In college, a professor cautioned me that future patients would feel "much more comfortable" if I dressed and acted more "femininely." One medical school interviewer found 4 different ways to ask if I thought it would be awkward to interact with female patients as a queer woman in obstetrics. A friend warned me not to be "out" in medical school after he spent his first year tokenized as one of the few openly gay students who was consistently asked to help fill in the many curricular gaps regarding health issues affecting the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer (LGBTQ) community.None of these encounters were vicious, bigoted attacks, but together, these experiences did suggest that being visibly "out" in medicine might come at a cost. Despite spending four years in college slowly emerging from the confines of the proverbial closet, I found myself facing what I saw as a clear choice upon matriculation into medical school: I could stand up and assert my queer identity, potentially compromising my medical education and career prospects, or hide my identity to ensure approval of professors, peers, and patients, but pay for it with the loss of self.I agonized over this choice in the months before medical school, with each day bringing increasing anxiety. I thought that if I could pass as straight, I could protect myself and my burgeoning career. So that's what I decided to do. The calculations ran unrelentingly through my head, and I convinced myself that while imperfect,