Discovering new parts of yourself while you’re in a relationship can be hard.

This past summer, as I hit the three-and-a-half year milestone with my boyfriend, I finally came to terms with my sexuality as a bisexual woman. Growing up, I always knew I liked boys. I’ve had multiple boyfriends since the sixth grade and only ever had sex with men. It wasn’t until my first year at college that I began to realize I was attracted to women as well. This revelation shook me up for a while, not because I was uncomfortable with being sapphic, but rather because I had always identified myself as straight.

I felt a lot of guilt about “changing” my sexuality at a point in my life when so many others seemed firm in their own. Sure, college is supposed to be when people experiment, but I couldn’t experiment outside of my monogamous relationship. There was this irrational fear that people wouldn’t believe me because they already knew me as a straight person.

I was also worried about how it would affect my relationship with my boyfriend. He’d always been an active ally of the LGBTQ+ community, but what if my change in sexual preference scared or hurt him? These confusions and worries about my sexuality changing how others—including my boyfriend—saw me were built upon by the fact that I was in a long-term relationship with a man. After taking time to process my emotions, I mentally zoomed out to examine why I was feeling so guilty and found two major sociological processes at play.

Compulsory heterosexuality, a term first coined by feminist and essayist Adrienne Rich in 1980, refers to the assumed and imposed nature of heterosexuality in relationships. It’s known to particularly affect women due to patriarchal influences, and discourages folks from engaging in queer relationships that go against societal norms. I found this built upon in myself, particularly in the way that I had to reject that imposed heterosexuality while within the confines of a heterosexual relationship.

The second harmful societal standard I identified was the assumption that sexuality has to be fixed. As identities become more and more politicized in our society, there’s more of a pressure to fit ourselves into categories. And while it’s a good thing that queer sexualities are beginning to be more accepted, expecting people to pick a label for their sexual preference and stick with it is not. The realization that sexuality is fluid by nature helped me feel more comfortable with my newfound identity. As a human being, I’m constantly changing and growing, so it only makes sense that my sexuality matures alongside me. 

Understanding these two concepts helped me further understand where some of my discomfort was stemming from. I did, however, want to share this newly defined part of myself with my boyfriend to help myself feel completely at ease with it.

I decided to come out to him while we were at the beach midway through summer. My face was flushed and my voice shaky as I told him that I liked everyone; not just boys. Anticipation constricted my lungs as I waited for his response. He just smiled, asked if I still wanted to be with him, and hugged me when I said “of course.” “Then that’s all that matters,” he said.

My relationship has flourished since this summer, even as we took on long-distance again when college season hit. Our conversations are more intimate, and our trust in each other is emboldened. Even the sex is better. 

Coming into my bisexuality allowed me to reframe how I thought about sex and its goals. While I’m not physically experimenting with other women, I’m engaging with sapphic porn and erotica to learn more about my desires and pleasures. This has led to me being more confident and empowered when having sex, making the experience better for my boyfriend as well.

While I’ve told my boyfriend and a few friends about my sexuality, I’m still unsure of if I want to come out to most of my peers—even the queer ones. There’s a certain stigma around bisexuality that comes from both heterosexual and gay and lesbian communities. Bi folks can have their desires and relationships invalidated because they don’t fit into only one end of the gay-straight binary. 

Especially since I’m in a straight relationship, I’m worried about my sexuality being dismissed or ignored as a valuable part of me. Acknowledging the plethora of ways relationships can be constructed between straight and queer people is the first step in destigmatizing bisexuality. For now, I’m happy with where I’m at with my sexuality. I just hope there comes a day when I can feel comfortable sharing this part of me with all my friends and not worry about their judgment.