‘The shame isn't ours': Queer voices on shedding self-doubt, reclaiming love and pride in 2025
The air feels heavier when you pause to notice the unseen burdens many carry. As an ally to the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans, Queer/Questioning, Intersex, Asexual (LGBTQIA)+ community, I always try to listen to their stories closely. In India, where the weight of tradition presses down and the scars of Section 377 linger even after its 2018 repeal, there's a struggle that runs deep – the burden of internalised shame that queer individuals have carried, often alone, through years of judgment and unspoken rules.
Now, in 2025, while progress has been inching forward, with marriage equality remaining a distant hope, the fight undeniably continues. That said, I've observed something: many queer individuals are breaking free from the deep-seated guilt, fear and shame they carried for decades; feelings that once dragged them down and defined their very being. Now, slowly but surely, these are losing their hold. And that shift, in turn, is reshaping not just how queer individuals approach romantic relationships, but how they engage with every single connection in their lives.
For some, this journey happens in stages, as Lasya Kahli Singh, 29, a singer and music producer – and a straight trans woman – explains. 'When you start transitioning, it's overwhelming. On one hand, you're excited – your body is changing, and you can finally see yourself becoming who you are. But at the same time, there's shame. Society looks at you differently. People stare, judge, and crack jokes. You feel like you're constantly being watched,' she tells me. 'And at that point, you're not even thinking about romance. You're just trying to protect yourself, survive, keep your dignity intact.'
Hena Faqurudheen, psychotherapist and CEO of Hank Nunn Institute, Bengaluru, who works extensively with LGBTQIA+ clients, explains how this shame takes root: 'Given the dearth of representation for different kinds of relationships other than the 'default' of cisgendered, heterosexual, and amatonormative relationships in Indian pop culture and media, it's no wonder that LGBTQIA+ folks begin to see their relational desires, needs, and wants as 'unnatural', 'weird', or 'shameful'.'
Amatonormativity is a term used to describe the assumption of the society that everyone pursues a central, exclusive romantic relationship, and that such a relationship (or marriage) is the primary priority for everyone, is the norm, and a universal goal.
'Once we see ourselves as 'shameful', doubting oneself is a natural progression,' Faqurudheen says.
Vikas Narula, 48, a gay man, understands this well. He runs Depot48, a queer-friendly bar and live music venue in Delhi, but the confidence he projects today wasn't always there. 'I carried the shame for years,' he tells me. Growing up in Delhi, dealing with early abuse that 'left its mark,' Vikas learned to shrink himself. His Punjabi relatives would call him 'kudiyan varga hai' – like a girl – and those words became a lens through which he saw himself. Every entrance into a room felt like walking onto a stage. 'If I was late somewhere, every eye would turn towards me, and I'd want to disappear.' Even now, public speaking makes him nervous. 'It's a subtle reminder of that feeling of being watched, of having to justify how I move through the world.'
Such early experiences echo what Faqurudheen describes as formative: 'The very first relationships in our lives – with parents, siblings, other family members – sets the stage for how we understand ourselves and what we learn about how we should be treated. We learn to see ourselves in how others treat us.'
Ankit Gautam, 35, a marketing professional in Delhi and a gay man, used to carry this weight. As a child, any exploration of his identity was 'immediately shut down.' He learned that his nature was perceived as 'wrong,' 'confusing,' and even 'unnatural'. 'There isn't much understanding of who we are,' he says.
Avijit Kundu, 46, a writer and a corporate professional, who identifies as queer, tells me, 'I faced a lot of shame and confusion while growing up. In my teenage years, there was this constant sense of being the only one like me. You feel broken, invisible, and undeserving. It was a mix of shame, guilt, and trying to survive a world that didn't see you,' he tells me. In February 2018, Avijit was fired from the school he was teaching mathematics at, allegedly for distributing copies of his then published book about being homosexual.
Ankit describes what he calls a 'second adolescence' – a period that comes after you figure out who you are while the world tells you who you should be. Avijit agrees. 'I started living authentically after I turned 30. That's when my 'teenage' finally began – exploring joy, freedom, and just being myself,' he tells me, adding, 'I didn't have the language or awareness to understand myself. I identified as gay earlier, but now I prefer the term 'queer' since it feels more expansive and empowering.
Ankit also tells me that the 'guilt' he felt – of not conforming – led him to overcompensate. 'I felt like I had to be the most brilliant person in the room to be accepted. Like I had to excel at everything else because this one part of me was fundamentally flawed.'
This pattern of overcompensation reflects what Faqurudheen identifies as a common manifestation of internalised shame: 'Feeling like a failure because one isn't conforming to the normative ideas around relationships, love, or sex, and the fear of impact on 'family honour'.'
Vash, 37, a creative consultant who identifies as a lesbian woman, describes how shame once made her shrink. 'There were phases in my early twenties when I felt like I had to shrink parts of myself – my ambition, my emotional depth, even my creativity – to be accepted. I internalised the idea that being too expressive or emotional was a flaw,' she says. 'That shame made me overly cautious in love, always second-guessing if I was being too needy or intense. I would hold back, trying to be the version of myself I thought someone else wanted, instead of just being me.'
Allan, 35, a copywriter who identifies as bisexual, offers a different perspective. 'I see shame as something society projects onto the queer community. It's not an inherent feeling, but a consequence of societal shortcomings. Shame and guilt are strategies used by patriarchy and religious institutions to confine those who wish to explore beyond conventional boundaries,' he tells me. 'I never felt ashamed of my identity, which I recognise as a privilege.'
Shame, thankfully, isn't permanent. It fades – with time, effort and support.
For Vikas, the shift began with geography. Moving to Australia meant living somewhere homosexuality wasn't criminalised. 'Just that basic fact made it easier to explore who I was without fear.' Friends became teachers, including a psychiatrist who gave him 'the language and emotional framework to stop hiding.' Then came 2016 and his partner, who changed everything. 'He came from an activist background while I was still in the mindset of 'don't talk about it – why do we need to?''
The difference between them was stark. 'He never carried shame the way I did, and that really helped me confront my own,' Vikas tells me. That confrontation transformed Depot48 into something 'proudly queer-owned.' His family embraced the change completely. Parents, sisters, their partners, niece, nephew – they all include both Vikas and his partner 'in every ritual and celebration, big or small.' When online harassment comes his way, they defend him. 'I feel seen, supported, and safe in a way I didn't think was possible years ago.'
Ankit's breakthrough came when everything fell apart. 'Life started crumbling completely,' he says, and in that crisis, he reached out to his sister. She became his anchor. 'She was incredibly supportive and accepting. That's where the real journey started.' Coming out became an act of rebellion against his own shame. 'Every time I say those words, they hold less power over me.'
He lost some friends along the way, but therapy and his 'chosen family' kept him steady. His partner, whom he first met online in 2015 and reconnected with later, is now part of family holidays. 'We're making it up as we go,' Ankit says about their relationship, acknowledging that without legal marriage in 2025, they're charting their own course.
For Lasya, the transformation came through physical change and family acceptance. 'I pass now. I can walk around, go to the gym, buy groceries – just live like anyone else. That gives you confidence.' But perhaps most crucially, 'Having your biological family behind you changes everything. You stop being in fight mode. You can just exist.'
The support from her family – her open-minded father, a doctor, emotionally intuitive mother who 'chose to love and support me,' and her understanding, accepting sister – became the foundation for shedding shame.
Vash, over time, with therapy and a supportive creative community, began letting go. 'Being in spaces where I was encouraged to show up fully made a huge difference. Surrounding myself with people who embraced emotional honesty, and who saw my depth as a strength, slowly helped me drop that weight. I started being more open in love, asking for what I needed, sharing my fears, and being okay with not being perfect. And honestly, the shift was incredible. I wasn't performing anymore; I was present. I am present NOW.'
Vash also tells me that unlearning the shame, 'has changed everything. My relationships now – romantic or otherwise – feel more rooted in honesty. I no longer feel like I need to prove my worth or hide parts of me to be loved. There's a deep sense of trust, not just in others, but in myself. I know I can be vulnerable and still be respected, I still fall, but get back up instantly. Letting go of that shame allowed love to feel less like a test and more like a space of mutual growth and safety.'
These transformations illustrate Faqurudheen's observation about healing: 'Unlearning self-doubt is a relational process. We learn to trust our instincts, thoughts, and feelings when others show mutuality and reciprocation. The process involves the risks of sharing intimacies with others; that's how we begin to trust ourselves.'
Allan's experience – of how access to resources can fundamentally change the trajectory – proves this too. 'I was fortunate to have a supportive network of friends who became like family, access to excellent queer-affirmative therapists, and financial independence by the time I came out. Therapy and community support were instrumental in reinforcing my self-acceptance. These resources helped me shed any lingering self-doubt, which in turn deepened my ability to connect authentically.'
After years of internal battles, Avijit began to accept and assert his identity openly. This internal shift brought him emotional liberation. 'The day I started understanding myself – this is you, right, you are this – after that, I was very chill with people. I started owning up.'
Avijit's transition into a more accepting corporate environment – after facing discrimination in academia – helped him thrive. He notes how environments that affirm identity can fast-track healing.
However, one shame lingers, says Avijit: ageing. 'In queer spaces, desirability is often youth-centric. You wonder, 'Am I still valuable?''
Lasya, too, acknowledges that shame 'hasn't vanished entirely'. 'You still feel like an outsider sometimes – like when your friends get married, even if it's an arranged marriage. You feel the absence of that same pathway.' She also shares how the limitations, when it comes to relationships, remain real: 'Dating in Delhi comes with limitations. Men are often focused on marriage and kids. That makes me easier to reject, even if they like me.'
Avijit has a bigger question for the society: 'We put romantic relationships on a pedestal. Why don't we talk more about friendships that save us? That intimacy matters too,' he says, adding, 'You can heal, you can grow stronger, but whether you'll find a partner or not – there's no formula. Still, you can live fully. We need to stop thinking a relationship is the only prize.'
Unlearning all the fear and shame people have grown up with doesn't happen in a day. It's slow, hard, often invisible work. As Faqurudheen emphasises, 'Self-doubt is hard to unlearn once it takes root. The process of unlearning self-doubt involves the risks of sharing intimacies with others; that's how we begin to trust ourselves – when others express resonance, validation, or even disagreement, and this usually comes when you have done the work of exploring yourself and feel comfortable in your choices and opinions,' she says.
And yet, in spite of everything, people like Vikas, Ankit, Lasya, Vash, Allan, and Avijit are doing something quietly radical. They are building spaces where love isn't whispered or hidden, an environment where it just is – loud, honest, and unapologetic.
For me, these aren't just feel-good stories. This is resistance – proof that in a world that tried to shame them into silence, they've carved out joy.
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