I have come out to my grandmother over 25 times. The first time was the most terrifying. My 83-year-old grandparents and I sat together in a small recording studio as I interviewed them about their life together, wanting to save their voices to listen back to after they were no longer here with us.
During the last two minutes of the hour we’d booked, I surprised myself by coming out to them. My grandfather responded indirectly with, “we know you will have a good life.” My grandmother, with silence.
I assumed then that would forever be our shared experience of my moment of honesty, her quiet sealed on tape, my voice shaking with shame as we closed out the conversation.