To describe my journey with my husband, Zach, as a fairy tale would hardly capture the complexity of our lives together. I first met Zach in the autumn of 1996 when I was 12 and he was 11. We bonded over our shared love for cartoons, the Yankees, music, and the works of Stephen King. We often sat next to each other in art class, and he had a knack for making me laugh in science class, typically at the expense of our teacher or classmates. When the Halloween dance approached that October, I mustered the courage to ask him to be my date, and we shared slow dances to songs about adult love.
Our romantic journey truly began in 2001 at the start of our senior year, and by 2003, we had decided to move in together. Attending college in Philadelphia, we thought sharing an apartment would be perfect—no RAs or roommates to contend with, just the freedom to live how we pleased. We tied the knot in the fall of 2007 and welcomed two beautiful children in 2013 and 2019.
Throughout the years, our relationship was characterized by warmth and comfort, built on the solid foundation of friendship. However, everything shifted in my 30s. By the time I turned 36, I realized my feelings for Zach had changed; I found myself wanting to connect with women. This was not something I had anticipated when we exchanged vows, promising to support each other “for better, for worse, ’til death do us part.” I genuinely believed we would grow old together, so I tried to suppress these feelings, convincing myself this must be part of the “for worse” that was mentioned during our wedding.
As I continued to ignore my true feelings, they only grew stronger, leading to feelings of anger, sadness, and isolation. I spent many lonely nights in tears, grappling with my identity while feeling the weight of shame. I told myself that I couldn’t be a lesbian, convincing myself that my loving husband and family meant I was not allowed to embrace my true self.
In March, just as COVID-19 began reshaping our lives, I finally confided in Zach that I was bisexual. He asked what that meant for our relationship, and I assured him it wouldn’t change anything—he accepted me wholeheartedly. However, deep down, I sensed that labeling myself as bisexual was a way of avoiding the truth. I was a woman who loved women, and today I identify as queer. This realization, however, doesn’t alleviate the challenges I face in my daily life. I continue to present as a heterosexual woman, navigating a heterosexual existence while feeling increasingly lost within myself. The pressure of potentially losing my family, especially my two children, weighs heavily on me.
Despite my internal struggles, I am fortunate to have an incredible therapist and psychiatrist, along with supportive friends who understand my situation. They remind me that it’s okay to be queer, and I have a safe space to explore my feelings. As for my marriage, we are moving forward without a clear path, but I remain committed to open communication, even when it’s difficult. Zach is still my best friend and the father of my children, and while my desires may have evolved, my love for him endures.
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- Can a queer woman be married to a man?
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In summary, my journey as a queer woman married to a man has been filled with love and challenges. Navigating my identity while maintaining my family life has led to significant emotional turmoil, yet I strive to communicate openly with my husband and seek support from those around me.