It took me decades to fully come out as queer. Not because I was conflicted or confused — I suspected I was attracted to other girls as early as junior high, and my first same-sex experience at eighteen removed all doubt. But I also felt attracted to guys, and given the sheer volume of available straight men around versus the tiny number of available, visibly gay women of an appropriate age and with the right mix of attributes attractive to me, I tended to get into relationships with men. It was just easier.
Every time I found myself in-between boyfriends, I gave being gay another go. In the early 90s, I took myself to Little Frida’s coffee house on Santa Monica Boulevard — one of the few lesbian-specific hangouts in Los Angeles — where I sat sipping my iced latte and nodding along to Melissa Etheridge while waiting for one of the women shooting pool in the middle of the afternoon to hit on me. Nobody ever did. Maybe I was too focused on writing in my journal or conspicuously reading Alison Bechdel comics. Or maybe my long hair and hippie skirts were giving straight-girl tourist vibes.
I tried all the things. I bought and wore pride rings to signal “I’m one too!” I went to LA Pride and wrote my name on a mailing list at a bisexual social group’s booth, only to be hit on rather persistently by a hetero couple. (No, I am not your unicorn.) I joined the LGBTQ group in my spiritual community. I danced, and sometimes went home with, other young dykes at the Tuesday “women’s night” at Axis, a gay bar in West Hollywood. (Tuesday night, really?!) But each time I tried to immerse myself in the queer women’s community, I wound up falling in love with some dude before I could find a girlfriend. When I got pregnant in my mid twenties and moved to London to be with my baby’s father, I decided my gay days were over, alas, without me ever making it to Dinah Shore.
Despite the fact that all my close friends knew about my bisexuality (and more than a few had participated in it, if you know what I mean), I was mostly an invisible queer person, hiding in plain sight in a string of apparently hetero partnerships with men. Throughout those years, my sense of disconnection to the LGBTQ community, to other lesbians, and to my own queerness was a source of sadness and loss. It felt like a lie by omission, a dismembering of a core part of my identity.
By the time I finally got into my first serious, committed relationship with another woman, I was approaching forty. And when that relationship prompted me to come out fully — meaning that I came out at work, to my family, on Facebook and in public — not one person batted an eye. (Well, my daughter, who was then about thirteen, had the best reaction. Without breaking eye contact, she snapped open the laptop on her knee, and deadpanned: “This is going on my blog.”)
I realize that the collective shrug that my coming-out elicited is not everyone’s experience. Maybe I was lucky because I was already all grown up and there were fewer people in my life feeling entitled to tell me what to do or how to be. Maybe it’s because I lived in Vancouver, one of the gayest places on earth. Maybe it’s because in a time of legal same-sex marriage and enshrined LGBTQ rights in most parts of the Western world, it had simply become socially unacceptable to openly attack queer folks for being themselves.
I know it’s, sadly, not this way for everyone, especially now. All across the US, particularly in red states and in religious communities everywhere, it is less safe to be openly gay, bisexual or transgender now than it was when I came out more than ten years ago. Rights are being rolled back, and homophobic groups and individuals feel more emboldened to act out their hate.
I am sharing my wonderfully boring coming-out story not to deny that the struggle is real, but to add my experience of easygoing acceptance to the collective narrative. I think it’s important to know that not only is it possible to be a queer person with no big, dramatic bombshell of a coming-out story, for some of us, it’s normal. And it should be normal for all.
If your coming-out experience was traumatic, or you’re currently experiencing threats, ostracism, or persecution for being who you are, or if you’re still hiding your true self from the people around you for fear of attack, I want you to know this:
There are people out there who will love and accept you for who you are. I am one of them.
And another thing: This week I’ve been reflecting on the other ways we all hide or hold back certain aspects of ourselves spiritually, creatively, politically, and emotionally. How we tuck parts of ourselves away from public view for fear of being judged, rejected, or attacked. And how our healing and self-actualization can bring those reclaimed aspects of self out into the open where they can have their moment to play on the surface of our life.
This is what it means to be an ever-emerging, evolving being. Outmoded qualities fall away, new ones emerge or brighten, all of it authentic to any given moment. Come to think of it, maybe we’re really just in a long, slow dance of seven veils, dropping our shields to reveal more and more of our truth over time.
Let’s normalize coming out early, coming out late, never being in a closet in the first place, and everything in between. Let’s honor ourselves and the people we love — and also the people we have secret sex with when it’s too risky to love in the open.
Let’s breathe freedom into how we identify. The names we use. The ways we choose to express our creativity. How we understand and connect with the divine. How we dress, the pronouns and labels we feel aligned with. Let it all shift, stretch, settle, and shift again. And while we’re at it, let’s make friends with our changing bodies, changing style expression, changing perspectives, even changing our names if it feels right. There’s no virtue in clinging to an arbitrary old snapshot of ourselves from a bygone era.
Be yourself, whoever you are. Find your tribe. Live your life the way you want. The rainbow contains all colors because it represents ALL OF US, and by that I don’t just mean each one of us (but, that too). I mean ALL PARTS of each of us.
Happy Pride.
Maggie xo
Are you working on a book proposal?
Reminder for those of you who are working on nonfiction book proposals and wanting to find an agent or traditional publisher: My Wonderwell team and I are hosting a two-day workshop called Influencer to Author, and tickets are on sale now!
This interactive workshop is live online on June 15 and 16, from 1-4pm ET. We’ll be covering:
How to turn your story or content into a bestselling masterpiece.
What agents are looking for and how to pitch your book to them.
How to find a publisher that shares your vision and negotiate the best deal possible.
How to leverage your platform for a successful book launch.
How to win maximum media exposure for your book.
How to choose a publishing path that aligns with your goals.
The exact steps you need to take next—and what not to bother with!
To bring a traditionally published author’s perspective into it, we’ll also be joined by Laura Belgray, founder of Talking Shrimp and author of Tough Titties, her new memoir out June 13. Laura is candid, hilarious, and doesn’t hold back!
You can find all the details at Influencertoauthor.com, or if you use the special link in the button below, you can get $200 off the ticket price just for being a part of my community.
Hope to see you there!
This: Despite the fact that all my close friends knew about my bisexuality (and more than a few had participated in it, if you know what I mean), I was mostly an invisible queer person, hiding in plain sight in a string of apparently hetero partnerships with men. Throughout those years, my sense of disconnection to the LGBTQ community, to other lesbians, and to my own queerness was a source of sadness and loss. It felt like a lie by omission, a dismembering of a core part of my identity.
And also the rest! Thank you for this piece!
This was one of my favorites!