My story isn't very interesting or dramatic. I, very luckily, was brought up in an extremely hippy, tree hugging, musical loving, democratic, granola eating environment. In fact, my family probably knew I was gay before I even knew that gay was a thing.
I first told a cousin of mine that I knew I was "different" at age twelve or thirteen. From then until about age nineteen I only classified myself as "different", fearing that putting an actual term on my difference would be too real and firm. Gay classification didn't happen until the end of my college years.
In high school and college I had dated women, but been sexual with both males and females. I didn't think I could ever emotionally be attracted to someone of the same gender. However, I proved myself quite wrong after I gave a same-sex relationship a shot, and realized that it felt much more comfortable, relaxed, and safe.
It was this first serious gay relationship that "forced" be to be open with my family. I wanted to share my happiness. My younger sister was the first, and only, immediate family member I directly told -- it was, childishly, over text message. Her response was overwhelmingly positive, and immediately followed by asking if our Mom knew. I told her that she didn't know, but that she could feel free to tell her if she liked. Being a teenage gossiper, she did.
From that point forward my Mom, more or less, came out for me. Telling grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc. I told all of my friends and cousins my age, but she took care of the older classes of relatives and family friends. I was happy, almost relieved, that she wanted to share my joy and relationship with others.
Now, as a 25 year old, I have been in a two-year relationship with another man, and we just moved into an NYC apartment together. Being honest and open couldn't be better.