Hi, friends. Today, I’m sharing an updated version of the essay “Groceries” that I wrote and shared last year. It’s about coming out and choosing myself for the very first time. Feel free to share this with someone who needs it. Thank you for reading.
When I finally made the decision to free myself, Sam was unpacking groceries in the kitchen. Across the living room, I watched him move organic olive oil from a reusable bag to its usual spot on the white granite countertop. Making his way towards the stainless steel refrigerator, he began placing Honeycrisp apples into the crisper drawer. A toothy grin spread across his face, revealing the tiny gap between his two front teeth. I was home, and he was happy to see me. It was the absolute worst thing to walk into when you’re about to end your relationship.
Three years into dating, on the precipice of a marriage engagement, we had settled into a routine that felt familiar and safe. I envisioned Sam going to Safeway earlier that evening, picking out our favorite things to fill our home with. Wild-caught Pacific salmon for weeknight dinner. Asparagus and summer squash to grill with friends later in the week. Caramel cone ice cream for cuddling on the couch. The intentions were pure, and that’s what made it hurt so bad. I wasn’t prepared to tell him I’m gay while he’s stocking our fridge with love and sustenance for the future.
If he had been a shittier person, it would have been a lot easier to listen to what I already knew. That this relationship was not for me. That I was neglecting a part of myself that found women infinitely more interesting and attractive. That I was done controlling who I was. That I was yearning for freedom.
But he wasn’t a shitty man. In fact, he was a really great human. Over the years, I found a million and one things that I “should” love about him. He was giving. He was affectionate. He was safe. He could give me the future that everyone wanted for me, that I thought I wanted for myself.
Minutes before, I stood outside our Seattle craftsman, staring into the multiverse that was my front door. The same door we had agonized over Sherwin-Williams paint colors for at Lowes, that I had painted three times because I couldn’t make up my damn mind about who I wanted to be. I looked at the horizontal mail slot halfway down the door, a small piece of walnut-grain wood wedged between the steel frame. When we first moved in, Sam noticed that our heat was escaping through the mail slot and running up our energy bill, and since we already had a mailbox, he created a custom insert out of recycled wood to block the airflow to the outside. The insert was cut to size, sanded, finished with a water-resistant sealant, and wrapped in bubble wrap for additional insulation. It was annoyingly perfect. His ability to build beautiful things that simultaneously cut off my air flow was a through line in our relationship.
For as long as I can remember, I lived with the murky thought that I might be queer. Over the years, I tried dating all types of men—nice guys, BMX riders, frat bros, artistic types, indie boys with feminine features. And while these relationships were genuine, there was always some distance between us that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
I understood the assignment of being chosen, and I knew exactly what to do to be desired. How to make him feel special. How to make myself small. Which neckline and octave to choose for optimal flirting. What sounds to make when I fake an orgasm. Sex with men was a performance, and I was one of the best actors around. I loved being wanted, but I didn’t know what it meant to truly crave something else.
Over the years, I grew curious about being with women. I kissed a few girls when I was a teenager (rather, I found a loophole for kissing them during adolescent games of truth or dare), and everything about it felt different. Their soft lips pulled me in and held me there, suspended in time and space. Throughout my twenties I was enamored with what it would be like to be in a same-sex relationship, to be intimate with someone who was socialized to be tender, emotional, and attentive. I desperately wanted to share the bond of female friendship within the context of a romantic relationship.
I spent years carrying this secret around, refusing to explore these feelings because I feared what could happen. I got so much of my worth from the male gaze, from the validation of being wanted by men. If I gave into my desire, what would happen? What if I liked it? If I was gay, I would need to uproot my entire life. I’d need to give up an identity I had been conditioned to want to buy into. It was terrifying and daunting, and it threatened my entire sense of self.
I desperately didn’t want to be gay.
So, I stayed in my box. I carried this heavy knowing around for over twenty years.
The thought came in waves, and some moments were harder than others. I felt pleased when I’d share a moment of intimacy with a man—like I was passing a test, created and administered by me, to prove I was straight. I felt reassured when I’d feel an ounce of authentic pleasure that didn’t require me to disassociate from my body and mind. Maybe I am normal, I thought. Maybe I can make this work. Maybe I can be happy with marriage and babies and this life. Maybe I will be lucky enough to lose myself forever. I should be grateful.
Two years into my relationship with Sam, I tried to tell the truth. Between heavy sobs, I told him that, for as long as I can remember, I thought about being with women. I told him about how I struggled to make sense of these feelings, and that I needed to be alone for a while to explore this part of myself. We had every intention of splitting up that summer.
Then I did what often happens when we get too close to the edge. I got scared. I couldn’t see the rising that was yet to come, so I crawled back into my cozy hole of blissful ignorance. It feels much safer there, even when we know in our guts that it’s not for us.
So instead of breaking up, I bought a house and we built a life together. We entangled our families and finances and possessions. I filled the cracks and crevices with concrete to hide the shaky foundation. I crawled deeper into the pit of self-denial. For a while, I told myself I was happy. That this was enough.
In time, the knowing bubbled back to the surface. Our knowing always returns, no matter how much we try to hide from it.
I hated carrying this knowing around. It came with us on couples camping trips and birthday weekends. It snuck into the suitcase I brought on our family vacation to Palm Springs. It was wedged between us on long car rides, tucked between the pages of my book as we read next to each other in silence. The knowing showed up at Christmas Eve dinner, hidden away from the smiling aunts and uncles that greeted me with warm hugs and beautifully wrapped gifts. It lay between us in bed every night, and to my dismay, it was still there when I awoke at dawn.
It wasn’t a secret, per se. I wasn’t ready to know myself yet.
I wish I could say I reached a perfect moment of clarity where I knew exactly what I wanted, but it never came. Was I bisexual? Was I gay? Was I afraid of the unknown? Was I falling into old habits of sabotaging relationships and looking for chaos? Was I just bored because this is the longest relationship I’ve ever had? Had I given this relationship a fair enough chance? Could I make sense of my feelings for women within the context of this relationship? I felt like I loved him, but did I want a life with him? My mind was pure chaos.
Here’s the one thing I knew for sure: When I dropped into my body, this was not it.
I was driving home that evening, resolved in the fact that I needed to finally end things with Sam. My hands were shaking, my pulse felt like an earthquake.
After a few deep breaths on the front porch, I convinced myself to swing open the front door and face what was inside. I shoved my shoulder against the wooden barrier to give it a little extra push. The weight of my body sent me flying forward, delivering a loud and clumsy entrance, my bags rustling against the doorway. I stumbled through the portal I had been avoiding, breathing in the uncomfortable reality that everything was about to change. That I was about to bulldoze this life together and there would be no going back.
Our eyes met through the breakfast bar cutout. I was ready to say what I needed to say, and there he was, unpacking groceries into our fridge.
I hesitated. Time stood still. Look how wonderful he is, I told myself. I should keep trying. He is a good man, and I can make this work. I should be grateful.
In that split second, I saw a reel of me abandoning myself over the years. The restless nights in bed. The girls I longed for but never pursued. The men that I never wanted to give my body to. The knowing. The hiding. The impossible weight of it all. I had spent so much energy containing these parts of myself, and I was fucking done.
I stood in the doorway, standing between my past self and an uncertain future. I had a choice. Should I give this up in hopes of a more beautiful life, or hold on to what feels safe? Am I brave enough to trust what I already know?
In that moment, I remembered a quote from Glennon Doyle’s Untamed. “There is no such thing as one way liberation.”
I took a deep breath and closed the door behind me. I dropped my bags to the ground, and for the first time ever, I chose myself.
I gave up our life together. I gave up a safe marriage and the babies that we would never have. I let go of the promises we had made. I gave up what could have been.
Standing in the darkness, I wasn’t sure what was to come. There was no sure-fire sign that my decision was the right one, or that something better was around the corner. But here’s what I knew in my heart of hearts: Destruction is followed by creation. Darkness is followed by light. I couldn’t see it yet, but what was waiting to be unearthed was beyond my wildest dreams. And once I started to walk through fire towards my true self, nothing was able to stop me. I would keep choosing myself. Again, and again, and again.
