Discovering I was a lesbian at fifteen was the easy part. I came out to my mainly supportive friends and family at the end of high school in 2010. From an early age, I felt a certainty about myself that many people spend years searching for. This changed in my twenties. As I became more involved in trans spaces in my progressive Canadian university town, the clarity I once had began to erode. And before I could name what was happening, I had already spent a decade compromising my sexual orientation in ways I am only just beginning to unpack.
Looking back now, I can say with confidence that I was coerced, slowly and subtly, into abandoning my sexual boundaries. Not by one manipulative person, but by a broader culture that told me it was my job to validate others, even at the expense of my own truth.
Queering Away the Gay
It began with the university lesbians around me describing themselves as “queer.” This was because, as they informed me, gender wasn’t binary. In 2011, this was a new concept to me. But the message was clear: queerness wasn’t just more inclusive, it was more enlightened. More correct. To identify just as a lesbian was not only outdated, but almost shameful. I adopted the “queer” label too, not because it felt truer to me, but because I did not want to be seen as someone who “didn’t get it”.
I spent my twenties deeply embedded in these queer activist spaces. I dated people across a range of identities: a bisexual butch woman, a genderqueer female who began taking testosterone and identifying as a trans man toward the end of our relationship. (I was told that continuing to be attracted to this person meant I could not call myself a lesbian, so I was fully locked into the “queer” label by 2013.)
Later, a trans-identified male expressed serious interest in me, someone I ended up in a long-term relationship with. That relationship was largely sexless, and I often described myself as “asexual” during it—something a lot of people in my circle were doing in 2015. At the time, I could not understand why I felt such detachment. Now, with hindsight, it is clear: when it comes to men, I am asexual, because I’m a lesbian.
But back then, I had been thoroughly convinced that gender identity trumped sex. I believed that being open-minded meant stretching my own orientation, that validating someone else’s self-perception meant being open to intimacy with them, even if they were male. I wanted to be seen as kind, loving, and inclusive. I also wanted to be wanted. I had never really had the experience of turning down persistent male attention before. So when that attention came, in the form of someone feminine, “nice,” and convincing, I simply did not have the tools or the confidence to say no.
It was not an abusive relationship in the traditional sense. I was not forced into anything outright. But I was living in denial, believing I was doing the right thing while slowly losing touch with my own desires. The dynamic became more emotionally dependent than I ever realized, and by the time I began to question it, I was already deeply invested. I was profoundly unhappy, but the misery had become comfortable.
Losing My Religion
It wasn’t until 2020, when the COVID pandemic hit—and with it, the collapse of my social and professional life—that the relationship ended. I had a full mental breakdown, lost my job, and withdrew from the queer community. That distance gave me the breathing room I needed to reflect. Slowly, I reconnected with parts of myself I had not felt in years. I began meeting other lesbians online who were not invested in gender ideology and just shared common interests with me. I remember one of these new friends asking me to explain “they/them” pronouns (probably because I still had “she/they” in my Twitter bio), and I realized I could not; I was losing faith in the ideology altogether.
Letting go of gender meant facing a truth I had worked hard to avoid: that I had spent years in a relationship with a man. I had been so thoroughly conditioned, so deeply immersed in an ideology, that I crossed boundaries I never would have considered. And yet, I crossed them. Not just once, but for years.
This might sound superficial, but I used to take a quiet pride in being a “gold star lesbian.” It did not register until after ending the relationship that it was, in every physical and relational sense, heterosexual. I had been too deep in denial to see it for what it was. I remember trying to make sense of the disconnect, saying things like, “I think I am only attracted to females, regardless of gender identity… is there a word for that?” At 27, I could not put a name to what had been so obvious to me at 15.
And then I met my wife—a woman who, like me, is just a lesbian. She is from a European country where gender ideology is not so entrenched as where I was in Canada. For the first time, I experienced what it was like to be in a relationship with another lesbian, and one who understood me, without asking me to compromise any part of myself — it does not hurt that I am genuinely attracted to her either!
The people I was involved with were not monsters. But the ideology that shaped my choices and told me to silence my instincts? That was insidious. I wish I could say this experience is singular, but I know now it is not. I have heard similar stories from other lesbians, women who never had a chance to set their own standards before being told they were bigots for having them.
The Most Radical Thing
To those women, I say: you are not alone. It is okay to reclaim your boundaries, your body, your sexuality. It is okay to have regrets, and it is okay to move on from them. You do not have to justify your orientation or reshape it to fit someone else’s ideology.
Now, years later, I am left with a strange combination of regret and relief. I regret how far I let myself drift from my identity, but I am also grateful that I found my way back. Sometimes, what seems like kindness is really self-abandonment. And sometimes, the most radical thing you can do is tell the truth.
Bridget Lang is a 30-something Canadian lesbian living in France with her wife. She is self-employed as a tutor specializing in academic writing, literacy, and learning disabilities. While Bridget is not very active on social media, she would love to connect with others who can relate to her story. She can be reached through her (somewhat inactive) Tumblr blog at or by email.
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Thank you, Bridget, for sharing your story. You were coming of age in a time and place already in the grips of the poison Queer Theory, which seeks to destabilize the stable for the sake of doing it. Many women have agreeable personalities, and at such a vulnerable time in our lives, we are especially vulnerable to gender narratives, when we are led astray by slightly older peers who we admire.
I'm happy you found your way back home, (hopefully) minimally scathed, and well-grounded in your female body, desires, and boundaries. Your story is important. I wish there was a book of essays like yours of lesbians finding their way back to their own hearts that young women could read. Even for straight women - many will be able to relate. I wish there were still gatherings of lesbians of all ages so we can enrich and empower each other. Most everything is queer now, which to me means "subverted."
Thank you so much for sharing. My daughter was also, as Yvette says, led astray by slightly older peers who she admired. It’s so embedded in the culture of our young people. Even in elementary schools, if you aren’t an “ally,” you must be an enemy.