Coming out to parents who disapprove of your sexuality is hard. But feeling pressured by others to cut homophobic relatives off can be even harder. Dani Clarke explores the difficulties queer people of different cultural backgrounds face when choosing to sever (or not to sever) family ties.

“Even though I know my parents love me and sacrificed a lot for me, they’ve still done things wrong and hurt me,” says TikTok-user Onyinye, in a popular video uploaded to the app.

“But any therapist who disregards the good that my parents have done by telling me to cut them off is not going to help.”

The 21-year-old, who posts under the username @scarysappho, is talking about their experience of being told by “white therapists” to cut ties with family members who don’t support their queer identity. Onyinye, who identifies as trans masculine and a lesbian, argues that therapists who view the situation in this simplistic way fail to understand the nuances of queer people’s lived experiences, and end up making their clients feel more isolated.

The video shines a light on the fact that queer people who come from homophobic cultural backgrounds face a more complex set of challenges than the ‘average’ queer person. Not only do they open themselves up to the judgement of the world at-large when they come out, but the judgement (and sometimes rejection) of their tight-knit communities. 

Aura De Los Santos, a clinical and educational psychologist, advises young people who come from homophobic communities to be cautious about coming out for this reason.

“Try to wait a little bit, before coming out, if you know that your parents are not going to accept it,” she says. “Maybe wait until you are out of that environment. If you know that your parents or other family members are not going to accept you coming out, it's easier to deal with if you're not living with them. And, if you do come out, make some time for yourself while you allow them to digest this new data.”

While De Los Santos recommends her queer clients to approach this decision with caution, she also encourages prioritising personal happiness, which she believes comes from living as your ‘authentic self’.  

“Ultimately, we cannot please everyone, and we all have to live our own lives,” she continues. “Yes, you love your parents and want to show them respect, but at the same time, they need to allow you to live freely and happily as a human being. One of the reasons people get depressed is they feel that they can’t live their life the way they want to. Sometimes we're not going to be able to please our parents, and we need to try to live with that idea.”

But evidence suggests that non-white people can find it much harder to come out – or cut their family off – for the sake of personal happiness. 

In an essay titled, The whiteness of “coming out” for Archer magazine, Dr Asiel Adan Sanchez (a non-binary poet and GP), argues that proclaiming your queerness to the world is a privilege predominantly enjoyed by white people. 

“For many gay white men, coming out is a way of showing their true, authentic selves. It signals their belonging to a particular minority group of sexual orientation, with its own particular subculture and sense of community,” writes Dr Sanchez, referring to a 2016 study that compared the coming out experiences of white and Latino men. The latter, “on the other hand, already had a unique point of identity. By verbally coming out, they often risked alienating themselves from their ethnic communities.”

Drawing on their own experience as a Mexican, non-binary person, Dr Sanchez writes that the mainstream narratives around ‘queer visibility’ only factor in white experiences and perspectives. Because of this lack of representation, some queer people have to choose between integrating into a culture where their race isn't represented, and remaining part of a community where their sexuality is (at best) ignored.

After slowly drifting away from family gatherings and obligations, 26-year-old Zak Ryan decided to finally break himself off from his Irish relatives who disapproved of his sexuality last year. He now lives with his partner. According to Zak, who came out as gay at 14, it was the best decision he’s made. 

“I don't have any contact with my father or step dad now,” he says. “I just didn't think I could live up to what they expected of me, or fit into that masculine world. And they didn't make it easy for me to fit in. I've been lucky – a lot of people get kicked out, but my relationship with them slowly declined over the course of about five years. It got to the point where I said, ‘I'm done trying to conform to what you want me to be, I need to kind of go out on my own.’” 

Zak says his traditional Irish side of the family found it the hardest to accept his identity. “I knew from their cultural background that me being gay just wasn't something they would ever accept,” he says. “They’re very Catholic, very old school. 

“I remember going to Ireland to visit family a few years ago, and I just knew not to bring up that I was gay when I was around them. I didn't even think about talking to anyone about it. They're lovely people, but I just knew not to say anything because of that.”

Read more: The friendships that shaped me, as a queer Nigerian man

But Zak recognises that his whiteness – and the liberty he has to disinherit family members – is a privilege. “I can see how other people in more extreme situations don’t even want to bring up their sexuality to their family. I went to uni with someone who said to me, seriously, that their father would kill them if they came out as gay,” he says. “And you hear stuff like that quite a lot. So my situation is nothing compared to that, because that's awful.” 

Anyone who is part of the LGBTQ+ community knows that being able to come out is a luxury. And – if it came down to it – feeling empowered to cut your judgemental family off is a kind of luxury, too. It suggests you have the freedom to fend for yourself, whether that’s financially, socially, politically, or all of the above. 

That’s not to say cutting off one's family, regardless of racial identity, is an easy or preferable decision. But those who are not born into minority groups usually have a better shot at making it on their own without feeling the need to remain bound to their familial roots. Knowing you are probably more employable and slightly less likely to have your human rights taken away is a huge subconscious incentive to strike out on your own. And when you are represented in all aspects of culture and society, you usually don’t have to go far to find, at the very least, hope that things will turn out okay.

Despite the manifold challenges, plenty of LGBTQ+ people must eventually decide whether to withdraw from their unsupportive families and communities. Sex therapist Holly Wood, who works as a clinical sexologist at Bedbible.com, says she would encourage someone in this position to reflect on their relationship with their parents.

“Consider what specific behaviours or attitudes from your parents are causing distress, and whether these patterns can be addressed or negotiated through communication or boundary setting,” she says.

Next, consider the emotional and practical implications of cutting ties. “How might it affect your sense of identity, emotional well-being, and support system? Are there supportive friends, chosen family, or community resources you can rely on if you decide to distance yourself?” Wood asks. 

“Lastly, explore your values and goals, considering how this decision aligns with the life you envision for yourself,” she says. “It’s important to contemplate the long-term impact this choice might have on your mental health and overall happiness.”