🎵 I'm coming out
Recently, a friend asked when it was that I fully accepted my sexual orientation. I immediately noticed an “oh shit” sensation: a wave of nausea and constriction in my throat.
I realized I (still) hadn’t.
For years, I defined myself as a “whatever” based on this 2013 Modern Love essay by Maria Bello. I felt seen as she wrote about her fluid sexual orientation, thrilled to see her description of a healthy family that was deeply grounded in love but didn’t look the way you might expect.
I’ve always said that I don’t have a type. In the years prior to reading Bello’s essay, I’d been in relationships with a gorgeous woman in film, a sexy man in urban planning who’s transgender, and a hyper masculine FBI agent with arm muscles the size of my thighs.
Defining myself as “whatever” felt like I was living beyond categories, like I wasn’t letting terminology define my sense of self. It was akin the scene in Schitt’s Creek where David explains his sexuality by saying, “I like the wine, not the label.”
But my friend’s question helped me realize that avoiding labels — for me — was a form of hiding. I felt myself undeserving of the label “queer.” I present as super straight, married to the delightful cisgender man who’s also the father of my child.
For too long I’d wondered whether I could claim this identity without having suffered for it. I treated hardship as a sign of worthiness, all the while, being in the closet had brought its own kind of suffering.
When I was Development Director for a nonprofit, a funder that prioritized diversity asked how many members of the staff identified as LGBTQ+. I sincerely asked my openly queer colleague if I was queer enough to count.
I felt I needed permission.
The people I worked with had met my male fiancé (Cole), but most of them didn’t even know that my beloved girlfriend existed.
That’s the other piece of my identity that kept me in the closet: I’m polyamorous (or poly, for short). For me, that means that my husband and I share a lifelong commitment to one another and to our family. We also date other people and embrace the possibility of love outside of our marriage.
When Cole and I started on this journey, we were the only people we knew striving to balance commitment and openness in our relationship. For many of our friends and family, polyamory was a totally new concept. They’d say, “I could never do that!” or “I’d get too jealous.”
I’ll use a pizza metaphor to explain how the conversations usually went:
Me: Cole and I are going out for pizza on Thursday night.
Friend: Oh my god, I could never eat pizza.
Me: That’s cool. I was just saying that we like it?
Friend: I’m lactose intolerant!
Me: Wait, what? I didn’t invite you.
It seemed like Cole’s and my relationship model was a threat or indictment of theirs. Nope, we just like pizza
These days, Cole and I are out as poly to most people we interact with. While some friends and family still express apprehension, the reaction is different than it used to be.
One friend recently told me, “Everyone I know is doing some form of ethical non-monogamy [ENM in Tinder-speak]. I feel like the weird one for wanting monogamy!”
While we’ve closed the relationship at various points to focus on family or career, I wouldn’t have gotten married had the commitment come with an expectation of lifelong monogamy. Cole says he might’ve but would likely have been miserable. The poly lifestyle works beautifully for us.
But eleven years into this life-affirming, stable poly relationship, I’ve only recently realized just how closeted I’ve been.
For years, I negotiated with myself. Feeling safer in the more progressive neighborhoods of New Orleans, I’d reason, “I can be out in the Bywater but not in the Garden District,” I told Cole, “Maybe you can be on a poly dating app but not on Tinder — it’s too public.” I felt nervous holding my girlfriend’s hand in public.
The sheer amount of energy it takes to hide or conform is exhausting.
Even though it’s safe(ish) for me to come out to y’all, my beloved newsletter community, I’ve written and rewritten past essays to ensure I don’t sound queer or like I’m dating someone other than my husband.
That’s energy I could've spent writing, making the content itself stronger instead of strategizing about how to hide. Or I could have used that energy on literally anything else, like watching The Great British Bake Off or staring at clouds in the damn sky — anything other than spiraling in shame.
My shame confuses me.
I’ve been advocating on behalf of LGBTQ+ communities since 2002, when I wrote an essay for my high school paper admonishing my classmates for saying “That’s so gay.” In college, I marched in Pride parades and led trainings to help educators better support queer and trans students.
And the non-profit I worked for — the one where I wasn’t sure whether or not I “counted” as queer — did I mention it was focused in part on LGBTQ+ rights? (SMH)
How could I celebrate these identities in others but struggle to accept them within myself?
Now I recognize all of the internalized queer-phobia and poly-phobia I needed to work through.
When I first decided to come out to y’all, a set of three lines kept popping into my head with some frequency:
Don’t share.
Keep hiding.
Stay safe.
Even with boatloads of privilege, coming from a place of financial security and independence, sharing this feels risky as hell.
My coach asked whether staying in the closet felt constrictive or expansive. Immediately, my answer was clear: hiding is constrictive.
I’ve been choking on this.
As hateful anti-trans and anti-gay bills emerge in state legislatures accross the country, including here in Louisiana, I feel an urgency and a responsibility to share my truth. When that wave of nausea hit me after my friend asked about accepting my sexuality, I knew that it was time.
I’m done hiding.
A reader recently told me, “Your writing is an antidote to shame.”
Perhaps sharing my identities and my (continuous) efforts to embrace them will help some of you feel seen and supported.
This essay is for all of us who have navigated an invisible identity. For all of us who’ve wondered if we “counted”, who haven’t felt seen.
It’s for all of us who have felt that we needed to hide parts of ourselves. For all of us who are still grappling with our identities or feel unsafe being our full selves.
Writing this essay has helped me move through some of my own residual shame. In sharing it with y’all, I want to say:
I'm here.
I see you.
I love you.
And I’m extending that love to myself.
Big exhales and lots of love,
Lelia
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Life *gestures everywhere* is a lot these days. I use authentic vulnerability to share my experience, so we all feel less alone.
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