Beyond "Just Tell Your Parents": What a Lock Upp Conversation Taught Me About Coming Out

"Just Tell Your Parents" Is Easy Advice. Living That Truth Isn't.

I wasn't looking for life lessons while scrolling through my phone, but one conversation from the reality show Lock Upp made me stop. During a discussion between contestant Laila and internet personality Sufi Motiwala, the topic of coming out to one's family came up. As I listened to both of them, I realised the conversation wasn't really about whether someone should come out. It was about something much deeper—the gap between giving advice and living someone else's reality.

During the conversation, Laila shared her perspective that people should not be afraid to speak openly with their families about who they are. It was a thought that many of us may relate to because, from the outside, honesty often seems like the most obvious solution.

Responding to her, Sufi explained why that advice, despite being well-intentioned, isn't always easy to follow. He spoke about the years it took him to accept himself and questioned how anyone could expect their parents to process that reality instantly when it had taken him so long to understand it himself.

That one thought stayed with me.

As someone observing this conversation from the outside, I realised how easy it is for us to advise people when we are not the ones living their reality. This isn't limited to conversations around the LGBTQIA+ community. We do it all the time. We tell people to "move on" after heartbreak, "be strong" during grief, "quit" a toxic workplace or "just talk" when someone is struggling. Most of these suggestions come from a place of care. They are rarely intended to dismiss someone's feelings. Yet there is a significant difference between caring about someone's situation and truly understanding what they are carrying.

Coming out is perhaps one of the most personal examples of that difference.

For many LGBTQIA+ individuals, coming out is not where the journey begins—it is often where years of internal struggle finally become visible to others. Before speaking to parents, siblings or friends, many have already spent years questioning themselves, trying to understand their identity, battling self-doubt and wondering how their truth will be received. Some eventually reach a place of self-acceptance, while others continue to struggle because of societal expectations, stigma or fear of rejection.

By the time someone gathers the courage to tell their family, they may have already fought countless emotional battles within themselves. Their family, however, is hearing this reality for the very first time.

That, I think, is one of the most important points Sufi made.

If it can take years for an individual to understand and accept themselves, expecting their loved ones to process that reality within a single conversation may not always be realistic. At the same time, it is equally important to acknowledge that families, too, often need time. Many parents grow up imagining a certain future for their children—one that includes marriage, grandchildren and a life that aligns with what they have always known. When those expectations suddenly change, it can be an emotional adjustment for them as well.

This doesn't necessarily mean they love their children any less. It simply means they, too, may need time to unlearn, understand and accept.

What makes this situation particularly difficult is that both journeys begin at different points. By the time parents begin processing the news, their child may already have spent years carrying that truth in silence. They are not standing at the same starting line, even though they are now expected to walk the same path together.

Another moment from the conversation stayed with me. Sufi shared that his grandmother had once told him to "at least try being bisexual" because if he happened to like a woman, everyone's life would become "sorted." Listening to that, I found myself thinking about how often such comments come from love rather than malice. Many older family members genuinely want what they believe will make life easier for their children or grandchildren. They are trying to protect them in the only way they know.

But love and impact are not always the same.

A comment intended to offer hope can sometimes make someone feel as though their identity is something that needs to change. For a person who has spent years accepting themselves, hearing that life would be "better" if they were someone else can be deeply painful, regardless of the intention behind those words.

Perhaps that is why conversations around the LGBTQIA+ community require more listening than advising. Instead of asking, "Why don't you just tell your parents?", maybe we should first ask, "What has made this so difficult for you?" That one question invites understanding instead of judgement.

There is no single timeline for coming out. Every individual has a different story. Every family responds differently. Some embrace their loved ones immediately, some need time and some continue to struggle with acceptance. None of these journeys are identical, which is why blanket advice rarely helps.

The conversation between Leila and Sufi reminded me that empathy doesn't begin with having the right answers. It begins with recognising that we don't fully know another person's reality.

Sometimes, the kindest thing we can do is stop trying to solve someone's journey and simply make space for them to tell us about it.