I Used to Wish I Were Straight

June 1991

I came from the womb, kicking and screaming, clearly upset to have made it earthside.

It was as though I knew that the life I would endure as a lesbian woman would be agonizingly difficult.

I’d face demons that haunted me from the moment I came to this planet, until the day I died.

Some part of me knew my soul had chosen this life before birth.

And the human part of me, even in infant form, wished I’d never taken on this mission.

March 2011

It wasn’t unlike any other evening I’d spent cooped up in front of my computer screen.

I was tucked away in my quaint but cozy, cabin-like dorm room in college–completely oblivious to the outside world.

But this night was different.

I’d just figured out I was gay.

I was watching music videos when one from Lady Gaga popped up in my feed.

In this spicy and seductive video, three women pulled Gaga’s head back, poured a murky liquid down her throat, and removed her bra.

I sat there, dumbfounded and confused because this visual made me feel something I hadn't felt before.

Up to that point, I’d loosely dated men. But every time things got to the kissing stage, I’d break it off.

Something about physical touch with men made me feel deeply uncomfortable—even though I was “dating” them.

Not that I’d dated anyone in the last four years.

At 18, I’d dedicated myself entirely to gymnastics. I thought that was the reason I wasn’t into someone. I told myself I needed to avoid any and all distractions.

But that night, in just three minutes of watching this tantalizing music video, I began questioning everything in my life.

I kept thinking, “There’s no way I’m gay. And if I’m gay, I’m going to hell.”

My parents were the straight-and-narrow type. They’d been together since college.

They weren’t overly religious, but they encouraged me to go to church with my childhood best friend.

Even back then, church always made me uncomfortable.

Still, it wasn’t my parents who planted the fear that I’d go to hell for being gay.

It was my extremely religious aunt and uncle—living with them had left a deeper mark than I’d realized.

After that video, everything started to click—my entire life made sense.

The lack of interest in boys.

The intense admiration I felt for my female gymnastics coaches.

The girl at school I desperately wanted to be friends with who I brought little gifts to.

Every little puzzle piece fell into place creating a lifetime of gay artwork that I had no idea I was living in—until now.

By the end of that month, I had concluded two things:

I was gay—and I was going to hell.

June 2011

We sat together on the deck—my dad and I—overlooking the majestic mountains and rolling green hills. The view was too breathtaking to capture on camera.

Nervously, I said, “Dad, I need to talk to you about something.”

Without looking away from the view, he huffed, “Okay.”

I paused, then said, “I’m gay.”

He didn’t respond.

“I just want you to know,” I continued, “and I hope this doesn’t change the way you think of me.”

Still, silence.

“I love you,” I finally added, anxiety building in my chest.

“I love you too,” he said, his hand partially covering his mouth, but I still heard him clearly.

And just like that, I realized: that phrase had never left his lips before.

In all my 18 years, I had never heard him say the words: “I love you.”

And as far as I know, he never said them out loud ever again.

August 2011

I did the most understandable thing anyone in my position would do: I came out on Facebook.

At that point, my parents, my sister, and my best friend already knew.

But I felt like it was time that the rest of my little world knew too.

So I posted it.

Online, I was met with nothing but support.

But the real world wasn’t so kind.

The following week, while coaching gymnastics, a parent approached me and asked, “They’re still going to let you coach our kids, even after you came out as being gay?”

It was my first experience with homophobia.

And, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be my last.

October 2016

I was living in Idaho—probably the worst decision I’ve ever made as a lesbian woman.

One evening, I was invited to dinner with a new coworker.

She was my age—bubbly, friendly, and chatty.

“So, what was your childhood like?” she asked, casually popping a truffle fry into her mouth.

I was 25, still relatively new to owning my identity, still a little naïve.

And I had rarely experienced overt homophobia.

So, I let her in.

I told her about my past, my family, and my upbringing.

About 30 minutes into the conversation, she suddenly stopped and looked me dead in the eye, her expression turning cold.

“I don’t think you were born gay,” she said matter-of-factly. “I think your upbringing nurtured it. God made a man’s penis fit into a woman’s vagina for a reason.”

Verbatim, that’s what she said…

I sat there, stunned.

And completely unable to speak.

I took a bite of my sandwich. It tasted like sawdust.

But just like that, she moved on to another topic. Completely unfazed by the fact that she had just delivered one of the most insulting comments I’d ever heard.

And still, I knew—compared to what others face in the LGBTQ community—this was mild at most.

March 2023

Annabel made eye contact with me from across the gym. She was a nosy, sixty-something Hispanic woman who always had to be in everyone’s business.

She pointed toward an attractive man training with me—he was on my CrossFit team—and mouthed, “Is he single?”

I shook my head and mouthed back, “No.”

She sighed and gestured between him and me, clearly suggesting we should be together. It was the third time she’d made some comment about me being with a man.

The fourth time, I finally said something.

She’d cornered me again, asking if I had a boyfriend.

I’d had enough.

I replied lightly, “I don’t date men.”

She looked shocked. “What do you mean you don’t date men? What do you date?”

As though there were that many other options.

“Women,” I said, laughing—though she didn’t find it funny.

“Oh Dios mío,” she muttered, before snapping, “Are you dating anyone now?”

“No,” I replied.

“Good. Keep it that way,” she barked.

I walked away, angry. Not just because of her, but because if someone as blunt and outspoken as her could say something like that, how many others had thought the same or worse—just not outloud.

That was what stung.

It wasn’t just her opinion that hurt—it was the reminder that there are probably so many others who’ve crossed my path and felt disgust toward me, simply because I love women the same way a man loves a woman.

May 2025

There’s been an unbearable sadness hovering over me.

It’s been here for days… months… years.

Ever since the day we met.

I knew it would end badly.

And it did.

It’s been three weeks and three days since we last spoke.

No contact. Nothing.

And all I can think is: Only an eternity to go.

We met on a hot summer day in mid-July.

I wasn’t looking for anything.

Neither was she—apparently.

But as we sat side-by-side at the bar of a breakfast diner, I knew immediately that I was interested.

In 16 years of being out, I had never fallen for a lesbian woman the way I fell for her.

We built a soulful, deep connection—the kind of emotional intimacy I’d only ever experienced with straight women before…

But she didn’t want anything more.

She never said it directly to me, but she had scoffed enough times at older women who dated younger women to have made me realize that she’d never be with me. I was ten years her junior.

The day she started seeing someone else, I could barely hold myself together.

One of the guys at our gym, someone I genuinely liked as a person, noticed I wasn’t okay.

“What’s up?” he asked.

I tried to push through the pain I was feeling, but eventually, I broke down and told him what was going on.

His response bothered me immensely.

“Well, since you’ve never had a successful relationship with a woman, maybe you should try dating men,” he said, like it was no big deal.

As if it were all a choice.

As if I could just wake up one day and decide to feel differently.

I used to wish I were straight.

Because when you’re straight, you don’t have to justify who you love.

No one questions it.

You don’t get suggestions like “just try dating the other gender.”

Because if you’re straight, the dating pool isn’t 1%—it’s most of the planet.

Because being straight is “normal” on this hell hole of a planet we all somehow got stuck on together.

And there’s no shame, no stigma, no side comments.

But if it weren't for being gay, I'd never know what it was like to live as a minority.

To have so much more empathy for people who are different from me.

To want to speak out and push back against the system.

Being gay is both a blessing and a curse and I get to decide what to make of it.

Here's to being gay in a straight world.

May the choices I make, the love I give and the empathy I have, be a beacon of light for all those struggling in my community.