Author’s Note: No one experience is the same. This is my story. 

I first knew I was attracted to more than just boys at age 14 – my freshman year of high school. Her name was Lauren. 

My upbringing chalked this up to a product of my environment (I attended an all-girls high school). I witnessed first hand the repercussions of public displays of affection with anyone other than the opposite sex by Catholic educators and authority figures. 

So, while I did not outwardly dismiss those around me who chose to identify outside the perceived heterosexual norm, I dismissed my own feelings of attraction towards those assigned female at birth as fleeting, passing, and inauthentic to who I thought I was (or who I thought I was meant to be). 

I leaned in heavily towards my heterosexual identity, ensuring those around me that even with my reserved, private nature, I was very much attracted to men. My romantic interests in movies, books, television, and even my own writing further solidified this identity. 

I didn’t question my sexuality again for another 13 years. 

I went to prom independent of a date. Not that I didn’t try. I asked my Subway co-workers (platonically, of course) and even offered to be set up on a blind date. I was ashamed that at 17, I’d never had my first kiss or any kind of romantic involvement that would further prove that I was, in fact, a romantic and sexual being, much less a heterosexual one. 

I had an amazing prom. That night felt like my first foray into my future independent adult life. And confirmed what took me years to accept – that surrounding yourself with a community of amazing connections and meaningful friendships can fulfill a life just as much, if not more so, than one romantic partner. 

Sit Still, Look Pretty

And while I didn’t start dating men until my early 20’s, I experienced such intense friendships with some of the women in my life that when the friendship eventually did end, it felt more like a break-up than even some of the short-term relationships I would eventually have. 

I often found myself jealous when a man entered said friend’s life and completely took over their world – relegating me to second place. And yet as soon as they needed me, I was there, no matter how much I would later berate myself for such actions. Because deep down I knew I loved them more intensely than any platonic relationship, and I would do anything to ensure their happiness. 

But I also knew they were straight, and I was supposedly straight, so there was nowhere else for the friendship to go. Sometimes, when things hurt too much, we have to let them go. I just didn’t realize that I was the source of my own pain. 

Poker Face

In my 20’s, some of my friends started exploring their own sexuality, and I lived vicariously through them. I knew I wasn’t yet brave enough to take that step (even if I very much fell into the straight girl trope of “I kissed a girl, and I liked it”). 

Because what would that mean for my family? My community? Was I prepared to lose that safety net? Any identity outside of cishet was still ostracized in my conservative, Catholic roots. And while I no longer identified as Catholic (or a believer in God), I still loved these people, even if it hurt. 

But a year after graduating from college, I decided to move 600 miles from my upbringing to start fresh in a new city with a new career prospect: creative writing. 

A Thousand Miles

While attending graduate school, I opened my world, meeting people who identified as part of the LGBTQIA+ community – very prevalent in the city I decided to move to. Even with this newfound acceptance, it took me another five years, the end of back-to-back relationships with heterosexual men, and a move to Washington, DC, to question my assumed identity. 

At age 28, I finally opened up to a close friend and then, ironically, a man I was seeing about the possibility I may not be straight. I knew I was attracted to men, but I also knew I wasn’t just attracted to men. 

But at that point, I felt like I was too old to even consider such a possibility. How would I go about dating women now? I’d never been with a woman. I was worried they would see me for who I was – a straight person interested in exploiting their identity for the sake of experience. 

My shame in my lack of experience – carried over from my adolescence – prevented me from embarking on that path sooner. I told myself if I found the right person – someone who was attracted to me and that I was attracted to and felt comfortable with – then I would explore my sexual identity. 

Not to mention putting myself out there on dating apps made it real. How could I open up to the world if I couldn’t even be honest with myself? And I didn’t want to mislead anyone, especially if I wasn’t sure I was actually queer. That, to me, seemed like the worst offense. 

So until that special person came along, I put this idea in a box, and I didn’t speak about it for another four years. 

Bisexual Anthem

What I never realized is that special person was never going to come along if I wasn’t first open with myself and the idea of fully accepting this identity. 

And when I did start accepting that identity, that person did come along. I was in my early 30’s, surrounded by a new network of friends who identified as bisexual, who hadn’t known me long enough to conflate me with my straight history. 

So, I started asking questions. I looked around the room, on the streets, at venues, and even online, discerning who I was sexually attracted to and even how this differed from romantic identity. And what I discovered is what I knew all along. 

I was not straight. 

But was I bisexual? Pansexual? Sexually fluid? 

I went down a rabbit hole of Internet forums and self-help guides. I decided the bisexual identity probably fit me best, but I wasn’t interested in thoroughly labeling my identity yet. Giving it a name, though, made it real, and it gave me something to be proud of. 

I was not straight. 

I was bisexual. 

I am bisexual. 

And very much biromantic. But that was a rabbit hole that came later. 

I started coming out to my close circle of friends. And there was at least one person in that circle I realized I had feelings for. It wasn’t just an intense friendship. It was someone I could see myself actually being with and being proud to be with. 

The idea got me so excited I decided to make my move. I knew this friend also identified as bisexual. I just didn’t know how she felt about me. So, I asked her outright. She admitted she wanted to end up with a man. Maybe this was her way of letting me down easy or maybe this was society’s way of making things easier for her? 

Needless to say, I was devastated. And as much as I wanted to hold onto the friendship, it was never the same after that. And we eventually parted ways. 

It was February 2020. I had just turned 33. And even though recovering from a broken heart, I was hopeful for this path I had set myself on. I was ready to see what the world of dating offered to what I considered to be a late bloomer into the queer identity. 

And then, the worldwide pandemic. I would have to put these dating aspirations on hold. And in some ways, I was relieved. I wouldn’t have to address my shame in my supposed lack of experience and late bloomer status just yet. 

Cloud 9

I didn’t start dating again until 2021. I entered the realm of hybrid dating – a few virtual meetups or phone calls before actually taking the risk and time to meet up in person. I honestly kind of liked this approach. Less wasted time. A screening system that was gold. 

But in October of 2021, I did what I had always hoped I would do – I opened my online dating pool to everyone. I didn’t initially identify in my profile, looking to see what others had done. 

I was immediately overwhelmed. And wondered if there was privilege in what I was doing. The DC dating pool had always been tough, at least as a heterosexual woman, because the ratio of men to women in the city and surrounding neighborhoods is skewed. 

But here I was – suddenly faced with endless faces of options. And I found I liked dating women. The exchanges and interactions were much more emotionally mature, at least in my limited experience, than the ones I had encountered with men (straight men, that is). 

I eventually met another woman online who I was able to be the most honest with about my late bloomer status. She introduced me to the term baby queer, which made me smile. I was hesitant to use the term “queer” in my identity, as I didn’t feel it belonged to me. I hadn’t earned it. And in some ways, I felt I didn’t deserve it. 

But it was the queer community that reassured me this label was okay. And until I figured out my identity, this seemed to be the closest I could come to a label for myself and my experience thus far. 

Over this time, I also started watching and reading more with LGBTQIA+ representation. I unearthed others who were embarking on similar journeys as mine, well into adulthood. I was not alone. 

And looking back at some of my favorite media growing up (Xena: Warrior Princess) and even as an adult (Lost Girl), I chuckled at the signs that maybe I wasn’t straight and never had been. 

Girls & Boys

But then I started harboring feelings for a man in my life. We’d been friends for years, and even if the friendship had started out as a crush, it quickly became platonic. Over the pandemic, he became one of my best friends. I didn’t want to lose that. 

What I didn’t know is that he had also developed feelings for me. And while I’m not known for my inaction, I took my time figuring out what this meant. I also worried I was becoming invisible again, that by being with a man, I was letting down my queer identity, and by default, the queer community. 

I’d known many women who’d done it and who still proudly identified as bisexual. But society also makes it easier for us to do so. I would fit in. I wouldn’t face discrimination or harassment. I would be accepted without question. And that hurt. 

But my friends assured me that my feelings for one man did not change my identity. And it did not betray the queer community. I could still be queer and in a relationship with a man who identified as heterosexual. 

As one friend put it one night sitting at a bar in Baltimore City:

You did what you set out to do. You were dating women, talking to women, poking around, and then you wound up poking your best friend.

– A friend from Baltimore

Two Fifths Pink, One Fifth Purple, and Two Fifths Blue

That man ended up becoming the partner I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And on a random Saturday in June when I realized this, I asked him to marry me. And he said yes. 

Wanting to get married surprised me. I’ve never been interested in marriage, especially with a man and the historical patriarchy and ownership baggage that comes with it, and I’ve never been interested in lifelong monogamy. 

But with this man – my best friend – I wanted to explore what a lifelong partnership could look like. And even though we could easily access that privileged piece of paper, we were not confined to the dictations of society. We could determine what that partnership meant. 

That trust, openness, and communication has been the hallmark of my most healthy and successful relationship to date. But I had to be open with myself first before I could ever be totally honest in a partnership. 

And while I have not announced my identity to everyone in my former and current life, I am proud of who I am. 

It may have taken me 20+ years to get here, but I am so glad I did. 

Author’s Note: For those who may also be embarking on this journey, I highly recommend Imogen, Obviously by Becky Albertalli. Although a young adult novel, I had never felt more seen as a bisexual person who once identified as straight. I cried and laughed in all the right ways.