Supernatural Coming Out Stories: Parallels Between Coming Out as Magical and Coming Out as Queer

I’ve always thought it was kind of hilarious that so many supernatural stories feel like a metaphor for being queer, even when the author swears up and down that they “didn’t mean it that way.” Like—really? You wrote a whole book about a teenager hiding a secret from their family, terrified they’ll be rejected if the truth comes out, and you didn’t see the queer parallels? Uh-huh. Sure.

Whether it’s discovering you’re a vampire, a witch, a shifter, or some kid who can suddenly throw fireballs with their hands, the beats line up almost perfectly with queer coming-out narratives.

The First Time I Noticed It

I still remember when the lightbulb first went off for me. I was watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer as a teenager, and Buffy had that moment where she confessed to her mom about being the Slayer. Joyce’s response—“Have you tried not_being the Slayer?”—landed like a punch in the gut. I had _heard that exact tone before when a relative asked me if I could just “try harder” to like girls. And suddenly I realized: oh wow, these shows aren’t just about demons and fangs. They’re about us.

That realization stuck with me, and now every time I read or watch a supernatural story, I can’t unsee it.

The Discovery Phase

In queer life: You realize you like boys, or girls, or both, or maybe you don’t like anybody at all in that way—and suddenly you’re sitting with this knowledge like it’s a glowing orb in your chest. It feels huge and heavy, like if anyone notices you’ll be done for.

In magical life: You wake up one morning with glowing eyes or a suspicious bite mark, and suddenly you’re staring at yourself in the mirror whispering, What the hell am I?

Think of Teen Wolf (the MTV one). Scott wakes up with claws and freaky senses, and he doesn’t want anyone to know. His whole early arc is basically one big “don’t find out who I really am” panic. Swap the claws for a rainbow flag, and it’s the same vibe.

The Closet = The Secret Spellbook

Hiding your sexuality and hiding your powers both involve elaborate double lives. Queer kids might date someone they’re not into, hoping to look “normal.” The magical teen? They invent excuses for why they disappear during the full moon, or why the chemistry lab keeps mysteriously catching fire.

In Charmed, the Halliwell sisters spend entire seasons juggling “normal” jobs and relationships while secretly being witches. Closet vibes with sparkles and incantations.

And then there’s Harry Potter. The whole “You’re a wizard, Harry” moment reads almost like a coming-out conversation. You think you’re ordinary, but suddenly someone tells you, “Actually, you’re part of this whole hidden world.”

The Big Reveal

Coming out is terrifying because you don’t know the reaction. Will your family embrace you? Will they throw you out? Will your friends shrug and say “Cool” or quietly drift away?

Same for the supernatural reveal. Buffy nailed this, but X-Men has been the loudest metaphor megaphone for decades. Mutants literally have to “come out” with their abilities, and the whole “cure” storyline is basically conversion therapy in spandex.

Found Family

If your birth family doesn’t accept you, the queer community becomes your safe haven. You find your people. You belong.

Same deal in fantasy. In True Blood, Sookie discovers a whole hidden community of “others.” In The Magicians, Quentin and friends find a weird, wonderful tribe at Brakebills. That sense of “I thought I was alone, but I’m not” is universal—whether you’re queer, a werewolf, or a bisexual vampire with excellent taste in leather jackets (looking at you, Lestat).

Shame vs. Power

Here’s the kicker: what you’re taught to be ashamed of—the thing you hide, the thing you fear—is also your source of strength.

For queer folks, it’s living authentically and discovering joy in chosen love. For supernatural characters, it’s their magic, their fangs, their telepathy. The very thing that made them feel monstrous is what makes them extraordinary.

That’s why queer fans flock to these stories. They’re not just entertainment—they’re survival manuals disguised as fantasy.

Why These Stories Matter

This is why supernatural coming-out tales hit so hard. They let us rehearse our fears in a safe way. They give us metaphors that make sense of our lived experience. And they remind us that even if your story starts with fear, it doesn’t have to end there.

Whether you’re telling your mom you’re dating someone of the same gender, or confessing to your best friend that you’ve been secretly practicing necromancy—there’s always that heart-pounding moment before you speak. That leap into the unknown.

And on the other side of that leap? Sometimes rejection, yes. Sometimes heartbreak. But also—sometimes freedom.

So yeah, every time Storm raises an eyebrow in X-Men or Buffy pulls out her stake, I can’t help but grin and think: this is our story too.