Have you ever gone to work on a Monday and told someone all about your weekend? Imagine that conversation without giving away anything to do with your sexual orientation – so nothing about husbands, wives, boyfriends or girlfriends.

Nothing about watching the Pride parade on Saturday, never mentioning your same-sex wedding on Sunday or even drinks in Soho last night – because perhaps even that would raise suspicion. I ask because the average person will never realise how much their sexual orientation or gender identity affects their lives – that is, until they try to edit it out.

This is the usual workplace challenge for many LGBTQA+ people today. Luckily, it's something I never face working for Morrison & Foerster. I am an openly gay man sitting on the diversity committee, and a paralegal that has taken advantage of the firm's equal parental leave for single fathers (an issue increasingly affecting gay men with children through surrogacy). But it wasn't always like this.

One of my first jobs as a teenager was working in a local pub in east London, where being openly gay just wasn't an option, so I kept it secret. This inevitably made me the quiet one among a team of young, rowdy bar staff whose main focus was the after-hours staff drinks at the end of each shift. There was one fellow bar man, we'll call him X, with whom I got along well. He was kind and always engaged in conversation, making the job a lot easier for me. I considered him a friend.

One evening, homosexuality came up in conversation. X said that gay people disgusted him and that they shouldn't be alive. I always remembered that conversation vividly because it was a shock to see someone so lovely have such hateful ideas. I did what I'd become an expert at – hid the hurt feelings behind a blank face, reminding myself of that thought running through the minds of so many gay folks – "I cannot be myself here".

This may have played a part in my pre-law choice of television as a career path. After graduating in media, I was lucky enough to work for some of the big networks. I went from a homophobic bar job to an industry where gay men were the norm, where creativity was encouraged and differences were embraced. I learned to relax, wearing skinny jeans and pink T-shirts at glitter-covered wrap parties. This is where I found my voice, and perhaps I was so busy talking that I missed things I shouldn't have.

While working in media, one female colleague, who never showed any signs of homophobia, used to routinely use "gay" as a derogatory word. Another time, I discussed wanting to be a parent and was sniggered at while being told that I needed a woman for that. And perhaps the worst one was when one of my gay colleagues was off sick and another member of the team joked that it was probably AIDS. This was particularly upsetting for me but I felt unable to articulate it. That colleague had always pushed the boundaries of political correctness with his humour, even making me laugh guiltily at the occasional joke uttered when I knew I shouldn't. Until, of course, I was on the receiving end.

The interesting thing about the group dynamic in a carefree environment is that it's wonderful when it works in your favour. But when people are free to say whatever they want, there will inevitably be a time when you long for boundaries. This is one of the many reasons a career change into law was so appealing. I am able to be me in the legal world, but with those invisible protections that are implied in a professional environment, preventing any of us from being subjected to a joke that perhaps fails to make us laugh.

Sometimes I attend LGBTQA+ and diversity events here in the City, and occasionally am privileged enough to speak about my experiences as a gay father. I hear inspiring stories about various law firms and financial institutions implementing inclusive policies. As I stand there sipping champagne and nibbling hors d'oeuvres, my guilty mind often wanders to those that don't work for forward-thinking organisations – the closeted gay man on the construction site, the trans woman desperately unhappy in retail – and I force myself to remember that we have so long to go. Pride is just as important today as it always was, because this progressive, safe bubble we work in is still just that – a bubble.

Salim is a paralegal in the capital markets group at Morrison & Foerster's London office.