As a queer woman in a straight-presenting relationship, finding the confidence to embrace my queerness over the past few years was like trying to catch a minnow in a creek: My fingers brushed by it, and there may have been a split second where I held it in my palm, but ultimately, the fish broke free and left me empty-handed except for a lingering, slimy feeling on my skin.
I realized I wasn’t straight in sixth grade. I’d try several labels over the next few years in the hopes that one would feel right and stick. None of them did, though, because my feelings of love and attraction were too nebulous to define — or confine — to a specific, binary label. I eventually decided to identify as queer (which, for me, means I can fall in love with someone’s soul regardless of their physical form) or bisexual.
My feelings about attraction ring entirely true for my current partner, who has a beautiful soul and personality. After knowing each other for several years, sharing classes, and even having mutual friends, we began dating the summer after we graduated from high school. Quickly, we realized we were serious about one another.
My partner and I often say that we would’ve found each other in every reality and fallen in love with each other in any body. It just happens that, in this reality, our bodies make us a straight-presenting couple. And as happy as we are in our straight-presenting relationship, we are both also happy to identify ourselves as queer — even if we face scrutiny for it.
My freshman year, I bonded with my roommate over our shared queerness and pride in our identities. But once she learned I was in a committed relationship with a man, she became less accepting. She would refer to me in front of others as a “non-practicing bisexual” and ask me to “choose one” or “pick a side.” When I asked her to stop or insisted that she didn’t have to understand my identity to respect it, my comments fell on deaf ears.
It’s upsetting — not only because it’s exhausting to deal with the constant questions and skepticism, but also because it undermines the confidence I had built.
It was shocking to feel judged, and even dismissed, due to my sexuality and relationship. However, it’s more common than you’d think — especially in queer spaces. “Biphobia creates immense barriers for folks to feel safe enough to create their own connections and communities,” says Michelle Smith, a licensed mental health counselor (LPC, LMHC, LCMHC) and certified clinical hypnotherapist. “This may make it hard for individuals to put themselves out there, even in queer spaces, due to fear of rejection or the potential to have to defend their identity, which can be retraumatizing in so many ways. As a result, it is difficult to find distinct ‘bi-specific’ spaces even within the LGBTQ+ community because of this inherent bias.”
It’s upsetting — not only because it’s exhausting to deal with the constant questions and skepticism, but also because it undermines the confidence I had built. The more I encountered homophobia and biphobia, the more it made me question my place within the queer community: Was I allowed to call myself queer? Am I allowed to call myself gay? Can I celebrate Pride? Can I get excited when queer characters make it into TV shows and movies? Am I enough for my community? Am I even part of this community?
The answer is, of course, yes. A study from Stanford University published by Pew Research Center found that 88% of interviewed bisexuals were in straight-presenting relationships. So, despite the confusion and pressure to “choose,” if 88% of these people have found a way to hold their queerness in one hand and their straight-presenting relationships in the other, then I could too — right?
After experiencing doubt and confusion when it came to my queerness, I decided that embracing my identity in my relationship was necessary — regardless of what other people thought. So, I took even more steps to validate myself and settle into my own skin: I made more friends and better friends who uplifted my identity and didn’t question it — or who were also queer in straight relationships and who understood me exactly.
We identify as a queer couple: We celebrate Pride together, and we both strive to present our queerness in the way we style ourselves — whether it be makeup and jewelry or subverting gender expectations in clothing.
Finding a supportive community, I learned, was important when it came to embracing my sexuality. “When adults receive messages that safety can come from moments of a supportive community, it allows their bodies to relax, equate safety with their identity, and decrease the need to hide parts of themselves they once needed to protect,” says Ligia Orellana, a licensed marriage and family therapist.
Beyond community, I dove into queer media like George M. Johnson’s All Boys Aren’t Blue and Jen Winston’s Greedy: Notes From a Bisexual Who Wants Too Much to find safety in my identity. I began experimenting with my style more, allowing myself to embrace queer — or queer-coded — styles that I had previously barred myself from, like baggy, chunky, and androgynous clothing.
My partner has also always celebrated my queerness, which has created a space for me to embrace my identity fully. So, we identify as a queer couple: We celebrate Pride together, and we both strive to present our queerness in the way we style ourselves — whether it be makeup and jewelry or subverting gender expectations in clothing. We watch and read queer media together, and our shared social circles are made of other beautiful, accepting queer people.
Identity and sexuality are not static things, though, so I imagine there will be more to my journey of self-acceptance and realization in the future — another fish to catch. But even if there is, I’m confident and secure in my identity and in my relationship — no matter what anyone else thinks of them.