A few weeks ago I went into a military recruitment office determined to enlist. Joining the military has been something I’ve wanted to do for years, and I stepped into the office with all the required documents in hand, letting the recruiters know how serious I am. In a way I’m following in the footsteps of my best friend, who joined the military almost three years ago. Our reasons for wanting to join are similar: we were compelled by a sense of duty to serve the country we call home and loved the idea of bringing out the best in us to defend it. But despite our similarities, my best friend didn’t go to the recruiters pretending to be something else; he didn’t need to keep something about himself a secret to make himself worthy of serving. I did, and I continue to do so.

Under “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” I’m allowed to serve in the military as long as they don’t know I’m gay. I’ve always known that it was something I had to deal with, but now that I’ve committed myself to the goal of enlistment, I’ve come to truly realize what I’m being asked to do.

I’m not a stranger to “the closet,” but the past year has been an exercise in stepping out of it and exploring the many aspects of being a gay person, only to try to cover my tracks. There’s that paranoid feeling that every time I go out on a date, or hang out with my gay friends, I will get caught. There’s the worry that any participation I’ve done in the gay community can be easily revealed by a Google search. And just like that, I’ll be outed; deemed unfit to be in the military.

I came to the recruiters prepared to make some sacrifices that my best friend didn’t have to do. By enlisting, I will be serving under a policy that officially states that I must spend the rest of my time in the military hiding who I am as a person; that I keep my true self a secret and that I should be constantly presenting a façade to everyone around me. In other words, live a lie. Or else.

My best friend, for his part, still wants me to join him in the military. He knows I’m gay, but he had always seemed unconcerned about the conditions and burden I’ll have to deal with or the things I have to give up to enter the military. I found out why: he doesn’t care about the sexuality of the people he serves with; most men and women in uniform don’t. It turns out that he knows openly gay men and women in the military, and he never sees them as threats to morale or unit cohesion. They are fellow sailors doing their jobs, just like him. “It’s really not a big deal,” he told me.

Because of my best friend’s nonchalant revelation about the reality of military life, I came to the conclusion that there is no good reason why people like me should stay in the closet. DADT is a sorry compromise that ultimately states that despite my qualifications and willingness to serve, what I am as a person is a crime, and that refusing to live a lie and be true to myself is a violation of conduct.

I came out of the recruiter’s office excited about my future in the Navy. There was a spring in my step as I thought about the adventures ahead and the opportunity to be the best that I can be, but the cloud of having to live life pretending to be someone else hung overhead.