I founded my company in 1986. I had a diploma, no money, but a clear will: to practice this regulated, useful profession and make my place in it. At the time, the economy was already going in circles — there was talk of crisis, then recovery, then crisis again. Nothing new; but I was just starting out.

My family and friends knew I was gay. It was no secret. But I never defined myself solely through this reality. And above all, I did not talk about it in a professional setting. Not out of shame, but because in the 80s and 90s, being gay was immediately associated with AIDS, hatred, fear, and exclusion. We were denied housing and jobs. We were controlled and/or harassed by the police for no reason. We were insulted, attacked, sometimes beaten. This climate taught me to protect myself.

In school or during my internships, I hid nothing, but I said nothing either. I wanted to be judged on my knowledge, skills, work, and rigor, not on my sexual orientation. I believed, perhaps naively, that this would be enough to pave my way. But reality was more complex. Every day, I had to redouble my efforts to prove that I deserved my place, that I could excel despite the prejudices.

Sometimes clients or colleagues would ask me the question, often out of curiosity, sometimes with kindness, and sometimes with malice. I usually told them the truth. But there were particular circumstances where I refused to answer—for example, when I felt that the person was seeking something else, wanting to have a hold over me. And I sensed that they might use this information to make me do things I would never have agreed to do.

I managed to develop a solid company, a good team, and a varied, loyal clientele. I held on. I am proud that this company has 40 years of growth, 40 years of progress and innovation. But this success did not come easily. I had to work twice as hard to compensate for the prejudices, to prove that I deserved my place. Each success was a victory against stereotypes, each advancement proof of my legitimacy. These victories were all the sweeter for being hard-won, and each step forward reminded me that I deserved my place.

But today, looking back, I see more clearly what I had not wanted to see. I realize that this "tolerance" was often only superficial. I realize that I was often kept at a distance. Not in an open or aggressive manner, but subtly, almost invisibly: certain projects slipped away from me without my knowing why, decisions were made without me, conversations stopped or changed tone when I entered the room. There was a diffuse restraint, like a silent discomfort that settled in without ever being spoken. A persistent impression of being perceived as "apart." As if an invisible barrier stood between others and me.

I will try to explain why I think this.

Ten years after founding my company, I wanted to get involved in the institutions of my profession. Participate. Transmit. Share. Commit. But every time I joined a group, it ended up dissolving. People left, without explanation. And I found myself alone. I questioned my attitudes, my words, my behavior. Nothing justified these departures. I came to think that it was my mere presence—or what it represented—that was disturbing. Perhaps, unwittingly, I was the perfect excuse for them to distance themselves, to no longer engage.

Then, I finally joined several groups where I found a real place. Listening, respect, common work. But at the end of my career, I felt that my departure suited everyone. And this silence, this absence of feedback, this assumed indifference, deeply disappointed me.

With my employees, I also experienced difficult times. Some pried, asked questions, found information—and used it. These betrayals were painful because they came from those in whom I had placed my trust. One employee thought that, because we were both gay, I owed him some form of favoritism. Another, fearing his own coming out, preferred to out me. Employees used social media to denigrate me, suggesting that I was a difficult boss with women but lenient with men. All of this was false—and deeply unjust. These situations deeply hurt me because they exploited a part of me that I considered personal and intimate.

I never saw my employees or clients through the lens of gender or orientation. I always judged based on work, trust, and commitment. And it was precisely this that made these accusations all the more unjust. Another employee, with whom I was professionally close, ended up betraying me. He exploited this part of me that he knew was vulnerable. These are subtle wounds, without apparent traces. But they accumulate, slowly, deeply.

I eventually passed on my company, as I had always planned. But this transition, which I had wanted to be smooth and serene, turned out to be more difficult than expected. What should have been a natural transition turned into a power struggle, marked by a mistrust that I had not anticipated. Looking back, I can't help but think that my age, and certainly also my sexuality, played a role. Not openly, but in the background, like an unspoken subtext that weighs on interactions. I never knew the real reason. But I felt that a new frontier had been erected, without explanation.

But I understood that all this said more about who they are than who I am. I held on. I turned this difference into a strength. Even if it cost me dearly.

Today, I look back at the eras I have gone through—from the 80s to today, the discourses have changed; the laws have evolved. But in some places, the core remains the same. There will always be people ready to use what they perceive as a weakness to diminish you, to gain an advantage, to make you feel that you are not "quite like the others." Yet, despite the appearances of progress, I feel that our rights are receding. Hate speech is becoming normalized, achievements are being questioned, empathy is slowly disappearing, and tolerance sometimes seems to be just a facade. But this should not discourage us. On the contrary, it should motivate us to continue fighting, to be role models for ourselves and others.

I did not have a role model to follow. So I had to become one, for myself. And if my journey can inspire even one person to hold on, to believe in themselves, and to fight for their dreams despite the obstacles, then I will have accomplished something truly meaningful. For it is by sharing our stories, by showing our strength and resilience, that we can truly make a difference.

© 2025 Patrice Lanquetin. All rights reserved.