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That wound wasn't just shaped by my childhood; it was later reinforced by my time in the entertainment industry. Over time, I experienced firsthand how producers, directors, agents, and casting directors carry unspoken biases about people who have done adult work. Though it wasn't always said out loud, you can still hear it: This quiet assumption that people who have done adult entertainment are somehow not serious enough, not marketable enough. That you can't be in a family movie, or play a mainstream role, or even get cast on a reality show.

Those assumptions in entertainment industry reflect how our entire society still looks down on people who have done adult work. It treats them as less-than, or unworthy of respect. Whether it is rooted in fear, image control, or outdated morality, that bias sends a clear message that you are disqualified from being seen or celebrated in certain spaces.

A recent experience brought this home for me in a very real way. A few years ago, I was cast on the reality show The Real Friends of WeHo. After filming a few days with the crew, I felt excited and hopeful about being part of a show that was meant to highlight LGBTQ+ voices and stories. And then, without warning, I got a call saying that I had been cut from the show. I later found out from other cast members that certain people didn't want to film with me because I had an OnlyFans.

That experience became even more surreal — and, honestly, ironic — after realizing that one of the cast members who objected to filming with me actually sent me nude images of himself years before. We had even exchanged flirty messages back then. However, right before the show started filming, he blocked me on social media, and I assumed he was trying to erase any evidence of our past interactions.

It was a striking example of how people can hold you to a different standard than they hold themselves, and how quickly they will try to rewrite history when it no longer serves their narrative.

Looking back, I realize that his actions were probably driven by fear. Fear that the images we exchanged would somehow get out there. Fear that his own involvement in anything explicit would damage his reputation.

Maybe it was because we are taught from a young age that nudity is shameful or dirty. Maybe it was the influence of managers and agents, who often instill deep fear in their clients, warning them that any trace of nudity or adult content could ruin their careers. It wouldn't be the first time I heard someone say something like, "My team told me to scrub everything that showed too much skin," or "They said I had to delete anything explicit if I wanted to be taken seriously."

That kind of fear is something I know far too well.

I don't hold resentment towards him. Today, I can see that he was just as caught up in the pain of judgment as I was. At the time, however, experiencing that rejection was crushing. It was another moment when the old wound of judgment flared up, reinforcing a message I had carried since childhood: That I would never be fully accepted because of who I am or the choices I've made.

It hit me hard. I spiraled into a depression, felt rejected and unworthy, and started questioning everything about myself: My dreams, my work, and my ability to take up any space in this industry. The show, which aired for one season, received a lot of criticism and negative comments from viewers. In a strange way, seeing that helped me remember that other people's judgments were about bigger issues, not about one's worth.

Looking back, that experience was a painful but important teacher. It reminded me that real power is not in trying to please everyone or fit into someone else's mold — it's about standing in your truth, no matter who chooses to walk away.

An experience that broke my spirit also broke something open in me, making room for new feelings of self-acceptance over self-erasure. It taught me that feeling unseen by others didn't stop you from seeing yourself. That you could, and should, stand tall in your own light.

I've come to learn that we'll always be up against something. That the goalpost of what's deemed acceptable will keep moving. Years ago, it was about whether out gay actors could still get cast in projects. It then became about the "risks" of featuring trans actors and/or characters. Adult film creators being featured in mainstream media is one of several polarizing topics right now, and we'll be going up against something else tomorrow and beyond. Those lines and frontiers will keep shifting, often making us feel like our inclusion won't come without some fight.

As a cisgender white gay man, I hold a level of privilege that many in the LGBTQ+ community do not. While I have faced rejection and judgment, I also know that trans people, particularly trans women of color, face even harsher scrutiny, violence, and erasure. Drag performers are being targeted by politicians who want to ban them from reading books to children, and trans people are fighting every day just to have their basic rights, like their health and humanity, recognized. In a political climate where these communities are under constant attack, it feels more important than ever to use our voices and tell our stories. To speak up not only for ourselves, but also for everyone whose rights and dignity are under threat.

I am committed to doing that work, and part of that commitment means recognizing my privilege and making space for others who face even greater barriers. Acceptance isn't just about loving myself. It is about creating a world where we can all be seen, valued, and safe.

The solution, ultimately, isn't about chasing acceptance from the outside, or making yourself fit into a box that keeps getting re-packaged to capitalize on a moment. The real solution is internal — accepting yourself and accepting others. The solution is refusing to abandon any part of yourself just to make other people more comfortable.

Even as I learned to accept myself more fully, I still wrestled with the old wounds of judgment. Before the children's book I wrote came out, for instance, I found myself scrubbing my social media. I deleted any sensual or revealing photos, and I stopped promoting my OnlyFans. I convinced myself that people would reject me if they saw all of me, that I had to make myself smaller, and more palatable, or more appropriate. I convinced myself that the only way to be accepted as an author was to hide parts of myself that didn't fit that particular mold.

To my surprise, once the book was released, the backlash I had prepared myself for never came. Instead, I received messages from parents, teachers, friends, and strangers saying how much the story moved them. People told me they cried, and that it opened conversations in their homes, and that it reminded them of good still existing in the world. The response was filled with love.

No one questioned my intentions. No one accused me of anything. Except for one person: A former friend who I hadn't spoken to in years, shared a comment that read, "Parents beware."

That was it. One sentence. One person.

Even though we hadn't spoken in years, this person had once known me in a way that felt real. We had shared enough parts of our lives that prompted me to calling them a close friend at one point in my life. Though we had drifted apart, their words still carried weight in my mind. It didn't like the judgment of a stranger. It felt like it came from someone who knew my flaws and my dreams. It felt personal, and it brought up old fears that people who see us most clearly are usually the ones who reject us the hardest. For a moment, it made me question whether those fears were still true.

There is something deeply human about how we internalize a voice of doubt and let it echo in places that still feel tender. It reminds me how our self-worth is shaped not just by what others say, but by what we still believe about ourselves. The psychology of it is fascinating and humbling: How one small voice can tap into something much bigger inside of us. That we're still longing to be fully accepted exactly as we are.

One of the most important lessons I took away from writing My Neighbor Norma — one that Norma herself would say to me all the time — was, "Don't try to be anybody else. Just be you. Be smart."

So I am making a choice. I'm choosing love over fear.

Even in writing this and sharing it now, I can feel the fear rising. I still wonder how it will be received. But by speaking my truth, I am choosing love. Love for my younger self. Love for the man I have become. Love for the journey I'm still on.

If you're reading this and ever felt like you had to hide parts of yourself to be accepted, I want you to know you're allowed to be your entire self.

You don't have to fit into someone else's idea of what is respectable or lovable. You don't have to choose between your past and your future. You can stand in your truth, exactly as you are, and still be worthy of love.

Sometimes, the most healing thing we can do is stop asking for permission and start offering ourselves the acceptance we've been waiting for.

You are already enough. You have always been enough.

You can follow Chris Salvatore on social media by visiting his Linktree. His book, My Neighbor Norma, is available for purchase via Christopher Louis Books.

Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit out.com/submit to learn more about submission guidelines. We welcome your thoughts and feedback on any of our stories. Email us at voices@equalpride.com. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists and editors, and do not directly represent the views of Out or our parent company, equalpride.