Like many of us, I grew up in a heteronormative world. My childhood was shaped by a loving family and a large public school, but it was a place where “normal” meant having a mom and a dad, boys with girlfriends, and cream-colored khakis — certainly not the pink chinos I preferred.
There wasn’t an “out culture” where I grew up. There was no language for queerness, no blueprint for what it meant to be different. So, I did what many kids do when they don’t see themselves reflected in the world around them: I hid. I became invisible.
Psychologists call this the “invisibility cloak” illusion — the idea that we see others more than they see us. And for a long time, I thought that cloak was my superpower. I didn’t think it was necessary to detail the intimate parts of my identity. I justified this to myself by “protecting my privacy.” Until a friend of mine perpetually reminded me that the longer I hide who I am, the more opportunities I miss and the more often I would feel misunderstood.
So I gave it a shot to come out to a friend; I remember standing on the Hoboken waterfront, breath caught in my throat, heart pounding, as I told one of my closest friends, Isha, that I was gay. She jumped with joy — literally. Her response stunned me as she was one of the first people I’d ever come out to. It was a pure, uninhibited celebration. I was still processing what it meant, but in that moment, I wasn’t invisible. I was seen, loved, and safe.
College gives us the rare gift of reinvention. Of trying things, breaking things, questioning who we’ve been, and imagining who we might become. And as my time at Stevens comes to a close, I’ve realized just how sacred that freedom is.
This is not the story of an activist. This is the story of a student who finally felt like he belonged. And if you’re reading this—maybe navigating your own identity or struggling to feel seen—I didn’t write this to change the world. I’m not the first person to come out on the Stevens campus, but I’m writing this because I surely won’t be the last. For whomever comes across this article, I share here three things that helped me as I was coming to terms with myself at Stevens:
1. Explore everything; challenge your stereotypes; and find your space
I did a lot here — fencing, student government, peer leadership, fraternity life, academic research. One thing I never saw myself trying was being in a frat. I was terrified that being gay might exclude me from this space. I had a certain stereotype of what a fraternity would be and who could be in them. But, ironically, being in a fraternity became the very place where I felt most affirmed. It gave me a home to go back to every day. A house full of supportive friends and people who tried to understand. That’s all I could’ve ever asked for.
I’ll never forget what my friend Will told me once, driving back from an event: “I would never want you to be in a place where you felt you couldn’t be anything but yourself.” That moment still anchors me.
Challenge stereotypes. Defy assumptions. It’s idealistic to think every space is as welcoming. But the least you can do is have the courage to explore something you’re curious about.
2. Seek out mentors — all kinds
Tim Cook, the CEO of Apple, came out not to elevate himself, but to help others come to terms with who they are. He’s been one of my greatest inspirations and what I call a societal mentor. He’s a reminder that leadership and authenticity can and must coexist.
But mentors don’t only live on podiums or Forbes covers. Look for people who reflect parts of your identity. For me, that was Chris Shemanski and Adrian Castellanos — two LGBTQ+ leaders at Stevens who showed me that queerness and confidence are not contradictions. Sometimes you won’t even know these people closely but simply knowing they’re there if you need them will be enough. They both made me feel understood.
Then there are the everyday mentors. For me, few have invested more in my growth than Dr. Sara Klein. Her example, her care, and her belief in me became a kind of quiet lighthouse. Find people that you can look up to. People who are willing to invest in you and people who will understand you.
3. Kick the elephant out of the room to empower others
Starting to talk about your identity is so awkward. Once I started talking about my identity, I wasn’t sure who I should tell and how I should say it. I felt this odd urge to tell people I was gay, but at the same time was mortified by those conversations. Instead of feeling this need to share who I came to be, I tried to find purposeful ways to talk about my identity. For me, this was research and talking with younger students about parts of their identity they wanted to explore. Both gave me the opportunity to share my experiences in a more productive space.
So, I started creating space — sometimes in long conversations over coffee, other times with just a quiet presence of support. And for research, I’m passionate about management and strategy, and I believe identity can be a supercharger in those spaces too. Inclusion isn’t a side project; it’s a core competency. It’s something I spent two years doing research with under Professor Wei Zheng.
And yet after sharing these things, I’d be lying if I said the struggle disappears once you come out. Even now, I still battle moments of doubt — wondering if I truly belong in a community that still centers heterosexuality as default.
But what I’ve learned is this: being unapologetically yourself is simple, but not easy. It’s never been easy, and I can only hope as time goes on it gets a bit easier.
That’s why I shared names in this article. Because behind every moment of self-acceptance is someone who helped make it possible; you could say made it easier.
And to those who make space for others to belong—who listen, who affirm, who care—you matter more than words can say.
If you’re still figuring it out, that’s okay. You’re not alone. And if you’re in a place to help someone else feel seen, do it. Be the reason someone feels safe enough to take off their invisibility cloak.
Because invisibility is not your superpower. Your story is. And there’s never been a better time to be you.
