10 Things I Got Rid Of After Coming Out

My home used to be a carefully curated museum of a life I wasn’t actually living. The clothes I wore were a uniform, the decor was a decoy, and the entire space felt like a stage set for a character I was exhausted from playing. Coming out of the closet was the curtain call. The most tangible, cathartic part of the process was the great purge that followed — dismantling that set piece by piece.

In honor of National Coming Out Day, here are 10 things I got rid of, and how each one helped me build a home that’s finally, authentically, mine.

I had a uniform: a rotation of generic polos, safe henleys, and jeans chosen for their ability to help me blend into the background. They were less about style and more about camouflage. Donating that entire section of my closet was the first and most liberating step. Making space in my closet allowed me to discover what I actually liked to wear.

Those jeans that never quite fit right — too tight in some places, too loose in others — were a perfect metaphor. I held onto them because I thought they were what I was supposed to wear. Letting them go meant I could finally buy pants that felt good on my body, not just on my anxiety.

My old shoe rack was a monument to neutrality: scuffed brown boots, forgettable sneakers. I got rid of every pair that didn’t spark a shred of joy. Now, my footwear has personality — colorful sneakers, boots with flair —because even my steps should feel light and free. I now have several pairs of Onitsuka Tiger, which always get a second glance from passersby. 

I found a dusty baseball glove, a soccer ball from a forgotten era, and a football jersey I never wore. These weren’t hobbies; they were props meant to signal a specific kind of masculinity. Donating them to a local youth center felt like returning stolen goods. The relief of not having to fake an interest in sports is profound.

This was the cringiest category. I recycled a years-old Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue calendar I kept on the wall and finally boxed up the macho action movie DVDs I used to display prominently, hiding the musicals and rom-coms I actually loved. My shelves are no longer a lie; they’re a genuine reflection of my taste.

I had a shoebox tucked in the back of my closet containing a small Pride flag, a few meaningful letters, and other tokens I was too scared to display. After coming out, I integrated those mementos into my home. The box is gone, and the items are out in the open where they belong. A home with no hiding places is a truly free one.

I was still sleeping in my college twin bed. Subconsciously, I think I chose a bed that was too small to share because I couldn’t envision a future where I would. Upgrading to a luxurious queen-size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets I adore was an act of self-love and a declaration of hope.

I took down the “evidence” photos — like the one of me with a female date at a formal, both of us looking like politely smiling acquaintances. In their place, I framed pictures of me laughing with my chosen family, at Pride, and just being genuinely, messily happy. My walls now tell the truth.

My bookshelf was once filled with dense, “impressive” books I never read, while the novels and memoirs I truly loved were treated like a guilty secret. I donated the performative books. Now, my shelves are packed with well-loved, dog-eared favorites that actually bring me joy.

The heaviest thing I got rid of wasn’t physical. It was the low-grade hum of shame and fear that dictated so many of my choices. Letting that go changed everything. The light in my condo seems brighter now. It’s no longer a place to hide, but a place to live — openly, and without apology.