Alexa, Play “I’m Coming Out” by Diana Ross!

October 11 is National Coming Out Day. Officially recognized since 1988, “National Coming Out Day commemorates the National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights,” emphasizing that one of the most important tools to gaining equity is coming out, living visibly in our true identity. I never thought there would be a Coming Out Day that involved my participation, but a lot has changed in the last 6 months of my life.

When I first moved to Maine, I commuted on the local highway to avoid paying $4.00/day in tolls to get to work on the interstate. Like any good, non-home-owning Millennial, my commutes often involve a stop at Starbucks. I noticed a very attractive—like, attractive even with a mask on, y’all—staff member at the Starbucks on my route. So attractive that on the first day the store went mask-less, I ever-so-subtly shouted, “Has anyone told you you have a kind face?!” at him through the drive-thru window. We both turned beet red, and I drove away positive that my anxiety would never allow me to go to that store again. Lo and behold, I went back…frequently. I followed him on Instagram after a friend sleuthed and found him in early May. I’ll spare you the rest of the play-by-play, but fast forward to today: we live together and are very happy.

He/Him. I use she/her. You might be reading this thinking I’ve lost my damn mind, blogging about my relationship on National Coming Out Day as if it’s news. However, a fact I thought I knew before we started talking and confirmed as soon as I saw his IG was this: I very much was attracted to and pursuing a man. He just so happens to be a man who lived the first part of his life as a woman.

I promise that he’s read this post and I got the go ahead to share, but I haven’t always been that mindful a partner to him. My friend group knew about him early, descending on his IG like the flying monkeys in Wizard of Oz as soon as I gave them the go-ahead. They all knew he was a trans man, and I thought nothing of telling them because it’s right there in his bio. My family knew about him and his identity early on too. It was not until recently that I learned what a misstep that was on my part.

Is he a trans man? Obvi. Is there so, so much more to him than that part of how his identity? Oh my god, yes. When he flat out asked me why I felt the need to tell people up front that I was in a relationship with a trans man, I had to check myself. Why did it matter to me that I preempt anyone finding out? Why did I feel the need to manage that information? Why was I so pressed for my people to know before they even met him? Why?

People have joked about me being a lesbian my entire life. The fact of the matter is I’ve exclusively been with cisgender, heterosexual men til now. I resisted the lesbian narrative not because of what it means to be a lesbian, but because it was categorically untrue about me. Having spent my life actively resisting any title in the LGBTQIA+ community beyond “ally,” I was unknowingly bringing lots of baggage to this relationship. That baggage came in the form of shame. Shame around feeling like I proved all those jokes and people “right.” Shame around questioning whether or not I really knew myself beforehand. Shame around my partner, not for how he identifies, but for what his identity meant about me and my identity. Lots and lots of internalized shame that I’d never before had to consider. Thankfully (if that’s the right word), these feelings are new to me but not to my partner, and he’s been graceful with me while I learn.

So here it is: 32 years old, navigating my first queer relationship, still not entirely sure I’m not straight. I don’t know if you can come out without a title, but I am. I am happy, loved, cared for, and a better woman and partner now than I ever have been. I am learning new things about myself and my relationship daily. I’m navigating—both for myself and watching my partner—what it means to exist in the world as part of the LGBTQIA+ community. I’m still me, just a happier, healthier, and whole-r version of myself.