I love my 17-year-old son more than anything, and that will never change. He came out to us about a week ago. We both cried, and I made sure he knew this doesn’t change how I feel—he’s still my son, and I love and accept him completely.
He was so happy afterward, and that made me happy too. But I’ll be honest—there’s still a part of me that feels off, and I hate that. I’ve never really been around gay people before, so seeing him with his boyfriend—even just holding hands at dinner—felt unfamiliar. Not wrong, just… different. And that difference stirred up feelings I wasn’t prepared for.
It’s not how I pictured him, and that’s what fills me with guilt. He was glowing at dinner, so happy to be himself, and that’s what I want more than anything—for him to feel loved and safe being who he is. I’d never want him to know I’m still struggling internally.
I’m sharing this because I want to work through it. He’s still the same amazing kid, and I just wish my heart would catch up with my head already.
First, I just want to say: thank you for your honesty. Sharing the messy middle of this process—the part most people keep to themselves—is incredibly brave. And also? It’s exactly what good parenting looks like.
Let’s start with this: there is nothing wrong with you. You’re not a bad parent for having feelings that surprise or unsettle you. You’re a human parent. And human parents don’t magically shed all their expectations, unconscious biases, or internal narratives just because they love their child unconditionally. They work through them. And that’s what you’re doing. That’s love in action.
It makes total sense that you’re experiencing dissonance. We all build unconscious blueprints of who we imagine our children will be—based on our culture, our experiences, our own upbringing. When reality diverges from that internal picture, it can feel jarring. That jolt doesn’t mean you don’t love your son. It just means you’re grieving the loss of a version of your child that never actually existed. That grief is not incompatible with celebration. Both can live in the same emotional house.
And here’s the part I really want you to hear: your son is not hurt by your internal process—he’s protected by your ability to process it on your own. The fact that you’re doing this work quietly, without projecting it onto him, is deeply loving. You’re creating the psychological safety he needs to thrive.
When unfamiliar things feel “off,” our nervous systems notice. Not because something is bad, but because it’s new. That doesn’t mean we act on those feelings or assign them moral weight. It just means we acknowledge them, explore them, and let them evolve. You’re doing that. That’s growth. And your heart? It will catch up.
Let me offer you a reframing you might try when these feelings arise:
“This feels unfamiliar to me—and that’s okay. My job is not to understand every detail of my son’s experience. My job is to love him and to become someone who continues to expand my capacity to hold space for who he truly is.”
That’s the kind of parenting that changes lives.
You don’t need to get it perfect. You just need to stay connected—to your son and to yourself.
You’re doing beautifully. Keep going.