Editor's note: Dr. Saju Mathew is a primary care physician and public health expert. He is a medical analyst for CNN. Follow him on X. Follow and Instagram @adventureswbubba. The opinions expressed in this commentary are his own. Read more opinion pieces on CNN.
CNN —
I was depressed and anxious. It was August 1999, and my residency at Grady Hospital in Atlanta was a nightmare. I had just broken off my one-year engagement to a beautiful doctor my parents had introduced me to through an informal Indian arranged marriage system, a tradition that had been in my family for generations. But I had broken off the engagement for good reason: I was gay, and I had kept this secret for years.
Photo by Don Stallings
Saju Mathew
Now, as we mark Pride Month, I remember those days of great pain and the freedom that came from coming out, and how it also marked the beginning of a long and winding road to healing and acceptance.
Coming out is a process, not an act. That process is not the same for all of us in the LGBTQ community. My coming out began in a South Indian Orthodox Christian family where I was born and raised in Nigeria, West Africa.
I was a dark-skinned, left-handed, curly-haired child – unfortunately not very desirable traits for an Indian boy. To make matters worse, I was the only child of very loving and strict Christian parents. You could say that from the moment I was conceived, my future was already planned and destined.
Arranged marriages have a long tradition in India, and although they are declining, they are still common: Research shows that 68% of new marriages in India were arranged in 2020, but by 2023, this will be just 44%.
The “system” works like this: Family and friends in the community recommend someone, you meet them, and if they're not interested, you move on to the next person – matching them based on interests, hobbies, and even career aspirations, as seen in the hit Netflix show “Indian Matchmaking.”
My whole family and cousins my age have been in arranged marriages for generations. I was the first in my family to break this tradition. And I paid the price for this truth.
In my culture, marriage is a symbol of stability and prestige, and the pressure of not being able to have children the traditional way, especially a son, and carry on the family name, always weighed on me. Being gay can be seen as very shameful and devastating in an Indian family, no matter how great your achievements.
Most Indian parents, even today, would be thrilled if their child became a doctor. India is estimated to be the largest producer of doctors in the United States. I was never forced to go into medicine, but perhaps because of my sexual orientation, I felt that becoming a doctor would be a way to make amends to my parents.
Courtesy of Saju Mathew
Dr Matthew, 8 months old, lives in Kabba, Nigeria.
I knew what was expected of me, but I also knew I was different. I felt different from the other boys in my class. Although I'd never been physically attracted to women, I'd always been close with them, especially my mother and sisters.
Ever since I was about 11 years old, I had felt there was something “wrong” with my sexual orientation, and I thought if I just prayed and focused strictly on my goals, everything would be fine.
First of all, I decided to leave Africa after high school and go to college in the United States, where I would have a much better chance of getting into a good medical school. Then I would find a way to postpone the wedding for as long as possible. This was my plan, and it got me through the difficult years that followed.
But her worst nightmare was fast approaching, and she was stuck with the excuses she'd used her entire adult life – “She's too short,” “She's not tall enough,” “Just let me get through my residency exams,” etc. Yet even as she struggled with her secret life, she was doing well academically.
After four years of hard work and a full scholarship to college, I was finally accepted into the prestigious Morehouse School of Medicine in Atlanta. After four more grueling years, I was about to begin my internship in Family Medicine at Emory University School of Medicine when my family told me it was time to get married.
I met my ex-fiancée when I had just started my first year of residency. She was finishing up her last year of medical school. I hoped she wouldn't like me on our “first date” (which, by the way, is a big deal in my culture). Unfortunately, she did like me.
Courtesy of Saju Mathew
Dr. Matthew was a medical student in Atlanta in 1998.
Our families loved each other so much, and even though we met through a very complicated and detailed network of “aunts” and “uncles,” it was as if we'd dated in college. It was such a great match. We had so much in common.
We were both born and raised outside India, busy medical residents, shared musical tastes and passionate tennis lovers. This person and family was exactly what I wanted and I was saddened that I didn't get it. It just wasn't for me.
I felt so sad and so angry at the same time. Suddenly the premise in India – “You don't marry the woman you love, you love the woman you marry” – seemed so real. I could have loved her and her family. This could have been a marriage made in heaven.
From the moment we met to our engagement, everything happened so fast, I just couldn't stop it. After meeting her a few more times, I found myself putting a ring on her finger at an engagement ceremony in India with over 500 people.
I knew I was making a big mistake. I was going to ruin not only my life but also hers and her family's life. I wanted this marriage to work – for me, for my family and for her. I wanted a big Bollywood wedding, the kind of wedding every Indian man dreams of. “Did my family and 'the system' manage to make this work?” I thought. I wanted my parents to be proud of all the sacrifices they made to bring me here. My mother even gave up her PhD studies so that she could stay home with us as a child. All these sacrifices were running through my mind day and night.
My then-fiancé moved to Atlanta in June 2000 to do his medical residency. Our wedding was scheduled for a few months later. But I couldn't take it anymore. I was racked with guilt. Then, with the encouragement of close friends in Europe who knew the truth, I was able to clear my muddled mind. I was the only one who could fix this situation. And, indeed, sometimes even the “perfect” family doesn't have the right answers.
Courtesy of Saju Mathew
Dr. Matthew prepares for the show at CNN studios in Atlanta last May. He has been a medical analyst for the network since 2020.
After a long and painful discussion that lasted until late into the night, my ex-fiance finally understood my story. At first, she was in denial and came up with all sorts of solutions for every possible problem in our marriage. But finally, we decided to end it all.
I had to tell my family the truth and at the same time try to navigate life as a medical intern. The next few years were difficult with counseling sessions, time off during training, anxiety, and the responsibility of being a therapist for the whole family. In my culture, there is a lack of support systems for these issues. It's something no one wants to talk about. It's very isolating and makes you feel alone.
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It took me decades to find the courage to write this op-ed. I hope that by sharing my story, others in similar situations will find the courage to reach out for help, seek professional help, and live their truth. We, the members of the South Asian LGBTQ community, need families to find the courage to talk about their gay children with the same pride they talk about their straight children.
Now I know for sure that God makes no mistakes. I believe we were created specifically for the challenges we must face. But in our family, we must break the mold. And that starts with difficult conversations and honesty.
Now I'm very happy with my life, and I'm so glad I had the courage to come out. Yes, I caused a lot of pain to a lot of people, but at least I wake up every morning knowing that I did the right thing.
My family has come a long way. I am proud of them. It's not easy to fight against a strong traditional culture, but this is how I made it. I wasn't perfect. I'm not perfect either. I made mistakes along the way, but this is my story. I hope and pray that some young people in Asia will have the strength to stand up and do the right thing – to live their truth.
