Why I Disclose My Queer Identity as a Therapist

And Why It's Become Non-Negotiable

by Lilly Risch, LCSW

I was a new therapist at a group practice, working under a prominent psychologist in the area.

On paper, everything looked perfect. In my body, I was holding tension I couldn't name.

Coming from the progressive city of Denver, Colorado, to a conservative town in rural Wisconsin, I hadn’t anticipated how stark the cultural shift would be, especially in my professional life. I quickly realized that concepts I’d once considered foundational, like gender-affirming care, weren’t universally understood or valued. I was stepping into a workplace where LGBTQ+ competency couldn’t be taken for granted.

At the same time, I was trying to navigate how to show up authentically in a profession built on relationships, all while managing my own questions about acceptance. My clientele was more conservative, and I found myself wondering every day: would they accept me if they knew I was queer? Could I do good work while hiding who I was?

The questions consumed me, and it started impacting my presence, my confidence, my ability to truly show up for the people sitting across from me. I found my thoughts drifting from my client's internal world to anxious thoughts about how I was going to respond if my client asked me something personal. It was taking me away from my clinical care.

So I did what I knew how to do—I asked my supervisor for guidance. I shared that I was struggling to know how to show up if a client asked me directly about my husband, for example.

She sat with this for a moment, reflecting on my struggle. Then she said, "You could just say you have a partner, so you don't have to say you have a wife."

She never directly said, "Don't disclose your identity." But the message was clear: Don't risk it. Don't lose them as clients. Don't make it personal.

I felt my stomach drop. The disappointment hit deeper than I expected. Never was it an option to consider how hiding myself might impact my presence in the room.

I sat with her words, trying to make sense of them. I looked up to her as a psychologist and boss, so I wanted to understand where this advice was coming from. But as I thought about it, I realized she—as a cis, white, straight female—had no clue what it was like to be a therapist sitting in a room with a client who might reject not your clinical skills, but your very identity.

She didn't understand the weight of that possibility. I knew this came from her lack of awareness rather than malice, but that didn't make it easier to sit with.

When Hiding Becomes the Problem

It started to impact my work in ways I hadn't anticipated. I found myself listening for clues in what my clients said. Waiting for something to come up that might reveal their stance on queer issues.

I realized I was carrying my own anxiety into every session, not just thinking it, but wearing it. Bracing in my body. Listening more for signs of rejection than for what my clients actually needed.

I was protecting myself when I needed to be present for them. And they could feel it, because clients always can.

As therapists, it’s important to put our own concerns aside to focus on the real work we're doing with our clients. If we're worried about our clients rejecting us or our emotional safety during sessions it can become a huge barrier to being effective in our work.

Choosing to Be Seen

I began disclosing my queer identity in the very first session with every new client. Not because it felt easy, but because continuing to hide felt unsustainable.

As a straight-passing, cis woman, I had the privilege of choosing when and how to share this part of myself. So I used that privilege with intention. I didn’t center my identity or make a statement, I just used the opportunity to establish the conditions necessary for authentic therapeutic work.

I made it casual and brought it up when it made sense. If it came up naturally, I might say something like, "My wife and I just moved here." If a client made assumptions—like, "You know how men are"—I'd respond with, "No, I don't," offering a gentle course correction without rupture.

It wasn’t about disclosure for its own sake. It was about coherence. Because when I stopped managing how my identity presented, I could be fully present in the room. And when I could be fully present, the work deepened for both of us.

The Clinical Reality

The coherence I was talking about? It's not just a feeling, it's foundational to how therapy works.

One of the core dynamics in therapy is the intersubjective space: the constant, mutual exchange between our nervous system and our client’s. We are always reading and being read. When we’re bracing for rejection or hiding essential parts of ourselves, that energy lives in the room, whether it’s named or not.

When you’re worried about being attacked, dismissed, or misunderstood, your system stays on alert. But when you’re seen and affirmed, regulation becomes possible. And when the therapist is regulated, clients can settle more deeply into their own work.

I lived through this shift. 

When I was constantly scanning for signs of rejection, my nervous system stayed activated. I was doing the work from behind a wall. Now, when I can show up authentically, my system settles. And when I’m settled, there’s more room for my clients to feel safe, vulnerable, and deeply met.

This is why visibility isn’t just personal—it’s clinical. Authenticity in the therapist shapes what’s available to the client. It’s not just about being real for the sake of it. It’s about laying the groundwork for transformation.

That’s why I no longer see disclosure as optional. For me, it’s become non-negotiable.

What I've Learned

Starting my own group practice wasn't just a career move, it was a commitment to building the kind of space I needed and didn't have. A place where therapists could bring their full selves into the room without fear that doing so would disrupt the work. Because when we're supported as clinicians, we show up more fully. And when we show up more fully, our clients can too.

Since making this shift, I've learned something that now feels undeniable: when I show up authentically, it opens the door for my clients to do the same. Some have thanked me, not because they share my identity, but because my willingness to be real made the space feel safer. More human. Less performative.

Others have expressed discomfort. Some have questioned whether disclosure from the therapist belongs in their own therapy. But those conversations became some of the most meaningful work. We were able to face bias, difference, and vulnerability directly, rather than letting them live as quiet tension in the background.

As Pride season comes around again, I am reminded that visibility isn’t just a celebration once a year. It’s protection. Always. Joy, connection, and community aren't just nice to have, they're what help us unlearn shame. And for many queer and trans people, pride is the antidote to that shame. The opposite of hiding. The opposite of fear.

That's the deeper truth here: We aren't meant to do this work, or live this life, in isolation. We're shaped in relationship. We heal in relationship. Because when we’re allowed to show up fully, we stop performing. We start connecting. And that’s when real healing becomes possible.

How Are You Showing Up?

So I'll ask you what I continue to ask myself: How are you showing up authentically in your work? What parts of yourself are you still protecting in session? And what would change if you stopped?

The work of creating authentic therapeutic spaces doesn't just happen, it happens when we're willing to be real, to have hard conversations, and to build the kind of practices and communities where showing up fully isn't just allowed—it's expected.