There is a strange thing that happens when you become a parent. You start revisiting moments from your own childhood. Not to relive them, but to understand them from the other side.
Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about the day I came out to my mother.
For years, I believed I understood her reaction. She accepted me. She loved me. She never asked me to change who I was. Yet I also remember the worry in her eyes. At the time, I interpreted that worry as something connected to me. Now, decades later, I realize it was never about me at all.
It was about the world.
When I came out in 1995, the Netherlands was often seen as one of the most progressive countries in the world for LGBTI+ people. Looking back, I remember feeling nervous, but I also remember believing that society was, however slowly, moving in the right direction. The future felt like it would become more open, more accepting, more equal.
If I had to come out today, I’m honestly not sure I would feel that same confidence.
That realization has surprised me.
As someone who became a father (figure), I’ve seen what it feels like to watch your child navigate a world that sometimes seems to be moving backwards. Public debates in the Netherlands around LGBTI+ people, and especially trans people, have become increasingly polarised. Online, a growing number of celebrities, influencers and public figures appear comfortable expressing openly queerphobic and transphobic views to millions of followers. Social media amplifies outrage, making prejudice feel louder, more visible and, at times, more socially acceptable.
Whether society has objectively become less accepting is something researchers continue to examine, and experiences differ across communities and generations. But what is undeniable is that many queer people once again think carefully about when it feels safe to come out, to hold a partner’s hand in public, or simply to be themselves without wondering how others will respond.
For the first time, I truly understand what my mother was carrying all those years ago.
She wasn’t grieving because she had a queer son.
She was grieving the possibility that the world might make my life harder because I was queer.
As a child, you often think your parents are worried because they don’t understand you. Becoming an adult and imagining becoming a parent myself has taught me something different. The deepest fears often come from understanding the world all too well.
My mother’s acceptance was never in question.
Her fear was that acceptance from everyone else would be.
Looking back, I also realise something else.
My mother did have questions.
Not because she doubted who I was, but because, in the mid-1990s, there was so little information available. What little existed was often sensationalised, incomplete, or open to interpretation. I felt queer men that were visible I couldn’t relate to. And gender norms and traditional patterns on masculinity were confusing. There were very few places where I could find answers and explore. Let alone a space for parents where they could simply ask honest questions without fear of being judged or made to feel they were failing their child.
While I was exploring my identity, she was navigating an entirely new role herself.
She needed a space to process her own emotions. A place where she could reflect on her fears without those fears being mistaken for rejection. Somewhere she could meet other parents walking a similar path, guided by experts and people with lived experience. A place where questions were welcomed rather than condemned.
Because every parent arrives with their own story.
Their own upbringing.
Their own culture.
Their own religion.
Their own hopes, fears and lived experiences.
Those intersectional identities shape how they understand their child’s journey, just as they shape our own. Supporting queer children also means supporting the people who love them.
After my mom passed away late January this year, I carry my mother’s love with me more than ever. She taught me that acceptance is not the absence of questions. Acceptance is choosing love while continuing to learn.
Today, I feel incredibly grateful to be a parent figure and mentor to many queer young men. Every conversation reminds me how powerful it is when someone knows they don’t have to navigate their identity alone.
As a queer person and queer-sensitive coach at Intersections, I now have the privilege of being the coach for parents that my own mother might have benefited from all those years ago.
Together with queer parent and expert coach Lesley Posthuma from Soulcrafters, we create Proud Supporters. A space where parents can reflect, ask difficult questions, and gain the knowledge, confidence and practical tools they need to support their children. We combine lived experience, professional expertise and compassionate guidance, while making room for each parent’s own intersectional identity. Their culture, faith, upbringing and personal journey.
Because every parent deserves a space to learn without judgement.
And every queer child deserves parents who feel supported enough to support them.
Because acceptance doesn’t begin in parliament.
It doesn’t begin on social media.
It begins at home.
The Dutch versions of this blog will be availble soon at the rebranded: www.intersections.nu