The Kind Point December 3rd, 2024

Coming Out Is a Progressive Verb

Hi! I'm Jeff, if you're reading this, it's because I view you as someone I'd want to sit down over matcha and chat about life with. I'll be sending this newsletter out every few weeks or so. If it's not your jam, feel free to unsubscribe, I won't be offended!

Ever felt a little impatient that your direct report, or your kid, isn’t getting it fast enough? You’re waiting for them to change and they’re Just. Not. Doing. It. FAST. ENOUGH?

I feel that way a lot. From my perspective, the change that needs to happen is obvious, and the person is just being stubborn.

But I’ve also been the stubborn one. I wanted to take a moment to report out from that side of the fence. Not so that you lower your standards or give up, but so that as your understanding increases, your ability to help them make the change does, too.

I began inching out of the closet in my mid-20s. I first whispered it over the phone to my friend Shane when I told him that I had a crush on Martin, a guy in my men’s group. Shane was kind. Curious. He listened with empathy and an open mind. Even though I knew he would do all those things, I still felt that specific kind of terror reserved for moments when you begin something that you can never unbegin.

I’d been trying to tell myself for over a decade.

“Jeff,” a voice would say to me. “Come on. If we look back at your life—”

“I’m not,” I’d say, then fog my mind so that my future would stay unclear.

“It’s gross,” I’d say, then swallow all the anxiety and go about my day.

“They’ll kill you,” I’d say. That usually did the trick. Who wants to be killed?

It worked until I got to high school. So I started getting drunk on as many weekends as possible. That lasted until my junior year in college. I hated the hangovers, and the payoff stopped paying off. I turned my long-distance swim workouts into an obsession, seeing how far I could push myself. Could wear myself out. Eventually, I was just tired all the time. Once again, no payoff. Later, I even dated an amazing woman for a year. She’s still one of the best people I know.

None of it was right.

One Friday afternoon, as I drove my mom to our friends’ cabin, a young driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel drifted into our lane and hit us.

We survived. My mom, just barely.

From there on, many things ended.

And I began making progress.

The men’s group.

The whispered conversation with Shane.

Another phone chat with my friend Jenny, who also listened to me kindly.

Then I tried telling myself. Again. But this time, I listened the way Shane and Jenny had.

I told a few more people. Some conversations went badly. Like, textbook badly. God-sin-disgusting badly. I agreed with them and went back in the closet.

Then inched back out again.

Martin, the guy in my men’s group, told me he liked me. We began a lovely relationship.

It took me over a year to tell my family.

One day I realized that I’d lost track of all the people in my life who still didn’t know. And I didn’t care. That was a funny kind of relief.

So when people ask me, “When did you come out?” I notice that the question doesn’t feel right. Not offensive. Just inaccurate.

I didn’t come out. I inched forward, retreated, hid, tried again a little farther. Fled. Told the truth. Lied. Practiced.

In the Greek paradox known as the Ship of Theseus, every single part of a boat is replaced over time. The thought experiment is to decide if it is still the same boat, even though it retains none of its original materials.

Of course you could argue, “You’re not the same, Jeff. Everything’s changed.” This is true. Surviving a violent car accident, telling trusted friends, having my first same-sex relationship. All of that changed me. Irrevocably.

And yet the part of me who steadfastly refused the truth still resides in me.

Maybe I’ll solve that mystery another day.

For now, I can tell you that coming out is a progressive verb, the kind with an “ing” ending. There isn’t a big sexy headline. Or a date in the calendar.

There are just tiny moments of progress. And all those microscopic moments eventually cumulate into a transformation.

In short, if it seems like your direct report, or your kid, isn’t changing, remember: they might be.

And if the person you’re most impatient with is yourself, the same rules apply.

Put down the search for a sexy headline. Instead, pay attention to the teeny-weenie changes. Look backwards and see if you can trace the boards in the ship that are new or find the spots where the old ones are missing.

Progress.

Something Kind

What I'm Reading ​ What I'm Reading ​The Art of Gathering​ by Priya Parker Read this whenever you are putting on a meeting, dinner party, or planning to overthrow the universe. ​Buy it here.​

What I'm Enjoying ​Social Media Talents​ Why limit one's range to one talent when wearing a horse head while playing the accordion with your hands and the toilet seat with your feet could take it to the next level? ​See it here.​