If you had asked me five years ago who I was, I would have confidently said, “I’m Jamie, and I’m a lesbian.” That’s who I thought I was. It’s who I told myself I was. It’s how I introduced myself to the world. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about life, it’s that nothing—absolutely nothing—is set in stone, least of all your heart.
I grew up in Cincinnati, Ohio, in a family that wasn’t exactly conservative but wasn’t what you’d call progressive either. My parents were the kind of people who’d support you as long as you kept things neat and presentable. So, when I came out as a lesbian at 19, they gave me this lukewarm “We love you no matter what” speech that felt more like a formality than actual acceptance. But I took it. At least they didn’t disown me.
For years, I threw myself into that identity. I went to Pride parades, joined the local LGBTQ+ community groups, and even dated a string of amazing women. At first, it felt freeing, like I was finally living authentically. But over time, something shifted. I didn’t notice it right away—it was subtle, like a whisper in the back of my mind that I ignored for years.
The moment everything began to unravel was after my breakup with Marissa. We were together for two years, and everyone—including me—thought we’d end up together forever. But our relationship was toxic, though not in the way you might think. Marissa wasn’t abusive, and I wasn’t cruel. The toxicity came from how forced everything felt. We fought over the smallest things, and there was this constant sense that we were trying to make something fit that just… didn’t.
After we broke up, I told myself I’d take a break from dating. I wasn’t heartbroken; I was exhausted. I needed to figure out why love—this thing that was supposed to feel beautiful and fulfilling—felt like such a chore. But in the months that followed, I found myself questioning more than just the relationship. I began to realize I wasn’t feeling the same spark with women that I used to. In fact, I wasn’t feeling much of anything at all.
At first, I thought it was just a phase. Maybe I was still grieving the relationship, or maybe I’d lost touch with myself. But the more I sat with it, the more undeniable it became: I was starting to notice men. I didn’t want to notice them. It felt like a betrayal of the person I’d been for years, the community that had embraced me, and the identity I’d clung to. But feelings aren’t something you can ignore.
The first time I admitted it out loud was to my best friend, Taylor, who’d been with me through my entire “lesbian era,” as we jokingly called it.
“I think I like men now,” I told her over coffee one afternoon, my voice barely above a whisper.
She raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
“I don’t know how else to explain it,” I said, shrugging. “It’s like something inside me just… changed. Or maybe I’m finally seeing something I didn’t want to see before.”
To my relief, Taylor didn’t judge me. She just nodded and said, “Well, love is love, right? You’ve gotta follow your heart.”
So, I did. I started dipping my toes into the world of dating men, and let me tell you, it was both thrilling and terrifying. The first guy I went out with was nice—too nice. I spent the entire date waiting for him to say or do something wrong, but he didn’t. I kept comparing him to my exes, trying to convince myself that this wasn’t real, that I was just fooling myself. But as the weeks turned into months, I realized it wasn’t a phase. This was real. I was attracted to men in a way I hadn’t been to women in years.
Of course, not everyone understood. My parents, who had just gotten used to the idea of having a lesbian daughter, were utterly confused when I brought home a boyfriend for the first time. My mom pulled me aside after dinner and asked, “Are you sure this is what you want?”
I laughed because honestly, I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “Mom, I’m just figuring it out as I go.”
Some of my friends from the LGBTQ+ community were supportive, but others weren’t. A few accused me of “betraying” the community, as if who I dated somehow invalidated the years I spent identifying as gay. That hurt more than I expected. But over time, I stopped caring what other people thought. This was my life, my heart, and my journey—not theirs.
Now, at 27, I’m in a completely different place than I was at 19. I’m dating a guy named Jake who makes me laugh harder than anyone ever has. He knows my history, and he doesn’t judge me for it. In fact, he embraces it. Sometimes, when I tell him stories about my ex-girlfriends, he jokes, “Well, I’m glad you got that out of your system before you met me.”
Living on both sides of the fence has given me a perspective I wouldn’t trade for anything. I’ve learned that love isn’t black and white, and neither is attraction. People evolve. Feelings change. What matters is being true to yourself in every stage of life, even when that truth is messy or hard to explain.
I know there are people out there who might not understand my journey, and that’s okay. I don’t need them to. All I ask is that we give each other the grace to live authentically, even when that authenticity doesn’t fit neatly into a box. Life is too short to live for other people’s expectations.
So, here’s my advice: Go with the flow. Live your life as you feel. Let yourself grow and change and discover who you are, over and over again. Because at the end of the day, love is love—no matter how, when, or with whom you find it.
Image from: Checkered Dreamscape #5 by TheBossArtwork on DeviantArt
Post Submitted by: jlpoppi@gmail.com
