The Quiet Half

If you’re reading this, maybe you’re carrying something quiet too.

Maybe it’s a part of yourself you didn’t recognize until much later in life. Maybe you’ve built a whole life, a good life, only to realize there’s a version of you still standing in the doorway, waiting to be let in.

I want to tell you a story about someone I know. A thirty-four year old woman, born and raised in the depths of Mormon town. She was deep in the religion, the kind of deep where God isn’t just in the scriptures or the chapel but in every passing thought. He watched her skirt length, her music choices, her fantasies, her friends, and kept a tally on her every move. She was the kind of kid who wanted to be good. She swallowed the rules whole and smiled while doing it. When she did “mess up”, she went straight to the bishop to confess, always trying to keep a clean slate. Her faith was sincere, which made leaving it later all the more complicated.

When she left the Church at twenty-five, she went quietly, not with fire but with fatigue. She walked away from the meetings and the callings and the ache of pretending it all still made sense. But she didn’t walk away from the structure or the conditioning. You know how that goes. Even when you leave the house, sometimes you carry the furniture with you.

But she built a new life. One filled with slow Sundays, firm boundaries, and someone who loves her deeply. A man. A good man. The kind who is a best friend, he goes to therapy, he treats her like an equal partner and showers her with love.

They’re still together. Still strong and continuing on their path forward. But a few months ago, something unspooled inside her.

She always knew she admired women. She felt pulled toward their voices, their bodies, their moods, their laughter. But in her mind, that was just how women were. We all love each other. We’re all tender and awestruck and full of feelings. Right? We all can agree that women are just undeniably attractive?

She truly thought every woman felt that way.

It never occurred to her that those feelings were anything other than collective appreciation. She thought she was just emotional and sensual. She’d watch women on screen and feel something sharp and sweet at the same time, but she filed it under “relatable.” And she continued to assume everyone else did too.

It wasn’t until recently, when talking to some of her girlfriends, that she started to piece together that “oh, wait.. not every woman is turned on by women?” She was shocked and argued “Nooo every girl used to google ‘girls kissing’!” Her friends laughed, “yeah, the bisexual ones!”

And that’s when it hit her. “Oh. Bisexual women feel about women the way I feel about women. Not all women feel this way. Just some of us…..?!” It felt like a simple, obvious thought. But it hit her like a ton of bricks. Because it wasn’t just a new identity.. it was a reorganization of memory. A rerouting of how she understood herself. All of those little moments across her life had a different tone. They weren’t just admiration. They weren’t just sisterhood or solidarity. They were attraction. Longing. Maybe even love?

She’s bisexual. Has been all along.

You might think this is the part of the story where things fall apart.. where the partner panics or the relationship buckles under the weight of this revelation. But that’s not what happened.

When she told him, he listened. He asked questions. He told her he loved her. His lack of a reaction was comforting and safe to her. There was no judgement, he just listened and learned like it was another page in the story of who she was.

And then, he offered something she never expected: the freedom to explore it.

Not a flippant hall pass. Not a “go have your fun.” It was deeper than that. He said, “If this is a part of you that needs to be lived, I want you to feel like you can. Your sexuality has been suppressed enough and I want you to heal it the best you can.” It was love at its most selfless and sweet.

But here’s the twist: she can’t.

Why?? She’s not wired that way. For her, physicality needs emotional intimacy. It’s a large part of her attraction to people. She can’t separate the two. It’s not about sex, it’s about connection. And she already has that, fully, beautifully and safely, with him.

So where does that leave her?

It’s a strange place to be: completely in love and yet aching for a part of herself she’ll probably never get to fully know. It’s not regret exactly. More like a quiet grief and a missed window.

She sometimes imagines what it might’ve been like to date women in her twenties. To flirt with uncertainty. To kiss a girl after a deep conversation, with no shame. Not because she’s unhappy now!! But because there’s a version of herself that never got to breathe. One who didn’t have to silence her instincts. One who knew, early on, what her heart was trying to say.

Instead, she’s here. Knowing this about herself and having no place to put it.

And yet… she doesn’t regret her life. She doesn’t want to change it. There’s no resentment toward her partner. If anything, her love for him deepened after she opened up about it. It gave her a space to grieve without guilt. To explore, at least internally, without shame.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

There are days when the ache comes on strong. When she imagines being raised in a different, more accepting environment. She probably would have known this sooner about herself and would have exploration and self acceptance under her belt.

She wonders sometimes what would happen if she tried. If she really allowed herself to meet someone, to connect, to open that door. But every time, she circles back to the same wall: she can’t get there without love. And her love is happily spoken for.

So she stays. And she keeps this truth close. Not hidden or ashamed, just… private. Sacred, even. A piece of herself that exists without needing permission anymore.

She told me the hardest part isn’t the desire. It’s the fact that she’ll never get to find out who she might’ve been in that parallel life. The one where she came out young, where her church didn’t make her afraid of her own instincts. The one where her queerness was just another color in her palette, not a secret held in the dark.

But here’s what I admire about her most: she doesn’t let that grief harden her. She holds it gently and she lets it live alongside her joy. She knows it doesn’t have to be either/or. She’s bisexual and in a committed relationship. She’s in love and mourning what she’ll never have. She’s stable and questioning. All of it can exist!

Because for her, this isn’t a story about dissatisfaction. It’s a story about truth and acceptance. Realizing that she’s chosen a path that she’s happy with, but she chose it without all of the information first. And is still choosing it again. And what it means to carry it, even when it can’t be lived out loud.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe naming it, feeling it, letting it exist.. that’s the kind of freedom she never knew she was allowed to have. And the kind of pride that still deserves celebration.

Not every queer story ends in reinvention. Some end in stillness. In peace. In learning to love the version of yourself that never had a chance to bloom. And holding space for them anyway.

She does that. Every day. She chooses commitment, honesty and to love every part of herself. Even the quiet half.