"I found myself standing knee-deep in a pile of discarded outfits, yanking off a dress that, suddenly and without logical reason, I hated. My roommate poked her head in, eyebrows raised.
+ how I did Scotland in a week without losing my mind in the planning process
“You good?” she half-joked.
“Yeah, just… getting ready for a date,” I muttered, avoiding eye contact.
“Ooo, fun. Who’s the lucky guy?”
I hesitated for half a second before saying, “She got us tickets to a comedy show.”
Without missing a beat, she grinned. “That sounds fun. Let me know if you want to raid my closet.”
I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath, but I finally exhaled. I have always been a confident dater and a certified oversharer. So, why was I suddenly so awkward and secretive? I hadn’t planned it, but this was my first official coming out conversation. It felt clunky and awkward, but also freeing. Finally, it felt like I was being my whole self, but what I hadn’t been prepared for was how much I, and my friendships, would change from this point forward.
The years-long process of discovering my identity
I had always dated men, and I was content doing so. So, I had convinced myself I just hadn’t found the right guy yet. I mean, how many 20-something men are the complete package? My search history, however, told a different story:
- How to flirt with women
- How do I tell if a woman is flirting with me
- How to ask out a woman IRL
- What does WLW mean
I grew up surrounded by Pride flags, attending drag bingo, and signing petitions to make my high school one of the first in the country to have a gender-neutral homecoming court. Even growing up in a town that promoted and celebrated the LGBTQ+ community, I didn’t feel that it applied to me. My friends and I focused on who would make the last varsity spot, who was asking whom to homecoming, and what AP class was the easiest to take. We didn’t talk about sexuality from a personal lens. We just rode the “typical high school experience” wave. Now looking back, I wish I had more WLW role models to look up to, but if you had asked 15-year-old me, I would have only been able to name Ellen DeGeneres. Had there been more role models, envisioning that life could have been an easier and earlier realization.
“Labels can be incredibly liberating for some, but to me, they felt confusing and limiting.”
I was a fierce ally to those around me, but I struggled to extend that same support to myself. Many of the coming out stories I knew or read about were from people who knew they were gay from a very early age.
Labels can be incredibly liberating for some, but to me, they felt confusing and limiting. Bisexuality felt selfish and performative. Why did I feel like I got to date everyone? I often asked myself, “How can you be bisexual if you haven’t even been on a date with a girl?” I found myself in a real predicament: I didn’t want to date women before I was absolutely sure, but how could I be sure before I even went on a date? So, in my 20s and finally ready to explore my identity, I took a small step: I changed my dating app settings to include women.
A few weeks later, after some awkward dating app small talk, I came across a profile I couldn’t stop thinking about. I know how cheesy this sounds, but I got immediate butterflies. It was the kind of butterflies they talk about in the movies, the kind you get before your first kiss, and the kind of definite sign that overpowers any previous hesitations. Then, a different type of butterflies swept over me. I realized I had to actually come out. I still had no idea what label fit me, but there was no denying that I liked girls, and I wasn’t going to wait to explore that feeling because I couldn’t find the right label. Now, I just had to figure out how to tell everyone else.
The relief of finally coming out to those closest to me
Coming out wasn’t exciting or empowering. It didn’t feel like I thought it was supposed to feel, which made me feel worse. I thought it would be similar to announcing a new job—I would be filled with hope and excitement, and my friends would high-five me and take me to dinner to celebrate. Instead, I felt awkward and unsure of myself, uncertain where to start. I wish I realized that coming out didn’t need to be this elaborate thing. It could just be part of a regular conversation, like how one of my closest friends from high school came out to me, years before my own coming out.
When she started dating her now-fiancée, I naturally pressed for details.
“So, does he play soccer, too?”
She hesitated for only a moment before saying, “Well… she runs track.”
I was surprised, not at the gender of her crush, but at how effortlessly she said it. There was no hesitation, no over-explanation. She simply had a crush on a girl. While I was overwhelmed with excitement and happiness for her, I couldn’t shake the hint of jealousy. I envied her confidence, authenticity, and, if I’m honest, her now expanded shoe collection. I had assumed, since I didn’t share her certainty in sexuality, that I wasn’t really gay.
“Coming out wasn’t exciting or empowering. It didn’t feel like I thought it was supposed to feel, which made me feel worse.”
Years later, I texted that same friend after one of the first few dates I had with a girl, and she extended the same support and excitement I had given her in high school. Obviously, things had changed a lot since then. We were living in different states, had different careers, and had different plans for the future. But we were now both more authentic and happier. Our queerness strengthened our friendship in a way I never expected. It started with those initial text messages, and now I’m ecstatically helping her plan her wedding to that track runner she crushed on years before.
It was easy to bond with an old friend over my new queerness, but in my day-to-day life, I was still struggling. I didn’t feel like the same flirtatious and self-assured 20-something my other friends had known. They knew me as a borderline cocky serial dater, definitely not someone who literally Googles, “How to flirt with a girl.” But slowly, I started telling people. I couldn’t hide it for long—not only am I a terrible liar, but they knew something was up; I was way too excited to go on dates.
Having friends who doubled as roommates was one of the best parts of my early 20s, and it came with so many great memories. The one downside is that you can’t hide who you are dating. After trying to dance around pronouns, I slowly gave them more details about the mystery girl I had been sneaking out to see.
Naturally, a few of my friends did have questions. They wanted to understand how I was feeling, if dating women felt different, and how I knew I wanted to pursue women. I had the answers to some of those questions, but not all, and if you were to ask me those same questions today (almost three years later), my answers have definitely changed. They were supportive and patient with my answers, and most importantly, they listened.
The realization that change was both inevitable and necessary
I reassured everyone that nothing would change, that I was still the exact same person they had known five minutes ago. Looking back, I wish I had reassured everyone around me less and focused on what I knew: I wanted to date women.
Of course, I would change. My identity was changing, and how I viewed the world was, too. I now had to think about if a space was queer-friendly, how to react when guys at the bar would stare at me holding hands with a girl, or how alienating it would be feeling like the only queer person in a packed bar.
During these changes, I immersed myself in queer spaces. I was able to meet so many new queer friends that liberated and validated me in a way I didn’t think was possible. It wasn’t easy. These spaces were hard to find. I live in one of the country’s biggest cities, and I quickly became aware that even in a large city, bars specifically for WLW are few and far between. I learned that there are many different kinds of queer spaces, and some I liked more than others. Many of the gay bars in my neighborhood were catered to gay men. They were fun but didn’t really have the community I now craved. Even after my first Pride, I felt disappointed in the lack of representation I saw.
“As much as I hoped my life would stay exactly the same as it was before I came out, I now realize that was never possible, and the change wasn’t a bad thing at all.”
I didn’t realize it would take time—and some trial and error—to understand how my identity changed the spaces I wanted to be in and to find the events and communities that resonated most with me. I eventually joined a book club, a queer-focused nonprofit, and found a WLW comedy show that I loved. These new events introduced me to new friends and offered places to bring existing friends. I am forever grateful to the queer spaces, friends, and content I had early in my coming out journey and the changes they brought into my life; without them, I can’t say that I would be where I am.
The reality of my friendships changing—for better and for worse
As I grew more connected to myself and my queerness, I started to feel disconnected from certain parts of my life.
One night, two friends and I were at our favorite bar when they struck up a conversation with a group of guys. I had promised to be their wingwoman for the night. Everything was going well until one of the guys turned to me and asked, “Where’s your boyfriend?”
I confidently replied, “Oh, my girlfriend is actually out of town.”
He scoffed. “You could’ve just said you’re not into me.”
I blinked. “Huh?”
The conversation quickly snowballed into me having to justify my identity to a complete stranger. When he eventually said, “I just don’t get why there’s not a straight Pride month,” I grabbed my friends and left.
I suddenly realized that my experience going out would be different from my straight friends. I no longer wanted to frequent the same bars I had once enjoyed, and this realization came with a hefty dose of guilt. After all, I had promised everyone around me that nothing would change. At times, I even missed the ignorance I had when I was dating men. I never had conversations like that when I was dating men. Anytime I told someone I had a boyfriend, they would politely apologize. However, I wasn’t going to let anyone, let alone a stranger, invalidate a relationship and sexuality I had worked so hard to love and accept.
I quickly became aware of which places felt more inclusive and inviting and which did not. Sometimes, I passed on nights out, which I’m sure some of my friends found frustrating. But my coming out also pushed me to have hard conversations with them. I had to learn to communicate how things had changed for me (like the desire to be in and the comfort I needed from queer spaces) but express how that didn’t have to change my friendships. I’m lucky to have surrounded myself with a good group of supportive friends who offered constant support throughout this transition. Our hangouts started to look different; we tried new things and explored new bars, but they were with me through it all.
Some of my relationships with the men in my life also changed, though in more subtle ways. There was always a disconnect between our genders, but now with sexuality, this disconnect only grew. It wasn’t that they treated me badly, but at times, it felt like they saw me as “one of the guys” in a way I had never experienced before. My sexuality didn’t change my gender, but I felt as if they associated my dating women with me being more masculine. I didn’t want to feel put into a box by anyone, especially by people I called my friends. These friendships were always based on joking and teasing each other. Still, when the jokes were about my sexuality or how I did or did not fit into a queer stereotype, I didn’t feel like I was being taken seriously.
“It took longer than I thought, but I had to accept that I did change, and that my true friends would not only accept that but would celebrate those changes with me.”
I couldn’t help but think at times, with some male friends, that the friendship was permanently changed when I stopped prioritizing men as romantic partners. Of course, this was not the case with all of my male friendships—some of those relationships grew much stronger, and I am forever grateful for those. It took longer than I thought, but I had to accept that I did change and that my true friends would not only accept that but would celebrate those changes with me.
I look back on that first conversation with my roommate when I was standing in a pile of discarded date outfits. I had not planned to come out to her that night, but her reaction made it possible for many more coming out conversations. While I’d like to sit here and say everything has been rainbows and butterflies since then, it clearly hasn’t. As much as I hoped my life would stay exactly the same as it was before I came out, I now realize that was never possible, and the change wasn’t a bad thing at all. It was the best thing that could have happened to me, and I wouldn’t change a thing that has happened since. I still end up with a tornado of subpar outfits around my closet when getting ready for a date with my now-girlfriend, but at least she creates her own tornado pile, too. Now, I don’t fumble over pronouns, avoid eye contact, or shrink myself and my love into something more digestible.
I hope we all can one day reach a point where nobody needs to come out, but I’ve come to terms with probably having to keep coming out for the rest of my life. To new friends, coworkers, or the random guy hitting on me at a bar. But I also know that I’m surrounded by people who love me, people who accept me, and people who see me.
Abby Peterson, Contributing Writer
Abby is a Chicago-based benefits consultant with a degree in marketing from Loyola University Chicago. She shares her communication expertise with businesses while also serving on the steering committee for Link USA. Her passion is finding creative ways to communicate in the corporate world and through writing with The Everygirl.
Feature graphic images credited to: Adolfo Félix | Unsplash, Roberta Sant’Anna | Unsplash