That scene in my first film, I Can’t Think Straight, when Leyla manages to finally blurt out to her mother that she’s gay, was lifted from real life. Maybe the lighting was better, maybe the script and actors tied it all into a beautiful movie scene with a build up and a turn and even a zinging one-liner from the Dad when he asks what happened and Leyla tells him ‘I’m gay’ and he says ‘But I’ve only been gone two hours!” That neat bow on the moment never happened, of course. But the coming out did. And I remember most, not the moment of saying it, of making it real by uttering words into the atmosphere, but the anticipation.
Anticipation’s a big word, mind you. Dread is closer. The horror of approaching an emotional cliff and trying to force yourself to just go over the edge. See what happens.
In our modern mythology, “coming out” feels like a single, brave leap. One, undeniable truth, spoken once, with conviction, a moment that changes everything. It’s the decision to face down your worst fears of what might happen if you just admitted it. And to learn that - whatever the worst of it is - it’s rarely as bad as you imagined because at least now, you’re honest with the world. I’m aware that not everyone has that right. Not everyone has that luxury. There are countries where it’s illegal to speak your truth. Or where you can be blackmailed or coerced (an oft-used tactic by Israel against Palestinian gays, by the way).
But, usually, it’s a liberation. And I’ve come to see that ‘coming out’ isn’t something we do only once. It’s something we can practice constantly — on the page, in our work, and in our everyday lives — every time we choose honesty over silence.
People sometimes ask - when did you know you were gay?
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. I just knew. I knew for a long time. It felt right when everything else just felt like jamming a piece of jigsaw into the wrong space.
Before I ever said the words out loud, there were years of silent/silenced questions. Slow, creeping ones that surfaced in the middle of the night, when the world is still enough for truth to be heard. And for that truth to feel thrilling and terrifying at the same instant. I had a life - a privileged life - built around certainty: cultural expectations, family stories, the idea of who I was supposed to be. But truth has a way of whispering long before it shouts.
For a long time, I mistook that whisper for doubt — a phase, something I could excuse, maybe I just needed to mature! But here’s a funny thing - as a storyteller, you learn that what you suppress in yourself inevitably finds its way into your work. I could write about women who found love across impossible divides, but it took me longer to recognise that I was one of them. Honestly, I didn’t know it could ever be me. I was an introverted writer, trapped in a prescribed world, and in my own inhibitions.
Coming out is never only about desire; it’s about planting your stake in the ground and proclaiming the truth of who you are as an artist, a person, and maybe a storyteller. Because every time we tell the truth, about anything, we challenge a world built on silence.
When I first began making films, I was drawn to stories that lived between worlds — between faiths, between cultures, between what’s expected and what’s true. Back then, I hardly ever saw myself reflected on screen. I remember huddling up in my bedroom, staying up so late (ok it was 11pm but I still fall asleep at 9 given the chance!) to watch Desert Hearts on my tiny black and white TV. Stories about women like me, queer, caught between cultures, and still deserving of joy, were almost impossible to find.
The few that did exist usually ended in heartbreak or silence, as if love like ours couldn’t survive the credits. Boy, did I want to change that.
I wanted to stories where connection felt real, where chemistry wasn’t manufactured for spectacle, but built with real intention. The way two women first look at each other. The pause before a confession. The courage it takes to reach out, knowing what might be lost.
Because love, especially in the world I came from, was never simple. Growing up, the idea of being “different” carried real consequences. Family expectations ran deep — to be dutiful, to marry a certain kind of man, to fit neatly within the stories our communities approved of.
So when my characters wrestle with the pull between love and loyalty, between personal truth and cultural belonging, it isn’t theoretical. It’s personal. Many of us, whatever our cultures, grow up learning to shrink, to preserve family ties, to protect tradition, but at what cost to our own authenticity?
That’s why I wanted to write stories that didn’t just acknowledge difference, but celebrated it — that allowed women like me to love, to laugh, to find happiness without apology.
But courage isn’t always a roar. None of us are meant to carry truth alone. We need the friends, partners, and communities who remind us that confusion isn’t failure, it’s part of the process of becoming. I didn’t come out till I met Hanan, thirty years ago now. A time that would forever alter my understanding of love, courage, and what it means to truly see yourself.
This week marks both National Coming Out Day and International Day of the Girl — two reminders that visibility and voice are acts of courage. So today, I put to you that coming out isn’t only about sexuality. It’s about every girl who’s been told her ambition is too much. Every woman who’s been asked to make herself smaller. Every storyteller who’s been told her truth is too specific to matter.
Coming out is really about stepping into truth. The truth of who you are, what you believe, and what you want to create in the world. It’s also about the vision to imagine something beyond the limits of what already exists, to see yourself not through the lens of expectation, but through the endless possibilities of who you could become.
So wherever you are in your own journey — whether you’re embracing your identity, finding your creative voice, or simply daring to speak up — remember: coming out is not a single act of revelation. It’s a lifelong practice of courage.
And every time you do it, you make it easier for someone else to do the same.
With love that chose truth over fear,
Shamim
November Book Giveaway!💌
Every story I write, and every film I create, is shaped by the belief that connection and courage can change the world. So this November, I wanted to celebrate that shared spirit with a special giveaway.
For Paid Subscribers:
This November, one of my readers will win a signed copy of one of my books in our monthly draw. Paid members also enjoy:
Weekly essays and behind-the-scenes journals
Reflections on identity, heritage, and creativity
Monthly recommendations and bonus content
For Founding Members:
You’re automatically part of the giveaway and will also receive a signed book and personal note as part of your ongoing perks.
If you’ve been thinking about joining, now’s the perfect time. Your support helps me keep writing, filming, and sharing stories that celebrate courage, connection, and truth — and you might just end up with a signed book in your hands.