The Weight of Internalized Queer Shame

In this blog, I want to explore how internalized queer shame robs us of our connection to ourselves, to others, and to life. It’s important to distinguish internalized queer shame from internalized homophobia.

Internalized homophobia is the fear of identifying as queer. This fear is natural and very appropriate in some places in the world, and even in some parts of our society here in Canada, where I live. Identifying as a queer person can still result in consequences in one’s career, social circles, and family rejection. There are still many hubs of deep, deep pathologizing of queer orientation, making it appropriate sometimes to have a reasonable fear of identifying as a queer person.

But internalized queer shame is different. It’s not just the fear of identifying; it’s the fear of being. This distinction is vital when it comes to healing internalized queer shame and understanding how it hijacks our joy, especially in moments that should feel celebratory, like the holidays. Whenever we are in the realm of the fear of being, we are in the realm of shame because shame rejects our very essence, our very being.

That Christmas morning, my shame manifested as a paralyzing inability to participate in the simplest of rituals – opening gifts with my family. I wasn’t just anxious or depressed; I felt hollow as if I had lost my connection to my own soul.

The Polished Persona and the Hidden Pain

On that Christmas morning, the weight of carrying this secret had become too much to bear. I was tired of the constant sense of self-rejection, self-criticism, self-judgment, and self-shaming, so I simply couldn’t open my gifts.

And as Christmas day carried on and I carried on with the festivities and the parties and the gatherings with friends and family, rising to the occasion with my persona, being involved, doing the cooking or cleaning or whatever it was needed to be done, engaging with my children, still, my presents sat under the tree. And every time I looked at them, I wanted to weep. For me, it was a Christmas season spent in hell.

I was living a curated, successful life on the outside, but inside, I was suffocating.

Living in a Hell of Isolation

Hell isn’t fire and brimstone. Hell is the isolation we feel when we are disconnected from ourselves, from others, and from the world. That Christmas, I was living in hell. Whenever my wife or children asked why I hadn’t opened my gifts, I’d deflect: “I’ll get to them later.” I made jokes, threw up defenses, and tried to focus on the “true meaning” of Christmas—family, friends, togetherness. But inside, I was numb.

I had come to that place in my life where I didn’t believe that I was worthy of those gifts under the tree. It didn’t matter how successful I was or what I had accomplished.

It didn’t matter how talented I was.

It didn’t matter how many students or staff or families I had helped, how many friends turned to me in times of crisis or need in their lives.

None of it mattered; neither did I.

None of it could make up for this deep sense of being unworthy, unacceptable.

For many queer folks, the holiday season amplifies this sense of disconnect. That’s why coping with shame during the holidays is a vital part of mental health conversations in our community.

Christmas with the Gifts I Couldn’t Accept

As we moved past New Year’s and the time came to take down the tree, my wife gently confronted me. She told me that my refusal to open my gifts was affecting everyone—her, our children. I knew she was right, but I had no words to explain the depth of my shame. There was no logic to it.

Internalized queer shame isn’t rational—it’s a full-body experience. It consumes the mind, heart, and soul. It’s like disappearing.

And when my wife at the time bravely confronted me with the impact that this was having on my family, that I wasn’t able to open my gifts, I felt frozen. I knew in my head that this was irrational, but that didn’t make one bit of difference to how I felt.When I finally forced myself to open the gifts, it felt like a hollow act. I said, “thank you,” but the words rang empty.

As I share this story now, I feel a deep sadness for the way shame robbed me of my ability to experience joy, connection, and self-worth.  And a sadness for how it robbed those who genuinely cared for me, valued me and wanted to celebrate me of the joy of experiencing their love received.

Even surrounded by love, the internal narrative of unworthiness persisted, reminding us why therapy for LGBTQ+ self-worth is about more than just managing symptoms. It’s about learning to receive love as we are.

Stepping Inside a Place I Was Conditioned to Fear

I took in the cathedral, read that sign, and my body went, “Ugh!” I could feel the familiar feeling of constriction; visiting the cathedral was the last thing in the world I wanted to do, so I kept walking.

A few steps later, something shifted in my body—a settling in the soles of my feet—and I thought, “No, I’m going to go in.” I turned around, walked those few steps past the sign, and up the steps of the cathedral.

Opening the door, it was as all big Roman Catholic cathedrals are beautiful. Every time I step through the doors I am always struck by the artistry, the craftsmanship which creates a feeling of awe in me, that I am entering a different world.

It was a little bit after noonish, and the cathedral was almost empty—five or six people, maybe scattered throughout.