The first secret I ever kept was who I loved. It was also, in the end, one of my greatest gifts — the first step toward living my authentic life.
I grew up in Green Mountain, a quiet part of Lakewood that rolls into the foothills west of Denver. On the surface, everything looked ordinary: cul-de-sacs, weekends playing baseball, cheering for the Broncos, Sunday dinners with grandparents. But by fifth grade, I knew I was different. My heart beat faster around certain boys. It wasn’t sexual — it was longing. I just wanted to stand near them. To belong.
Growing up silently gay in the ‘80s meant growing up afraid. AIDS dominated the news and was labeled the “gay plague.” President Reagan didn’t publicly say the word “AIDS” until tens of thousands of people were already gone. Some churches called it punishment. Politicians called us immoral. Kids told jokes they didn’t understand.
But the hardest part wasn’t the hate from strangers — it was silence from people I loved. People who said, “I love you, but…” and then voted for Amendment 2 — the 1992 Colorado ballot measure that banned local governments from protecting LGBTQ+ people from discrimination in housing, employment and public life. I still remember standing alone on a Lakewood street corner with a hand-painted “No on 2” sign. Some people wouldn’t look at me. Others rolled down their windows to shout or spit. That kind of hate settles in your bones.
So I hid.
I brought boyfriends home from college and introduced them as “just friends.” I avoided anything that might label me — choir, theater, even certain friendships. I became skilled at being half-known.
Ironically, I came out publicly before I came out privately. During protests against Amendment 2 at the University of Colorado, I gave an emotional speech. News cameras filmed it. The clip aired locally, then nationally. People assumed I was gay. I hid behind, “I’m just very liberal,” because saying “yes, I’m gay” still terrified me.
I didn’t officially come out to my family until a few years later, when I fell in love with the man who became my partner for 22 years. No dramatic speeches, just quiet honesty. And to their credit, my family stayed. Imperfectly. Sometimes awkwardly. But they stayed — with love. And slowly, years of fear began to lift.
Looking back, I wish I’d come out sooner. Not because I owed the world my story, but because hiding from myself cost me things I didn’t know I was losing: creativity, authenticity, closeness, joy. Fear quietly shrinks your life.
My first kiss with a boy didn’t happen until college. His name was Blaine. It happened in a quiet dorm room at CU Boulder. No fireworks or dramatic music — just nervous laughter, cheap cologne and my heart pounding so loud I thought he could hear it. When he leaned in, I froze — not because I didn’t want it, but because I did.
For a brief moment, everything was still. No shame, no politics, just the soft truth of being seen. Innocent. Clumsy. Terrifying. And perfect.
Then the fear rushed back. What if someone finds out? What does this mean? I tucked it all back inside, but I never forgot it. It was the first time I felt a glimpse of the life I would someday be brave enough to live.
I’ve since survived a brain tumor, seizures, depression, heartbreak and now prostate cancer. None of those things broke me, but hiding did. Illness taught me life is too short to live only halfway. Being seen isn’t always safe, but being unseen was slowly erasing me from my own life — my identity, my health, my joy, my will to keep going. So I chose the light over disappearing quietly into the dark.
Coming out hasn’t been one moment, or one conversation, or even just about being gay.
It’s a practice — choosing truth over fear, again and again, so you can stay alive and connected to others. Some days, it still scares me. That little boy from Lakewood still lives inside me. But now he has a voice. He has a community. He has a home.
If I could go back, I’d tell him to remember when it hurts: “You are allowed to be who you are. You are allowed to love who you love. You are not alone — even when it feels like it. It won’t always hurt this much. And someday, you will help someone else feel less alone too.”
I don’t always get it right, but today the compass I try to follow is simple. Compassion over judgment, truth over silence, courage over comfort, love and empathy — even when it’s hard or inconvenient.
A Message to My Fifth-Grade Self
Hey buddy,
You don’t have words for it yet, but you already know you’re different. Your heart beats too fast around certain boys, and it scares you. You hide it. You hope it goes away. You worry that if anyone finds out, they’ll stop loving you.
So let me tell you what no one is saying out loud:
There is nothing wrong with you.
You are not broken. You are not bad. And you are not alone — even if it feels like it right now.
Yes, some people will be cruel — even hateful. Some will use words like “family values,” “patriotism” or even “God” to make you feel small or ashamed, to keep your voice quiet. You’ll not be alone. They’ll call it morality, even just — but it’s really fear and weakness.
They fear your happiness because they don’t know how to find their own. They fear your freedom because deep down, they don’t feel free themselves.
Some will take that fear and turn it outward — because it’s easier to name an enemy than to face the ache inside themselves, to reach out a hand to a stranger in need, or to care for the world we all share.
And yes, some will use that fear to divide us, to control what they cannot understand, or simply as an excuse to cling on to power because they can’t offer anything more.
But this is not the whole story.
Because for every voice that tries to silence you, another will quietly offer you a hand. For every wall built from fear, someone else is planting a seed — of compassion, of truth, of light.
One day, you’ll love someone openly — and he’ll love you back for 22 years. You’ll build a home. You’ll laugh, travel, grow together. You’ll also face heartbreak. Illness. Even cancer. And you will survive all of it.
So when it hurts, remember:
- You are allowed to be who you are.
- You are allowed to love who you love.
- You are not alone — even when it feels like it.
- It won’t always hurt this much.
- And someday, you will help someone else feel less alone too.
I don’t always get it right, but today the compass I try to follow is simple:
Compassion over judgment Truth over silence Courage over comfort Love and empathy — even when it’s hard or inconvenient
This isn’t weakness. It isn’t “wokeness,” (a word you’ll hear later in life) no matter who tries to use that word as a weapon. It’s strength — the real kind. The kind that builds a life and community that matters.
I see you. I love you. And I promise — it gets better.
Today, I don’t live in the shadows anymore. I am seen. I am loved. I’m not afraid to exist in the light. And I’m not done yet.
Click here to read a letter from Todd to his fifth-grade self and join the discussion on Mountain Perspectives.