If you’d asked me when I was 12 whether I was bisexual, I would have said no. If you’d asked me whether I was genderqueer, I would probably have asked you what you meant by that. If you asked me today whether I’m bisexual, I might pause before saying yes. It feels true, and it feels new. Regarding being genderqueer, that’s an easy yes.

Like so many of us, I’m a late-blooming queer. But the call’s been coming from inside the house for some time. I look back and see a constellation of indicators sprinkled through my timeline. For example…years ago, my mom told me that my aunt was surprised that I hadn’t come out as a lesbian yet. In my 20s, I dated a guy who, referring to my aesthetic and general sensibilities, declared that I’m a lesbian who dates men.¹

In high school, I hung out with queer kids in the art room and was the Gay-Straight-Alliance (few were out of the closet then) -- and as an adult, most of my friends are on the queer spectrum. A few years ago, noting the rhinestones I was applying to a name tag and the gorgeous pink wig I was wearing one day, an older gay friend of mine asked, “Are you actually a gay man?” This was just after my queer identity revelation - again, a feeling of being seen. A pleasant relief!

And then there was the queer & trans retreat I attended with a little trepidation last year. Before going, I talked with my buddy Mack about my fears about not belonging:

Am I queer enough?
Will someone call me out as an impostor because I’m new/with a man?

Mack said, “There’s a lot of gatekeeping in queer culture, and that’s bullshit. Plus - not that you need to, because it shouldn’t be about this - but you read as queer.” That was helpful. And lo and behold, after checking in at the retreat, the other person on the elevator clocked me immediately, asking, “Are you here for Express Your Sparkle?” Being recognized - and accepted - helped to clear the stuck energy and soothe my social nervous system.² Few things are more important than a feeling of belonging.

In a conversation years ago, before the realization that I’m queer, a friend of mine referred to me — in passing — as queer. In a fawning leftist move³ I automatically said I’m queer-adjacent, because I didn't feel entitled to take up marginalized space as someone who’s only had romantic relationships with men. Ironically (or not), this exchange happened to be with a queer person whom I had considered dating at one point. I shied away from the opportunity for a few reasons, nebulous fear of departing from heteronormativity not least among them.

While I’m very happily married to a cisgender, heterosexual man now, I can remember having many crushes on girls and women -- in addition to boys and men⁴ -- over the years. That’s normal; it’s easy for women to admire each other, even if we’re also conditioned into competitiveness. What’s more contested is the quality (is it romantic?) and validity (is it just a phase?) of these attractions.

I can’t quite put my finger on the emotion I feel when I consider how life has unfolded, wondering what things might be like if I’d grown up in a world where sexual orientation simply was, and LGBTQIA people weren’t demonized and considered unacceptable by dominant societal forces. What might life be like for me -- for all of us -- if homophobia and transphobia hadn’t been downloaded to us without our consent?

If you grew up in the US, you’ve swum in the strong currents of homophobia your whole life. I grew up Catholic, so in addition to the more secular, garden variety homophobia of our broader culture, I was raised to see same-gender attractions and gender variance as sinful. How many times a day during elementary school did I hear a boy insult another boy with the F word (not fuck, btw), or by saying, “That’s so gay!”? What a powerful deterrent, threatening kids with eternal hellfire if they feel attracted to their own gender, much less -- goddess forbid -- act on it.⁵

Maybe if I’d grown up in an environment where queerness was modeled and accepted, I might have landed with a woman or gender-diverse partner. I really can’t say. I’ve always enjoyed the energetic polarity of being with men. At the same time, there’s a conditioned fear of being with a woman that asks for my attention. If my attitude was indifferent, that would be different. This fearful-attracted feeling has persisted for so long that I can remember, a decade or more ago, joking with friends that I am a deeply-repressed lesbian. The rub being that I’d sought to uncover and unleash this potential latent lesbianism, and it (she?) remained under the surface. I am mystified by the demarcation between my acceptance of others’ queerness living alongside my internalized homophobia.

As time passes, it’s easier for me to see how effective the homophobic messaging that’s in the water can be at silencing tender, vulnerable internal desires. And how these forces are uniquely insidious for someone like me, who enjoys many facets of being with men.⁶ Men have always been a viable option for me, so I wasn’t stuck between a rock and a hard place, unlike some. Certainly this is different from, say, the anonymous Christian hate mail that my friend Lisa, who runs an openly queer marketing firm, sometimes receives. Or being gay and having a parent or other important figure reject you/tell you you’re going to hell for being yourself. It’s still real, though…extending the “it’s in the water” analogy, forces of oppression like homophobia have a way of seeping into the nooks and crannies of our psyches.

*A Reductress post from 2024 that made me laugh. Source: https://reductress.com/post/were-all-a-little-gay-says-woman-who-is-a-lot-gay/*

To circle back to the whole “call’s been coming from inside the house,” I’ll share how I realized I’m queer:

Back in 2021, I’d been studying meditation with my teacher, Jacoby Ballard in his weekly sangha for over a year. When I shared that I was pregnant, Jacoby sent me an email and invited me to queer and trans prenatal yoga. Here again I defaulted to being a “good social justice person” (mythical concept) and replied, “Thank you so much for the invite, but I’m not queer or trans…” (as in, I don’t want to take up space/”sully” the sacredness of space with my cis-ness), and he replied, “It’s queer-and-trans-centered - please join us if you’d like!!”

So I did. Jacoby’s prenatal classes were a lifeline during my challenging pregnancy. It was one of the most inclusive, curious, and affirming spaces I could have spent time in while pregnant. Queer culture at its best is like that - it makes space for everyone to feel accepted just as they are. I got a lot of support from fellow practitioners and Jacoby himself during those classes. And in his post-natal yoga classes, too.

Then, when Goldie was maybe 6 months old, it hit me that I’d been doing my own versions of drag for many years. Two of my favorite alter-egos are Bruce and Dieter. Bruce is a man (not a shining example of his kind…just a guy who likes to drink a lot of beer and sometimes shows up for work as a painter/contractor). Dieter is a male-leaning nonbinary person.

I remember, maybe 8 years ago, telling my mentor Mickey (who was familiar with Dieter), in an offhand/self-protective way that I’ve recalled several times since, “I identify as a cisgender woman,” and her looking at me with a face that said, “Sure.” I think she was too polite to push the issue.

So it was only after giving birth and spending these extended periods in queer containers that I realized,

Oh man. I don’t just like queer people -- I’m one of them!

That offers a tidy explanation as to why I’ve had a pride flag on my website homepage and my front porch for years, why I’ve been drawn to LGBTQIA advocacy for a long time, and why most of my friends are some type of queer.

When I told people close to me (including Mickey) that I’d realized my queerness, they tended to respond like Mickey after I told her. Kind of a smirky smile and a “Yeah, I know.” Sometimes we’re the last to know!

It’s Pride month. I wouldn’t have the privilege of sharing all of this without the brave, life-affirming, and ongoing insistence on existing out and proud that queer and trans people have engaged with over decades and centuries. I’m writing this in a moment where hundreds of pieces of anti-trans legislation are on the table throughout my country, and where we’ve had far too many stories of anti-queer and trans violence in our region (in any case, one is too many). To that point, I invite you to consider donating to support Sam Nordquist’s family as they seek justice after his murder.

My hetero relationship status gives me a cushion of privilege - I am able to write about my queerness while, due to my relationship with James, benefiting from the ease that comes from going along with accepted societal norms.

All of this to say, I’m grateful as hell to all the queer and trans people who are living out proud and loud, in spite of the dangers associated with this level of authenticity. Thank you. You are giving permission and hope not just to people like me, in my 30s -- you’re giving safety to the up-and-coming generations who need to see us waving our freak flags. 🏳️‍🌈

“Dates” = polite substitute for his original language. While I was annoyed at the proclamation (rather than an inquiry --it’s not a shocker that I ended things), it also felt relieved and seen! Because there was a depth of truth to what he said.
When there is a potential threat in our environment, our social nervous systems - the part of our wiring that makes us want to fit in with the crowd for the sake of safety - are the first frontier.
Fawning exists as an adaptive behavior to keep us alive, rather than a behavior that we choose. It’s is a term that describes social behaviors wherein a person automatically moves to appease the person/people they’re encountering. Fawning is part of the autonomic nervous system (it runs automatically, no conscious effort required). Understanding this can bring some clarity to fawning, which often feels disingenuous. Our reactions in moments like this rarely reflect our true values and desires
Hard to write ‘boys and men’ without thinking about “Boyz II Men.”
The most outspoken educator against homophobia was my middle school principal. Last year, the Catholic Diocese of Rochester paid out several million dollars to a male student he abused while I was enrolled at the school.
Including privileges like public hand-holding - a simple-seeming act that can be dangerous for queer couples.

Everyone's a little bit gay: 🏳️‍🌈 Confessions of a late-blooming queer

Singing as Daily Self-care