TikTok Helped Me Come Out — What Happens If It's Banned?

When I joined TikTok in 2019, I still had not come out of the closet. It sat on the edge of my mind, a tangible ache that I would neither acknowledge nor poke at for fear of the flood that would inevitably occur when taking down that wall. I was in my early twenties at the time, and was used to this nagging feeling. After all, it had followed me for as long as I could remember.

It wasn't until I found other women on TikTok who said what I had been thinking and feeling for most of my life that I was able to find the courage to unlock that part of myself. So as TikTok prepares for a shutdown in the US on Jan. 19, I wonder how other marginalized folks like me who have found community through the app will be affected. The first TikTok I saw about being bisexual, I clicked not interested, closed my phone and repeated the same words to myself I had for years, but now there was that ache at the back of my head — the other part of me that was tired of being dormant.

I discovered women who explained what I could not for so many years. Women who shared their own experiences in response to the age-old queer questions: "How did you know you liked girls?" and "Do I want to be friends with her, or be with her?" Women who said that, yes, they are attracted to men, that they have loved men, and that they have felt all of this for women as well. They spoke about the differences between loving a man and loving a woman. I began to understand that the thing that makes me love is not what their gender is, but who they are. For the first time in my life, I recognized this part of me I had tamped down was not only alive in others, but celebrated, loud, and impenitent in its beauty.

I found femme women who are also chameleons and understood what it is like to walk in this specific skin, who know that it feels like a costume when people assume you are straight. I heard bisexual, pansexual, and queer women talk and joke about the deep exhaustion that comes from being overly sexualized for simply being able to love anyone.

I can only imagine how much longer I would've embodied my identity had I found these TikTok creators earlier in life. I grew up attending a Catholic school in southern New Jersey and was in the eighth grade when a teacher said, "The church doesn't hate gay people, I don't hate gay people. There is nothing wrong or bad about being gay, but it is clear that a husband and a wife is what God intended." Ah, Catholic guilt.

In high school, I had limited interactions with queer people. There was one student that everyone called by his name, with the prefix "gay," and Ellen Degeneres was the only queer woman celebrity I could name. The only other memorable mentions of queerness came from white suburban mothers leaning across a table and saying something along the lines of, 'I heard she's, you know."

Years later, I was attending college in Manhattan and I still had not come out. I only articulated my confused thoughts once to a curly-haired blond who is still one of my good friends. Although I was in one of the most diverse cities in the world, I had no idea what to name the feeling I had for the girl in my Romantic poets class or the one who went to the same gym as me. Often when these feelings cropped up, I found myself doused in shame, telling myself I was being dramatic, that it was a phase. I felt as though I was living with a thick layer of oil over me, an overwhelming anguish sitting heavy on my chest. I was drowning in internalized homophobia for years — and who would have thought it would be an app that would finally throw me a life vest?

By the time I began to date openly, I was following many LGBTQ+ creators I found on TikTok. I was no longer afraid to go to queer events or to hide queer media I enjoyed. I was surrounded, in a digital sense, by people who were so openly proud to be queer that I almost forgot there were people who thought this kind of love was not beautiful. I not only felt safe but understood as other LGBTQ+ people spoke of what they had gone through in their own lives.

I truly believe it would never have been possible to accept myself if not for downloading a silly app — one that connected me to individuals I recognized myself in, who pointed me to books, TV shows, and artists that helped me bridge the gap inside myself. I know I'm not alone in finding this community, self-acceptance, and celebration on TikTok specifically.

As its future hangs in the balance, I wonder where these intimate connections will go and how future ones will form if the app is banned. I worry that if the ban does take place, there could be queer people who feel uncertain or rattled, similar to the way I did before I found community. Either way, I'll hold the good parts with me. After finding peace with myself after coming out, I was able to create a group of like-minded individuals in the real world who recommend the media that I might enjoy, that I might recognize myself in. They are friends with whom I will always feel safe with because they understand a part of my identity innately — one that I was able to love when I learned it was not bad, not bad at all, from people who thought just like me, most of whom I found on an app.

Lucia Bailey is a writer and artist based in Manhattan. She's a graduate of Fordham University and received a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing from The New School. In addition to PS, her work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Elite Daily, and more.