Pride Month 2025: Why Do Many Queer Indians Choose Never To Come Out?

When we think of Pride, our minds often rush to rainbow parades, bold declarations, and teary Instagram reels, people standing tall, saying, “This is who I am,” often for the first time.

But behind the glitter, the truth is quieter, messier. For many queer Indians, coming out isn’t a milestone moment at all. It’s a private decision. A series of small, necessary negotiations. Sometimes, it doesn’t happen, not because of shame, but because safety demands silence.

And that silence deserves more understanding than it gets.

The quiet shift

Pari, 29, now lives in Bengaluru. She moved there alone, found a job, and started over. “I was born a boy, but I wanted to live like a woman,” she says plainly. “So I moved to a different city and just started living that way.”

There was no coming-out speech, no dramatic confrontation. She left home and stepped into the life she had always imagined, a soft yet powerful rebellion. “I’m not coming out,” she adds. “I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.”

For many like Pari, this kind of ‘non-declaration’ isn’t cowardice. It’s an agency. In Indian households where rigid gender expectations and patriarchal control are deeply rooted, coming out can feel like inviting violence, ridicule, or abandonment. Home, for many queer Indians, isn’t always the safest place. Sometimes, freedom begins with distance.

When honesty hurts

For Vishnuu Prieya, a 27-year-old social media executive from Kerala, who identifies as a lesbian, honesty came with consequences. “My mom caught me and my girlfriend kissing,” she shares. “That moment changed everything. After that, she called me a pervert, a creep, the most disgusting human.”

There’s no anger in her voice, just exhaustion. “We’re still not on good terms. But even though it was scary, it was a relief. I didn’t want to hide anymore.”

Coming out to her family broke her heart, but lying to herself would’ve broken her spirit. “I lost people I cared about. But I also found others who made me feel seen. A didi. Some friends. They didn’t flinch. That helped.”

Still, Vishnuu is practical. “Coming out at the right time matters. You need a stable career, so you can walk away if your family doesn’t accept you. You can’t risk being homeless just to be honest.”

That sentiment echoes across India’s queer community, especially among those outside elite urban circles. Without financial security or legal family protection (especially for queer youth under 25), coming out often becomes a luxury, not a right.

When privacy is stolen

Navv, 29, Delhi, never chose to come out. His family did it for him. “I was in college, and they took my phone before an exam. They guessed the password, read my chats with boys, and found out.” What followed, he says, was a “toxic environment.”

Two years later, he moved to Greater Noida for his MBA. “Even then, my brother would check in constantly, almost like surveillance,” he recalls. But away from home, he finally encountered the LGBTQ+ community. “That’s when I became bold. I realised I wasn’t the only one.”

Today, the conversation with his family is... complicated. “They don’t really talk about it, but I try to explain it in small ways. Some of them understand. Some don’t. And that’s okay.”

His story is heartbreakingly familiar. A 2024 study by the Kerala Journal of Psychiatry found that LGBTQIA+ individuals in northern Kerala experience significant levels of depression, anxiety, and stress, often due to family rejection and societal stigma.

Don’t ask, don’t tell

In some households, the culture of silence is institutional. Cologne Doll, a drag queen who prefers to go by their online moniker, grew up in such an environment. “In my house, they follow the policy of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell,’” they say. “Whenever I’ve tried to hint, I was told, if there’s anything like that, you shouldn’t tell.”

This kind of semi-acceptance is more common than we think. Families agree to keep the peace by pretending there’s nothing to talk about. No labels, no validation, no support, just polite indifference.

But silence comes at a cost. It creates isolation, invisibility, and emotional fatigue. It forces queer people to live split lives, authentic in the outside world, closeted at the dinner table.

What Pride really means

So, what does Pride look like for those who never come out?

It looks like–Vishnuu choosing truth over comfort. Like Pari wanting to wear beautiful earrings to work each day without waiting for approval. Like Navv, who no longer hides, even if his family looks away. Like thousands of queer Indians who may never have a “coming out moment,” but still show up for themselves, in therapy sessions, friend groups, chosen families, and Instagram bios.

Pride isn’t about volume. It’s about dignity. And there is no one way to honour it.

Research supports this nuance. A 2024 study highlighted that LGBTQIA+ individuals in India face significant mental health challenges, with 36.7% reporting symptoms of depression and 21.4% reporting symptoms of anxiety.

“There is this pressure sometimes to come out, to post about it, to be visible,” says a Mumbai-based queer therapist anonymously. “But for many, being visible is dangerous. Their pride lies in surviving. In reclaiming joy, even when no one else sees it.”

To live freely

Not everyone will upload a coming-out video. Some will slowly archive old photos. Some will cry after family dinners. Some will switch cities. Some will delete texts before going home. And some, like Pari, will just quietly live the life they’ve always wanted, with no explanations offered.

And all of that… counts.

Because sometimes, the bravest thing a queer person in India can do is simply breathe, fully, freely, without permission.