What I wish I knew about bisexuality and the truth about love

“My mother is a lesbian,” my then third-grader announced one evening at dinner. We were sitting around the dining table and I hadn’t even eaten my salad. My father raised his eyebrows. It was an otherwise unremarkable night in a slowly warming spring.

“Well, no Lesbians “In itself,” I replied, spearing a piece of spinach. I didn’t know that I would be giving a speech about my sexuality over takeout.

“Bisexual. I guess pansexual? I know that sounds like a breakfast food. It’s like… being attracted to people of opposite sexes. It’s not a secret either, but I think everyone should make their own statements about such things,” I said.

I had talked to my family about my identity many times (and about accepting each other for who we are), so I was surprised by the label “lesbian.” But I could understand that it could be confusing, especially for an elementary school student. It could be hard for me, and I’ve been in this world for four decades—and as a relationship therapist, I’m used to difficult conversations.

But then again, that’s not so surprising. In a heterosexual world, I’m not heterosexual. But I appear that way. In 2010, I married a cisgender man, even though I could have married anyone – and had a happy, monogamous marriage with him.

Pansexuality, bisexuality – I honestly don’t care what you call it. There is no perfect name for us, the original promoters of “love is love.” Yet so many of my fellow bisexuals hide from their sexuality or struggle with its visibility. As humans, we often don’t know how to navigate and share this complexity.

What is most misunderstood is that being queer is not just about who you sleep with. It is a culture, an identity, a way of seeing the world – without automatically accepting societal expectations of love or gender roles. There is beauty in that, a freedom.

Back when I was in high school, I first came out to my parents, but not intentionally. My mother asked me about it one summer day while I was helping her replant the hostas under the patio. A girl had previously left a message on our answering machine. I would really like to see you againshe said breathlessly. It was clear that this was more than a friendship.

When I looked up from the cool earth, I saw that my mother’s eyes were moist. Her tears, brought on by the serious belief that my life would be more difficult, hit me right in the pit of my stomach. (Well, not total straight.)

My sexuality – or people’s reactions to it – increased my fear of being different, and not in a good way. From my many years as a psychotherapist, I know that the feeling of not belonging is common. The details vary, but the theme is universal: Where do I fit in this world? Who are my people? Am I accepted as I am?

In my case, I wasn’t looking for long-term relationships with women. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was scared. But heterosexual culture didn’t feel like home either. I didn’t feel comfortable at proms or rooftop bars. The rigid beauty standards – coupled with the competition for men – seemed narrow-minded and boring. In this dazzling universe, why choose boring when you can choose anything?

When I came of age in Minnesota, most of my friends were gay and couldn’t legally marry. In 2013, it became legal. This groundbreaking equality was affirming, but most of my friends were in no rush to get married – I was at a beautiful gay wedding. We all danced the hora and pressed our hands together as if our souls were in each other’s hands.

Despite my criticism of the patriarchy, I married Cedar, who happens to be a man. One who cried out of compassion for a buck when his father took him hunting. I fell in love with Cedar’s warmth and the questions he asked during our casual conversations.

I am grateful that I married him. My partner understands me, knows my mistakes and still values ​​me. I call my husband the love of my life and I mean it. But I still struggle with belonging sometimes, even if that is less the case these days.

When I had children—one with significant disabilities, which led to me moving out of town for more support—I felt further removed from my LGBTQ+ community. How much of that was me, unsure of my straight-seeming life? How much of that was timing? For years, I was overwhelmed with caring for my daughter and had little community—regardless of anyone else’s identity.

I now live in the suburbs that I call kuburbs – the suburbs on the edge of the county. The atmosphere in my neighborhood is more reminiscent of Ward Cleaver than Harvey Milk. The older I get, the less that affects me. I believe what Brené Brown writes: “True belonging and self-worth are not commodities; we do not negotiate their value with the world. The truth of who we are lives in our hearts.” I found it little by little, in part by making my identity public when I wrote my memoirs. It was liberating.

It also helps to have friends who have an open mind. I first met Jeannie when I was 19; she was with my dear boyfriend. In the decades that followed, I realized that I could be completely myself with her. When it comes to sexuality or anything else, it’s a spectacular feeling. I want to help my friends feel that too. I hope I can do that.

Last summer, Jeannie and I watched the waves lap at the shore of Lake Minnetonka, near where we both grew up. Jeannie works in palliative care, which means we can talk about anything from death to brunch. She also married a man—a soft-hearted guy who is her equal in every way.

We lounged on Adirondack chairs as the clouds cleared. It seemed like it might be a terrible storm, or it might be fine. We sat under the stars and talked about what it’s like to be bisexual. Jeannie turned to me and said, exhaling, “And then you feel like you don’t belong anywhere.” I saw a flash of light in the reflection of her green, catlike eyes.

I breathed in and out. In that moment, I had never felt more like I belonged. Talking to my long-time friend and hearing my experiences reflected – finally – in hers made me want to say the things I was afraid to say.

Sitting on the shore of the lake with Jeannie, the sisterhood I had longed for was right there. I looked up at the rain clouds again, and it felt like we would be OK sitting together in a pouring downpour without jackets or umbrellas. We shared a rare understanding, an identity, a long history as friends. We both knew the truth about love—that its core is acceptance, and there is no one right way to achieve it. We shared a belonging that we didn’t belong in.

I showed a draft of this essay to my mother, now in her mid-70s. I still want to please her (or at least not surprise her by publicly recounting our past). We sat next to each other on my bed, my heart pounding as I watched her read. When she looked at me with those same watery eyes, I thought of the hostas. Instead, she said something I had never thought about before: “Maybe you belong everywhere, not nowhere?” My mother—who had always loved me very much but had not always known the truth about love—had moved on. And so had I.