I came out when I was 21, in 1993, shortly after my nan’s death.

After she passed away, we found a letter hidden inside a book that revealed just how lonely she had become. She hadn’t shared those feelings with any of us, perhaps because we were all caught up in our own lives. The idea that she had carried that loneliness alone, with no one to confide in, was deeply upsetting. Reading her words forced me to recognise something uncomfortable in myself — I too felt lonely, and I didn’t yet know how to understand or manage my emotions.

Growing up, I had always felt different, though I didn’t have the language to explain why. At school, that difference made me a target. I was bullied and called names like “queer” or “poof”, words that settled into me long before I understood what they meant. Although I had a small circle of friends, I never truly felt that I belonged. School felt like something to endure rather than enjoy, and I counted the days until I could leave. I went on to sixth form, but many of the same people who had bullied me were still there. It didn’t take long before I realised, I couldn’t stay, and I chose to leave and take a full-time job instead.

At 21, I met someone called D in a park — at the time, one of the few ways people like me could meet at all. Going back to his house and spending time with him marked the first time I had truly met another gay person. Through D, I was introduced to London, and I visited my first gay pub. London felt different from anywhere I had known before. It felt like possibility. For the first time, I sensed what it might be like to live openly, surrounded by others who understood who I was without explanation.

I became infatuated with him, and my thoughts seemed to circle endlessly around that feeling. There was a constant knot in my stomach — excitement mixed with fear and uncertainty. Looking back, I think that emotional intensity pushed me to do something I wasn’t fully prepared for. I felt compelled to tell Mum that I was gay, even though I didn’t quite understand why I needed to say it then. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her face to face, so instead I left a note on the arm of the chair for her to read after she dropped me off at work.

A few hours later, the phone rang while I was at work. It was Mum. She was crying and said, “Steven, it’s so dangerous.” At the time, news and television coverage around AIDS was constant, and I now understand how much fear that created. But hearing her say those words made me feel as though something about me was unsafe or wrong.

After that conversation, I felt dirty. When I got home, I went straight to my room and shut myself away, unable to speak to anyone. I was terrified that my family would see me differently now, that something essential about me had changed in their eyes. Convinced I could no longer live at home, I decided to move into my own studio flat. It was a difficult step, taken more out of fear than confidence, but it also gave me my first real sense of independence.

Over time, I was surprised by people’s reactions to me being gay — none more so than my dad’s. He simply said, “All I care about, Steven, is that you look after yourself.” His words stayed with me, offering a quiet reassurance at a time when I desperately needed it.

My mum, however, found it much harder to keep my coming out to herself. Before long, aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends all seemed to know. At the time, I felt exposed and betrayed. This was my story — wasn’t it mine to tell? Why did everyone need to know? With distance and reflection, I can now see that this was Mum’s way of coping with her own fear and confusion. I couldn’t understand that then, but I do now.

Looking back, I wish I hadn’t rushed into telling anyone before I was ready. Today, there is far more support available for people to talk openly about their feelings and to make sense of who they are in their own time. If counselling or similar support had been available back then, I don’t think I would have felt quite so alone — or felt the need to make such a hasty decision during an already overwhelming moment in my life.