What a year it’s been for us all, holed up in our Covid-19 quarantine cocoons. After this transformative year, I’m ready to emerge with all my authentic colors and freak flags a’flying! So here’s a very personal invitation from me to you — this is me, inviting you in to know more of me.
I've acknowledged my fluid sexuality from a young age. It was one of the first conversations I had with my now ex-husband when we met in January 1999, when I had just moved to NYC, hoping to eventually find a girlfriend. Instead, he and I fell in love, which was and still is an absolutely beautiful part of my life. My sexuality was involuntarily cloaked during the years I was in heteronormative relationships. Even when my relationship was not on display, most people incorrectly assumed I was heterosexual because I present as "feminine." Our society is quick to conflate who our current partners are and how we dress with sexual orientation. But sexuality is not defined by who a person sleeps with, nor is it defined by gender presentation or appearance.
About five years ago, the invisibility of my queerness festered inside me in ways that felt toxic — literally sickening. This post is simply about visibility - it's not about "coming out." “Coming out of the closet,” is a term that feels vehemently incorrect to my experience, as I've never considered myself to be in any sort of closet; I was just in a relationship with a man. "Coming out" also panders to assumptions of heteronormativity. By saying “coming out,” we continue to accentuate the otherness of being queer, instead of normalizing it. The idea of “coming out” places the responsibility on the queer person to correct wrongful assumptions about sexual or gender identity. Some people in the LGBTQ+ community, myself included, prefer terms like “letting in” or “inviting in” over “coming out.” Words are spells; they carry energy and they matter deeply. It feels more self-loving and in alignment for me to say that by becoming more visible, I’m inviting others to get to know my authentic self.
I am overtly aware of my privilege in not having been an immediate target for homophobic violence and harassment for decades when I walked down the street wearing a dress and holding hands with my husband. I’m certainly not asleep or immune to the marginalization and discrimination inflicted upon the queer community, especially now when I proudly kiss my girlfriend in public. On the other side of any hetero-passing privilege I experienced was the pain of not being seen, acknowledged, or met for the fullness of who I am.
I write about my personal story, queer invisibility, and so much more in the book I've been working on during this bizarre year. The working title is Midlife Emergence. It is a combination of memoir and personal growth/self-help for women who are burning to claim more (more passion, more depth, more grit, more truth) in the second half of their lives. Publishing details are in the works, but it's all happening. Stay tuned for all the juicy details by subscribing to my newsletter.
