BOTH SIDES OF ME: MY BISEXUAL JOURNEY.

I didn’t learn I was bisexual from a book, or a coming-of-age movie, or a supportive conversation at home. I learned it through armpit hair and confusion.

It was grade school. There was this after-school monitor, standing there in a wife beater, arms up, and I caught sight of his armpit hair. And for some reason, that moment ignited something in me. I remember feeling something I couldn’t name. But around that same time, I also went on a date with a girl — and I liked that, too. That’s when I knew. I liked both. I didn’t need a label. I just knew it.

High school, though… that was survival.

From the second I stepped into those halls, I was a target. Slurs like “faggot,” “homo,” and “gay” were thrown at me daily. People yelled from buses. Boys chased me home. I was bullied for simply being who I was — or rather, who they assumed I was. My femininity made people uncomfortable. But here’s the twist: behind closed doors, many of those same boys wanted to explore things with me. Things they couldn’t admit. Things they couldn’t say out loud. I kept their secrets because I didn’t know what else to do. And in a strange way, I became a safe space for their shame, even as I carried mine alone.

I didn’t hook up with gay boys. I hooked up with straight boys — or at least, boys who said they were straight. And that messes with your head when you’re a teenager still trying to figure out your own identity.

There weren’t safe spaces back then. Not in Verdun. Not in high school between 2007 and 2011. And definitely not at home.

In my family, my parents were split — but still united in their messaging. I’d hear things like, “Your father doesn’t want you because you’re gay.” Or, “You’ll never be loved because you’re like this.” There wasn’t room to breathe, let alone discover myself. I was constantly being told that my queerness made me unworthy.

One of the most defining moments happened in 2007. Grade seven. I had a crush on a guy from the basketball team. He was dating a girl who, ironically, was one of my worst bullies — a girl I thought would be a safe space, but wasn’t. One day, he came over to “study.” I wasn’t great at school, but I remember that visit clearly. My bed was on the floor. “Like a Boy” by Ciara was playing. He pulled me in and kissed me. And in that moment, I knew — I needed a man. After that, he gave me a secret nickname: BSOP. His “bisexual other partner.” It was both ridiculous and affirming. But now, years later, when I see him… he’s nothing special. That crush is long gone. What stayed with me was the lesson: secrecy breeds shame, but honesty gives you freedom.

It wasn’t until after my divorce that I really came to terms with being bisexual. I had always felt a curiosity toward women, but I was never a sexual person, not really — not after what I went through in my early years. I didn’t feel safe in my own body for a long time. But in the last three years, something shifted. I gave myself permission to just be. I stopped choosing. I stopped questioning. I stopped needing to explain it.

I am bisexual.
I am soft and strong.
I am fluid, grounded, and real.
And I don’t owe anyone an apology for that.

If you’re navigating your own identity, especially if you feel like you have to choose… let this be your reminder that you don’t. You can live in the grey. You can be all of you.

Because your truth isn’t too much.
It’s just enough.