There are some truths that take years—maybe even a lifetime—to say out loud. Not because they are shameful, but because somewhere along the way, someone convinced us they were. We learn early how to tuck parts of ourselves away. We learn to edit. To perform. To anticipate what others want from us and to deliver it flawlessly. We do it to stay safe. We do it to stay loved. We do it to survive.

But deep inside, the soul keeps whispering.

Maybe the truth you carry is about your sexuality. Or your gender identity. Or a long-held secret. Or a private pain. Maybe it is not about labels at all, but simply about letting go of who you were told you had to be in order to become who you really are.

National Coming Out Day, observed every year on October 11, honors this kind of courage.

It began in 1988, born from the conviction that silence is dangerous and that shame cannot survive the light. The year before, half a million people had gathered in Washington, D.C. for a march for lesbian and gay rights. The AIDS epidemic was raging. The government wasn’t responding. People were dying: not just from disease, but from isolation, invisibility, and hate. In response, activists Jean O’Leary and Robert Eichberg established a day that would insist on truth, visibility, and dignity. They believed that coming out—simply telling the truth about who you are—was a radical act of healing. And they were right.

Coming Out is often misunderstood. Some think it is about spectacle, or politics, or seeking attention. But for most people I know, it is about survival. It is about finally refusing to carry someone else’s fear, someone else’s shame, someone else’s theology. It is about laying claim to your own belovedness, and standing in the light of God’s mercy without flinching. It is not just brave; it is sacred.

Over the years, I have come to treasure the clarity and courage of people in recovery. I am not in AA myself, but I have learned so much from the honesty of those who are. As they say in AA, “We are only as sick as our secrets,” or as others have put it, “It’s the secrets that kill us.” I think about that a lot. I think about the way some people get to a point where they realize, If I do not name this—if I do not tell the truth—I will die. That may sound dramatic to some, but not to anyone who’s ever lived in hiding. Secrets fester. Silence isolates. Shame multiplies in the dark. But truth—however raw, however halting—is the beginning of healing.

As a priest, a parent, and a person trying every day to live more truthfully, I have come to understand that Coming Out is not a one-time event. It is a rhythm. A way of life. A call to greater authenticity that comes again and again, asking each of us: What parts of yourself have you hidden? What truth are you still afraid to say? And who might you become if you stepped fully into the light?

My own family’s journey with this has been one of the most tender, stretching, grace-soaked seasons of my life. When someone you love trusts you with their truth, it is not a challenge to your faith. It is a holy invitation to expand it. To love bigger. To trust more. To believe that God is always showing up in places you did not expect, often wearing the face of someone you thought you already knew.

National Coming Out Day is more than just a secular celebration; it is an opportunity for deep theological reflection. Do we believe the imago dei applies to everyone, or only to those who fit our categories? Do we believe Jesus meant it when he said, “The truth will set you free”? Do we trust that the Holy Spirit is still speaking through the lives of people who have been told for too long to stay silent?

I believe the Church is at its best when it listens more than it lectures, when it blesses more than it scrutinizes, and when it becomes a place where people do not have to hide. Because here’s the thing: when someone comes out, what they are doing is proclaiming resurrection. They are stepping out of the tomb of fear and into the wide, warm light of day. That is gospel. That is grace.

So if today is your day—if you are standing in front of the mirror, practicing the words, steadying your voice, deciding whether it is finally time to speak—know this: you are not alone. You are not broken. You are not behind. You are not too much or too late. You are beloved. You are brave. You are enough. And the light you carry is not a threat. It is a gift.

Let it shine.