National Coming Out Day: The Door Is Open, The Light’s On, and Yes—I’m Still Here

Hi, I’m August, and I’m… still coming out. Daily. Like coffee. Like emails. Like that one sock that keeps escaping the dryer and showing up in your suitcase six months later.

Today is National Coming Out Day, which is part celebration, part roll call, part “Are we safe here?” radar check. If you’re brand-new to this, welcome. If you’re seventy-two and finally telling your sister on FaceTime between grandkid updates—also welcome. If you’re somewhere in the mushy middle, wave; that’s where most of us live.

Here’s the plot twist nobody put on the brochure: you don’t come out once; you come out every damn day. You come out at the doctor’s office when the form thinks your “spouse” must be a “husband” or a “wife,” nothing in between. You come out at work when people play the pronoun guessing game. You come out at Thanksgiving when an uncle says something “just joking,” and you decide whether to educate, eyeroll, or exit for pie. You come out when you’re buying cold medicine together at CVS and the cashier says, “Aww, sisters?” Ma’am. Please.

And sometimes, coming out isn’t confetti and rainbows. Sometimes it’s strategic silence. It’s choosing safety. It’s editing your weekend story because you don’t know who’s in the group chat with your selfie. I was literally at a Taylor Swift release party recently (judge me if you want; I contain multitudes and a friendship bracelet) and did the “camera dodge” like a CIA operative—not because I’m ashamed, but because I’ve worked in rooms where a photo becomes a meeting, and a meeting becomes a problem. Some closets have keypads and HR departments.

If that’s you today—if you’re still clocking escape routes and calculating risk—I see you. Your safety matters more than anyone’s timeline for your truth. Coming out is an act of courage, yes. It’s also an act of practicality. You are not less brave for choosing your moment with care.

The Tiny, Everyday Declarations

Coming out is also… mundane. It’s microscopic. It’s the little choices that stack up into a life:

• Adding your partner’s name to the “emergency contact” box without apologizing in your head.

• Saying “boyfriend,” “girlfriend,” “husband,” “wife,” or “partner” at full volume in a restaurant and not scanning the room afterward.

• Correcting the pronouns gently once, firmly twice, and after that, letting people sit in the discomfort of their own laziness.

• Keeping your rainbow on the desk even after the “What’s that for?” guy swings by.

These tiny declarations are bricks. Stack enough bricks and you’ve built a home. A real one. With a porch and bulldog farts and glitter paint—if you know, you know.

For the Newly Out (or the Newly “Out…ish”)

• You do not owe anyone your backstory to prove your identity. “Because I am” is a complete sentence.

• You’re allowed to be messy about it. (This is not a TED Talk; it’s your one wild, precious, chaotic life.)

• Find one person who says, “I’ve got you,” and believe them. Borrow their courage until yours grows back.

• Celebrate the small wins. Text a friend. Eat the cake. Buy the shirt. Wear the nail polish. Or don’t. It’s yours.

For the Already Out (and a little tired)

• Rest isn’t retreat; it’s refuel. Hand someone else the megaphone for a minute.

• Remember how disorienting your first steps were and be the soft place you needed.

• Keep your joy loud. It teaches people what’s possible.

My Why (and What’s Next)

I’ve spent the last year writing Out. Again., a book about exactly this—the unsexy, relentless practice of telling the truth about who you are, in rooms that weren’t built for it. The timing has been rude and poetic: I finished most of it on the fifteenth anniversary of my dad’s passing. He wasn’t a rainbow-flag-on-the-porch guy; he was a 5’5” Sicilian, Republican-to-the-bone, drove-a-dump-truck, smoked-on-the-porch guy. And he still loved me without conditions. He didn’t always have the language, but he showed up. That’s all I want for us—families and communities that might not get the vocabulary right on day one, but who keep showing up anyway.

Out. Again. is part memoir, part field guide, part “you’re not losing your mind, the form really is the problem.” It’s my indie era, which means I get to say the quiet parts out loud and no one gets to tell me to cut the chapter that makes executives itchy. Target release: November 1, 2025. If you want to ride shotgun, hop on the newsletter and you’ll get the first look when the cover drops and the preorders go live.

A Blessing for Today (and Tomorrow, and Tuesday at 3:17 PM)

May your truth be met with soft chairs and strong coffee.

May the room be kinder than the form.

May your voice not have to be loud to be heard.

And when it does—may it carry.

If you’re coming out today, I’m clapping for you. If you can’t, I’m holding your place in the circle until you can step in. If you’ve been out so long you forgot what the closet felt like, I’m asking you to keep the porch light on for the late arrivals.

The door stays open. The light stays on.

We’re still here. We’re still us. We’re still out—again. 💙🏳️‍🌈

— August