't succumb to the single story. There is so much more happening, and more worth understanding about what it's like to be LGBTQA+ in the world.