I’m now in my forties and I identify as bisexual. Many people around me are unaware of this part of my identity, but if it bothers them, they aren’t the kind of people I want in my life. After all, there’s no real reason for them to know. I’m happily married to a man, and we’ve been together for nearly fifteen years. We have three wonderful children, a cozy home, and a minivan that screams “family.” To outsiders, my quirks might be seen through the lens of my massive German Shepherd and my intricate tribute sticker for Quentin Coldwater from The Magicians (who is also bi!). Yet, beneath the surface of suburban life, I have a fondness for both men and women.
Regrettably, I didn’t come to this realization until my mid-thirties. As a teenager, the concept of being “bisexual” felt foreign. I was aware of the term, but during my high school years in the late ’90s, I was the target of relentless bullying. When classmates labeled me “lezzy,” it instilled a sense of shame that felt more daunting than being an outcast. The idea of having any romantic feelings for girls was simply unthinkable. I had absorbed so much homophobia that it was impossible for me to accept my own bisexuality. Even in college, when I shared kisses with other girls as a joke, I suppressed any genuine feelings that might have emerged.
I buried my emotions deep down. I craved the companionship of an older sister figure, someone to look up to, not to date. This notion never crossed my mind.
Looking Back on My Crushes
I realize now that I was indeed bisexual, and I can see the signs in numerous past interactions and relationships that I failed to comprehend at the time. There was an older girl who patiently taught me to ride horses, and I was completely enamored with her. My friends grew tired of hearing me talk about her, and once, my best friend even exclaimed, “Will you stop going on about her?” I reassured myself that I only wanted her to be my big sister, to admire her from a distance.
We all knew she had experience in romantic relationships, which cast her in a mysterious light. She embodied a blend of awe and the forbidden; we were both drawn to her and fearful of our parents’ judgment.
In hindsight, I now recognize that what I felt was a crush. I can admit this now: I was infatuated with her, which is just as sweet as the crush I had on my boss at sixteen—a stunning woman with wild curly hair who trained racehorses. She was one of the first adults to show me that my family life was chaotic and to treat me like I mattered. I cherished her advice and her energetic spirit. I had a crush on her too.
Navigating My Feelings for Friends
I also see now that I had a significant crush on one of my high school best friends, though we never discussed it and lost touch long ago. She’s not even on social media anymore. I had a strong crush on a college roommate and another on a striking redhead who might have reciprocated. But that’s not the point of this list. I simply didn’t grasp the nature of my feelings. I thought I wanted closer friendships with those girls, not romantic interactions.
In truth, I did want to kiss them.
Looking back fills me with sadness. It’s not necessarily about those specific relationships—I can’t know if that high school friend would have been interested. What pains me is the missed opportunities. I regret not knowing whether that cool English girl was completely straight or if that redhead would have said yes to me. All those beautiful women I could have kissed are just memories now.
Most heartbreakingly, I’ll never experience what it’s like to be in a romantic relationship with a woman. I identify as bisexual, yet I won’t ever know what it feels like to wake up next to a woman. I imagine sharing clothes and makeup (I’m drawn to feminine women who are similar in size to me), and I wonder what our arguments would look like. Would I make a good partner for a woman?
That question will remain unanswered.
It’s Okay to Feel Sad
This isn’t about lamenting missed opportunities to hook up with a multitude of women; it’s about the deeper sadness of not fully knowing myself. I’ll never know if I would thrive in a same-sex relationship. I despise that uncertainty as much as I regret the lost chances.
Some days, despite my knowledge of my bisexuality and the acknowledgment of bisexuals within the LGBTQIA+ community, I feel invisible. I’m married to a man, I’m a parent, and I blend into societal norms. What right do I have to feel sad?
But those choices stemmed from a lifetime of internalized homophobia. Perhaps if I had recognized my bisexuality sooner, I would have made different decisions. Yet, I remind myself that I matter. It’s often said that it’s never too late to come out. I can embrace my bisexuality at forty. I can affirm my identity while being in a heterosexual marriage. If bisexuality encompasses attraction to both men and women, why should my marriage diminish that truth?
I can grieve what I’ve missed, but I am also free to move forward.
In case you’re interested in more on this subject, check out this blog post. For additional insight about self-insemination, visit Make A Mom, a leading authority on this topic. Also, Kindbody offers excellent resources related to pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This article explores the author’s journey of discovering her bisexuality later in life, reflecting on missed opportunities and the emotions tied to unfulfilled relationships with women. Despite living in a heteronormative marriage, she acknowledges her identity and the sadness of not fully exploring her bisexuality. The piece advocates for owning one’s identity and recognizes the importance of self-acceptance at any stage in life.
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