Alyssa McGill came of age in the mid-1990s, when former President Clinton established homophobic doctrines like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell and the Defense of Marriage Act. Both of those have since been abolished and acceptance of LGBTQ people has increased in the United States and throughout the world.
Still, the revelation that she’s a lesbian proved challenging.
“I grappled with emotions, like wondering why I didn’t realize it more fully sooner,” said McGill, who questioned her sexuality for years prior, “and if that made me less gay.”
She was married to a man for ten years before divorcing in 2018. During the pandemic, she finally came to the conclusion that she’s a lesbian, and is now in a relationship with a woman.
McGill isn’t alone in this newfound identity shift. There’s no evidenced-based research as of yet, but throughout the pandemic, a lot of people like McGill have been coming out as a different gender identity or sexuality — to themselves or others.
Several pandemic conditions may have nudged these people along this path of self-discovery. That’s not to say they wouldn’t have come out if the pandemic didn’t happen. As time passes people may grow and have a truer understanding of themself. Ultimately, however, it’s a moot point: We’ll never know what would’ve occurred if coronavirus didn’t exist.
In terms of gender identity, the number of people coming out as trans or nonbinary in the United States has skyrocketed over the past decade said Dr. Cary Gabriel Costello, associate professor of sociology and the director of the LGBTQ+ Studies Program at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee.
“Part of the sense that more people were coming out as trans/nonbinary/GNC [gender nonconforming] in the past year could be explained by that larger trend, rather than the pandemic,” he said.
Costello and other experts do believe, however, that the pandemic has engendered some sort of coming out trend. “I agree that it seems there has been a boost in the number of people coming out,” he said, “and that this relates to the pandemic.”
Isolation and self-reflection
The pandemic’s impact on us and society has been layered, and we probably won’t know the full extent of it for a long time. One COVID effect that has been abundantly clear since the start, though, is enforced and prolonged isolation.
Many of us no longer had to commute or go to offices. Happy hours and dinners and nights out stopped. For some that meant being shut in with spouses and children and family in a constant blur state, but for others that meant being completely alone for huge stretches of time.
Solitude gives room for self-reflection that some may hitherto never had. Our days were suddenly quiet, our routines slowed to a crawl. In silence “people discover things about themselves that they may have known all along, or were afraid to admit,” said Silvia M. Dutchevici, psychotherapist and founder of the Critical Therapy Center.
In this way, according to Costello, the pandemic may have accelerated the timelines of people’s self-realization. McGill believes this to be true in her case: While she questioned her sexuality long before COVID, she said it “sped along” her actualization. “The pandemic gave me a lot of downtime to reflect on what I wanted in life and what was keeping me from getting there,” McGill said.
In solitude, we don’t see anyone — and no one sees us, either. We’re forced to confront who we are when we’re alone and thus who we are in public. Are we performing? Who are we performing for?
Image: bob al-greene / mashable
An anonymous woman in Los Angeles told me she’s begun questioning her gender and sexuality after spending a ton of time alone for the first time. Prior to the pandemic, she had an active social life and was out almost every night. She also thought she was a heterosexual cis woman before the pandemic, but the time away from others had led her to wonder.
“Obviously I haven’t [gone out] at all in the last year,” she said, “and it’s forced me to think about who I am when no one’s watching.”
Others who are re-examining their identity echoed this sentiment, such as Rhiannon, a 29-year-old from South Africa, who came to terms with her queerness during the pandemic.
“I had more time to sit with myself and wrestle with my identity, because I wasn’t distracting myself with my work commute or socialising,” said Rhiannon. “I had to fully submerge myself into this long-ignored part of my brain and actually have a conversation with myself about it, ask questions without judgment, and try to figure out what queerness looks like for me.”
The pandemic quickened timelines for some, said Costello, but for others, “it probably put an end to years of denial by removing a tactic of self-distraction via social busyness.”
Rhiannon related to this denial. Her mental health “crash,” as she described it, happened after isolation and the fear of coronavirus forced her to confront feelings that she’d pretended hadn’t been there for over a decade prior.
Renhua, another person I spoke to going through this experience, came out as trans during the pandemic. They related to this pre-pandemic denial as well. “I believe if I had my usual daily distractions I would have put this thinking off longer,” they said.
Another anonymous person who’s questioned their gender in the past year said that for a long time they’ve been uncomfortable with people using male pronouns for them. After going through a breakup in October, they had time for self-reflection thanks for the pandemic, and that motivated them to think about a lot of things. Reflection, beginning to casually date again, and speaking with people they know led to the conclusion that they’re probably nonbinary. That could be chalked up to the breakup, anonymous commented, but “it’s also the case that being single and alone during the pandemic is definitely a different feeling.”
“I had to fully submerge myself into this long-ignored part of my brain”
It’s more likely that these gender/sexuality thoughts have been somewhat latent than coming up for the first time, though that can also occur. Sarah Harte, LICSW and director at mental health treatment community The Dorm, told Mashable that most people typically have ideas about their gender/sexuality, even from early childhood.
“It’s not as much necessarily ‘realizing’ it for the first time — although that probably has happened as well — but it’s about being able to hear that quiet voice inside of them or spending more time just with themselves,” said Harte. “Coming to the point of saying, ‘I do want to live within my true self and my true identities instead of feeling pressure to feel closeted.'”
This was the case for Alison, a woman in New York City, whose attraction for women came to light during the pandemic. Her four-year relationship with a man ended ten days before her office told her to work from home and the city shut down last year.
“It’s something that has been festering for years, so it’s not a complete revelation,” she said of her queerness, “but the extraordinary amount of time spent alone, without human interaction or contact, and especially after ending a close and happy hetero relationship has in some ways given me the space to realize it in a way I may have continued to ignore or suppress if it were not for the pandemic.”
Further, without being able to rebound from her breakup, she was able to mentally explore her fantasies and what she actually desired. If the pandemic didn’t happen, Alison said, she may not have realized the extent of her bisexuality because, in her words, she “would have buried those desires.”
The power of existential crises
Before the pandemic, 27-year-old Kelsea thought she was bisexual. Throughout several months last year, however, she came to the conclusion that she’s a lesbian.
“There would be nights that would keep me up saying that I don’t want to die having kept this part of myself locked away,” she said. “I was tired of trying to fit in a box.”
For many, COVID has caused literal or figurative brushes with death. When people confront their own mortality, Costello explained, it prompts them to cease delaying important steps they have planned to take “some day.”
“Longstanding cultural traditions of deathbed confessions get triggered under such circumstances, as is the advice to get our affairs in order,” said Costello. This prompts coming out.
Existential crises force us to face who we are, who want to be, and how we want to show up in the world. Kelsea began the pandemic in a relationship with a man, and now she’s with a woman.
How social media impacts identity
People have been exploring queer identities online since the internet was invented, said Costello. Over time, online spaces have become increasingly public. That’s not to say private groups and forums don’t exist anymore — they certainly do — but the trend has been towards social currency in the form of followers, which encourages public posting.
“One result of this has been greater awareness on the part of cis straight people that members of their social circles are exploring their sexual or gender identities,” Costello said. “Instead of carrying those explorations out in physical spaces away from cis and/or straight people, many individuals now carrying them out by trying out shifted gender presentations on Instagram, or tweeting out queer cultural references.”
Anonymous in LA, in her mid-30s, experienced this while scrolling through TikTok. “I started watching all these TikToks of all these really cute queer Gen Zers,” she said. She named one specific TikTok she stumbled upon, by user Tayler @worms.forbrains, featuring themself flipping from masculine to feminine outfits.
“I really relate to this [TikTok],” anonymous said. “I relate to having days where I want to wear a silk dress and then having days where I just fully am dressed like a boy.”
On Tayler’s TikTok profile, they say any pronouns work for them. Anonymous continued, “When I looked at their profile and they said ‘any pronouns,’ I was like, ‘Okay, I definitely don’t feel like a they/them — but I also kind of like this ‘any pronouns’ thing.”
More broadly, the internet has enabled access to information previously not widely available, and access to like-minded people. If you’ve never met someone queer in person, it’s easy to do so online.
During the pandemic, most if not all of our social interactions are online. This could enable people to explore aspects of their lives they’ve hidden from others or themselves, said Mary Bernstein, professor of sociology at the University of Connecticut.
Image: bob al-greene / mashable
Being forced online allowed Rhiannon to interact with fellow queer people without the potential friction of physical spaces, such as not feeling queer enough. “Because of the pandemic, I got to connect with new people who fully owned their sexual and gender identities who showed me what it could be like to be brave and fully accepting of yourself,” she said, “without the pressure of feeling like I wasn’t gay or bisexual ‘enough’ to join local queer clubs or hang out in queer bars.”
Perhaps Rhiannon discovered what social scientists have, according to Costello: That online interactions aren’t distinct from “real life.” They are just as real as face-to-face interactions, even if some elements differ.
Social media is unique from film and TV, too, because we — “regular” people — are the ones making the content. “It’s people like you and me,” said Dutchevici. “Then people are like, ‘Oh, well if they can do this, maybe I can explore, too.'”
The internet can also bring solace to people who don’t have an in-person support system, say if they live with homophobic or transphobic parents. The pandemic has been especially traumatic for these people, Costello noted. The amount of students in his LGBTQ+ Studies-affiliated course (where the majority are in the community) reporting somewhat or very bad mental health since lockdown is an alarming 65 percent.
Coming out isn’t just for teenagers
An ageist misconception is that coming out is for the “young.”
“The psychologists’ narrative that people come out as LGBTQ+ some time in their teens as a natural part of adolescence ignores the social factors that keep people from doing that,” said Costello. Those in homophobic/transphobic households, for example, may only come out after they leave said household.
Further, capitalism and patriarchy function in such a way to keep us busy, to not think beyond our routines. When we’re hustling to survive, we don’t question ourselves or society, Dutchevici noted. We don’t think of how compulsory heterosexuality and the like may have gotten hold of us; we don’t contemplate our deepest selves or desires.
This misconception was even present in those interviewed. Rhiannon said she’s still struggling with questions like, is she allowed to call herself queer if she just realized at 28? The answer is a resounding yes — but among a culture that prizes early coming out and ignores all the reasons that may not happen, it’s an understandable concern.
“I’m nearing 30 and have no actual experience with women, it’s almost like the thought of going back to grad school at this point,” joked Alison, “sounds great in theory but not sure the timing makes sense for me.” Dating after the pandemic sounds scary enough, she said, without considering exploring dating women.
“I don’t want to die having kept this part of myself locked away”
The uncertain future
It’s a weird time for all of us, let alone those undergoing these identity shifts. Flirting, dating, hooking up — it’s through these activities that people explore and figure out who they are, Costello said, and those exploring right now can’t experience them.
A common refrain is that this summer will be the “whoring 20s,” an absolute free-for-all for fully vaccinated people, especially now that the CDC deemed it okay for those to mingle up close and mask-free.
Imagining life once herd immunity is reached is exciting, yes, but it’s also anxiety-inducing. No one can say with any certainty what post-pandemic life will look like. Add a new element of your identity to the mix, and that anxiety may be compounded.
My Mashable colleague Alex Humphreys came out as trans and began hormone replacement therapy (HRT) shortly before quarantine began and described their journey as both great and terrible. “On one hand I really got to sit with my identity in this incubation period and really explore this kind of newfound gender euphoria,” they said, evoking the term describing the joy trans people can experience when living as their true gender (seen as the opposite, in a sense, to gender dysmorphia).
“On the other hand, it’s been a year since I’ve spent a good amount of time in public and I exist in those spaces very differently now,” Humphreys said. Thinking about returning to “normal” life overwhelms them because they now have to consider things like bathrooms and doctors.
“I knew the world existed in a binary before I came out and made all these choices, but now I’m really going to have to live in it and that’s scary,” they said, “and exciting.”
Anonymous in Los Angeles believes the future of her gender and sexuality journey can go in one of two directions.
“I could start dating a dude and be like, ‘That was a weird time that I was confused when I was in quarantine,'” she said, “or this could be a very real moment of clarity, and I could end up being a different person after this.”
Any fear McGill has, however, is outweighed by excitement and relief. “I’ll never regret my previous relationships, in particular my marriage that garnered my children,” she said, “but in some ways, I feel like an adolescent who is just starting to date. Everything is new and familiar at the same time.”