When Coming Out Feels Like Coming Home
In February of 2022 I found myself bored, burnt out, and having gained more weight than felt good for me. I was slogging through my nine-to-five, dragging myself to the office on the required two days a week, and on the other days I counted it as a win if I made it out of my pajamas before noon. Somewhere between then and graduation in 2019, I had managed to fall into my own personal hell of isolation and redundancy. Suffice it to say, I was miserable.
It was also around this time that I began to come to terms with my bisexuality. While I’d known this about myself for a while, I had made a habit of pushing it to the back of my brain, enshrouding my secret in the heteronormative life I could — and did — choose to live. While I had managed to make it through college with this part of my identity safely buried, the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic served as a time of reckoning, and the reality I had been able to distract from and “disprove” for so long began to surface.
Initially, I didn’t feel the need to come out to anyone else. But the more I tried to keep it to myself, the more I found myself telling those around me. I confided in my partner of the time — a discussion I initiated by my naïve conviction that “everyone had to be at least a little bit gay.” Next, I impulsively came out to a newfound group of friends. The third time was more charged than charmed as once again I let it slip — although this time with lips lubricated by a flight of rosé — to my mother. In quite a nice restaurant. On vacation.
She was surprised, to say the least, as to her knowledge I had only ever shown interest in men. After getting grilled more than my salmon, she finally asked why I had kept it to myself for so long. Besides the almost universal fear of being disappointing, disowned, and disavowed — rational or not — I supposed the core reason I hadn’t said anything was because it just didn’t seem that relevant.
But it turned out that unveiling this seemingly inconsequential fact was the catalyst to finding parts of myself I hadn’t even realized I lost.
Shortly after coming out the first time, I quit my full-time job and decided to pursue freelance writing with the intention of funding a simultaneous pursuit of theater. That spring I auditioned for and booked a summer stock show where I rediscovered my buried passion. Come August, I ended an almost eight-year-long relationship and found myself living alone for the first time in my life after my partner moved out.
I grew more social, planning and hosting game nights and holiday parties in my apartment. The company and camaraderie breathed life into a home that had felt stale for years, and even when I was alone I felt less lonely.
The domino effect of feeling more fully myself continued when I moved into the first apartment that was wholly and totally mine from the start — at the ripe age of 27. Steadily rising rent and dipping checking accounts forced me into a smaller space (although this being my third apartment within the complex, I had finally managed to secure the corner unit I’d coveted for the last three years).
With a blank canvas, I began to decorate as I unpacked. Placing and hanging and choosing on instinct rather than being guided by a pre-set plan or rules dictated by a Pinterest board, I ended up creating a space that feels like more of a representation of myself than ever before. While I had attempted to make my last apartment feel homey, I felt emotionally and creatively stunted — whether that was more due to the awkward and overly spacious layout, or the years I spent there cultivating an unideal relationship, I can’t fully say. All I know for sure is that my new home alone has made me feel so much more like me.
Having abandoned all preconceived notions of design, I began having more fun with my decor. I experimented with colors and patterns I was drawn to, not that necessarily “went together”; I replaced my pantry doors with a velvet curtain; I hung artwork I enjoyed looking at, much of it cat-themed; I picked and combined elements from the different mid-century modern, boho, and cottagecore styles I love.
Contrary to my old muted grayscale scheme, which I’d stuck to for its anodyne nature, my new home is made up of colors and choices that spark joy. I couldn’t believe how freeing it felt to embrace a style aimed at pleasing myself without compromise.
I have more often than not thought of my rambling mouth as a curse, as it often spits out the truth before I have a chance to swallow it back down. But in this case, I’m so grateful for my coming out — even if on a whim. I hadn’t realized that while I wrote my bisexuality as a small part of my identity, it was silently feeding on shame and neglect, casting constant shadow over my mind. Looking back, I can see now that it wasn’t the annoyance with excessive labels or the incessant need to identify as something that kept me silent. It was fear.
As I write this, I know that this essay itself is another coming out — more concrete than any before. While I’m anxious for unsolicited opinions and consequences that may follow, I find comfort in the space I’ve cultivated while living alone and fully embracing myself, those who have provided me with unconditional love, and in the realization that coming out was the first step to truly coming home.
Further Reading
Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Article’s DTC Furniture
See How a Stager Used Paint to Transform a 1950s Living Room
We Asked 8 Pro Travelers What They Never Pack in Their Carry-On, and Here’s What They Said
