Coming Back to Yourself: On Coming Out Later in Life

I knew before I had words for it. A deep, physical pull towards a girl in my class, that I instinctively felt was 'wrong'. I knew I was supposed to like boys, and I did, but not in this way. It took a couple of years before I kissed girls, and came out as 'liking girls' at school. I later found a label and described myself as bisexual to my friends at college and university.

I got into a relationship with my best friend, one of the four boys I lived with as a 20-year-old student. I ate, slept, partied and talked about women with these friends - but when I got together with him, he dismissed that part of me as not true. I felt baffled and embarrassed that he or my other friends could think that I’d lie about my sexuality, but it was hard to argue from a ‘straight’ relationship, so I didn't speak of my queerness again. I distanced myself from my queer friends and felt intense shame if they ever mentioned it. I felt like an imposter - like I had been faking my queerness, but also like I was failing at being straight.

My best friend, a truly lovely, fun and kind man, became my husband over the 15 years I was with him. I really wanted the fairytale to be true for us. I really wanted to be normal and safe. And I was willing to bury my truth to try.

Facing myself

Fast forward to 2020. I'm 37 years old, divorced, and sitting with the strange, disorienting task of figuring out who I really am.

I knew I was gay. I had always known something close to it. But the years of silence had done their work, and I found myself needing to prove it - not to anyone else, but to myself. Needing evidence of my own life. Rereading memories like a detective, checking whether they still made sense.

Are you sure? Is this real? Isn't it a bit convenient that you've decided this now, at

your age, after everything?

I am so thankful I had therapy during that period. It wasn't easy at first - I had been with the same therapist for years and never uttered a word about my sexuality, so it took some time for the penny to drop between us. From a quiet 'I don't want to date men anymore' to a frustrated 'no, you're not hearing me - I'm gay!'. But that therapist helped me rewind and reprocess everything that had happened, and all the decisions I had made around my sexual and romantic relationships. It also helped me process the grief of what could have been if I had come out sooner.

Facing my people

Once I had finally accepted my queerness and explained it to myself, I then had to embark

on the exhausting journey of explaining it to everyone else. Whilst those closest to me sighed with relief and said 'Ah, of course!', most, understandably, had questions. Those questions were challenging. Sometimes I felt judged and misunderstood - like I was constantly on trial, trying to justify my lesbian identity and repent for being closeted for so long.

Just like I had done with my therapist, I felt pulled into reliving and rehashing my history

with friends and family to help them make sense of me.

Did you know this when you were married? Are you going to tell your ex-husband? Will you never sleep with a man again? Not even if it was Ryan Gosling?? Won't you miss 'real' sex? Will you dress like a boy now? What about your dream of being a mother?

At first, answering these questions felt validating. It gave me language I hadn't found yet, and sharing my experience with the outside world made it feel more tangible somehow. This processing with loved ones, and their acceptance, felt like an important experience. But over time it became exhausting. LGBTQIA+ issues became people's favourite subject, and I felt expected to indulge in educating people even when I was trying to relax and just enjoy someone's company.

It's not that people meant harm - most of the time they were trying to be good friends and allies. But there was a tipping point from conversation being a way of understanding and integrating my queerness into our relationships, to people looking to me as a spokesperson and advocate for the whole community. As people grew more comfortable with my identity, they started bringing debates as social fodder. I was no longer speaking to my own experience; I was expected to explain and defend everyone's.

Feeling like a fraud

But I didn't even feel like I belonged in the community. I felt like a fraud. I felt like all I had done was flip the coin - when I was living 'straight' I felt like an imposter because I knew I was queer, and when I came out I felt like an imposter because I had lived an apparently straight life. I felt like I'd missed the deadline to get my ticket.

At first, I didn't even know where to start. I joined meetup groups and went on WLW hikes, and I felt like a complete outsider. Everyone else had learned a language I'd missed and had shared cultural references that had passed me by entirely. Because I'm straight passing, people asked me constantly if I was bisexual and people often assumed I’d ‘go back to men’. When I shared my story, I was grilled about my marriage.

Was he abusive? Do you hate men? How could you sleep with a dude? Why now?

Didn't you know?

There was a definite mistrust of my history, and it added to my shame and feeling like I didn't belong. It was a rough start, and I was so glad I had good friends and a supportive family to retreat to.

But over time, I found my people. I kept showing up at groups and events until I formed real connections. I asked friends to introduce me to their queer friends, and invited people for coffee or a beer. I learned to say: I like you and I'd like to spend more time with you - will you be my friend? It was excruciatingly vulnerable. But I built confidence as I realised that the women I met were always open to connection and often thrilled to make a new friend themselves. I now have a social life so full I can barely keep up, and it's 90% queer.

Finding my place

I'm now 42. I feel younger than I did a decade ago. I have energy and enthusiasm for exploring myself, people and the world that I simply didn't have before. For the first time, I feel truly comfortable in my own skin.

I don't feel like an imposter anymore. My friends - straight and queer - know my history, know my heart and know who I am, because now I know who I am. It didn't come all at once - it came in small, sometimes surprising things like the music and podcasts I started listening to, the events and people I was drawn to. I began to do and be what I wanted, moment to moment. I began to 'feel my edges', as a client recently said to me. Once I knew who I was and what I wanted, I could share that with the world and find like-minded people. It took a very long time to come back to myself, but it feels all the more precious for that. Coming Out Later in Life