Unless you're living under a rock, you've probably heard by now that Beartooth's lead singer recently came out as gay. And while it’s not any of our fucking business how Caleb lives his life, I want to acknowledge the incredible strength it took to step into his light.
For every LGBTQ+ kid who ever stood in a crowd at a Beartooth show feeling seen by Caleb's music but unseen in their own life, this moment matters more than you might realize. Because representation in spaces that weren't always welcoming is a really big deal.
What strikes me just as much as the announcement itself is the decade that came before it. Caleb has been open about burying those feelings with alcohol for years, while simultaneously writing some of the most emotionally honest music in this scene. Albums about depression, self-loathing, self-destruction, and hopelessness. Now, looking back, it's impossible not to see the through line. That's not just a great discography, it’s what happens when someone spends years not being able to be who they are. And that matters clinically, personally, and humanly.
Look, I've said it before and I'll say it again, the scene isn't perfect. Though in this case I'm talking about our history, because quite frankly, I'm pretty proud of where our scene is today and how far it's come. Let's be honest, the early 2000s were rough and rife with casual homophobia that nobody questioned nearly enough. "That's so gay" got thrown around at shows, in lyrics, and in comment sections like it was nothing. And…there were certain figures in this space or adjacent space that were vocally and unapologetically homophobic.
But here's the thing, the scene grew up and so did a lot of us.
Before I go further I want to be clear about something. I am not a member of the LGBTQ+ community. I am a proud, committed, vocal ally and I have LGBTQ+ people in my life who I love deeply. But I do not have lived experience with what it means to navigate the world in that skin and I am not an expert on that experience. What I do have is clinical knowledge, this platform, and a genuine desire to use both responsibly. So please take what's useful here and know that it comes from a place of love and respect.
As a therapist and an ally, the data around LGBTQ+ mental health is something I think about a lot. My previous experience in a pediatric ER means I have done my fair share of mental health assessments for LGBTQ+ youth. And that clinical picture can be heavy. According to the Trevor Project's 2024 National Survey of more than 18,000 LGBTQ+ young people, 39% seriously considered suicide in the past year. 66% reported symptoms of anxiety. 53% reported symptoms of depression. And perhaps most sobering and heartbreaking, 84% wanted mental health care but half of them couldn't access it.
What I want to stress is that those aren't just numbers. Those are real kids sitting in their bedrooms feeling alone, unaccepted, and unseen. I’m not a hugger, but I want to hug them all.
Clinically, here’s where it gets important. The same research shows that LGBTQ+ young people who had access to affirming spaces and communities reported lower rates of attempting suicide. Let that sink in for a second. Belonging and representation aren't just feel good concepts. They are literally protective factors, which I write more about in another article. They save lives.
Which is exactly why what Caleb did matters so much. Not just personally, but publicly. In a genre that hasn't always made space for this. On a stage that a lot of LGBTQ+ kids have stood in front of feeling simultaneously seen and invisible. One person saying "I am a proudly gay man" in this space sends a message to every single one of those kids that they belong here too.
So to Caleb Shomo, thank you for being you. Your whole beautiful self. You and Beartooth have gifted us with incredible music that has seeped into many of our souls. You've given us a safe space to feel our pain and suffering. The least we can do is give you a safe space right back.
If this piece brought something up for you, whether that's your own mental health, your identity, or both, please know that support exists and you deserve access to it. The Trevor Project is available 24/7 at 1-866-488-7386 or thetrevorproject.org for LGBTQ+ young people in crisis. And if you just need someone to talk to, the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline is always there too.
No pressure, no judgment. Just your elder emo therapist, reminding you that you are not alone and you are loved.