I’ve been on a journey of self-acceptance when it comes to my nonbinary gender expression.

Over time, I’ve found joy in embracing an affirming style and fashion, allowing myself to step into a version of me that feels more real, more aligned. But alongside that joy, there’s been an unexpected shadow—guilt.

I had expected that embracing my true self would bring a sense of relief and alignment, but instead, I found myself questioning how my identity fits within my marriage, my community, and the world at large.

Not guilt for being who I am, but for how it’s perceived and what it means in the context of my life.

The Unexpected Weight of Visibility (or Lack Thereof)

Coming out is a uniquely queer experience. Straight people don’t have to announce or explain their identity—they are already in alignment with societal norms.

For queer people, though, it’s a process of first hiding or minimizing ourselves to fit in, and then, when ready, revealing our authentic selves. It’s an exhausting cycle of reintroducing yourself to people who already thought they knew you.

And it’s awkward.

I love my wife. We’ve been married for ten years, and together we’ve built a beautiful family. From the outside, people see us and assume we are a cisgender heterosexual couple. And honestly, that’s what my wife would prefer they see. She married a man.

Awkward!

I am coming out as nonbinary and bisexual, and this is not a transition I am making alone—it’s something we are navigating together. This is heavy shit!

The more I lean into my gender identity and queerness, the more I feel stuck between two worlds—never quite fitting into either.

The Box That Doesn’t Fit

The world loves clear categories: straight or gay, cis or trans, man or woman.

These definitions give people an easy way to understand and organize relationships, identities, and communities. For those of us who live in the in-between, those boxes feel stifling.

As I’ve explored my gender expression and my bisexuality, I’ve realized how often I’ve had to fight against the assumption that my marriage defines me as straight. I don’t want to erase my love for my wife, nor do I want to erase my queerness. But how do you fully exist when the world wants to simplify you?

Even in queer spaces, I sometimes feel like an outsider. There’s this feeling that because I have a wife, a "traditional" marriage, I don’t have the same right to claim queerness. And yet, I know that’s not true. My gender, my sexuality—they don’t disappear just because I’m in a committed relationship with a woman.

Before we were married, Sam and I had pulled stakes and moved out west to Denver. I wanted to sound mature and grown-up when introducing myself, so I would refer to Sam as my partner. I did this often when talking to people who hadn’t yet met Sam.

Days, weeks, even months later, they’d finally meet Sam—and confusion would set in.

"Thought you were gay," they’d say.

Now, maybe this was my inner genderqueer self pulling the control board a little bit. I didn’t mind being seen this way, but it did make Sam uncomfortable.

This small moment exemplifies a larger tension I’ve felt throughout my life—being perceived one way while internally knowing I am something else. It wasn’t intentional, but it was a glimpse into how my queerness sometimes quietly asserted itself, even when I wasn’t yet fully ready to claim it.

The Guilt and the Doubt

There’s a strange kind of guilt that comes with being in this middle space. Am I "queer enough" to be part of LGBTQ+ communities? Am I disappointing my wife by not being the version of me she expected when we married? Would things be easier if I just kept my identity quiet?

I’ve recently tried to be more open about my identity and it feels weird, self serving. Awkward…

Some days, I tell myself I’m overthinking it. Like when I catch myself hesitating before putting on an outfit that feels right but might invite questions, or when I avoid correcting someone who assumes things about my identity.

Those moments pile up, and I try to convince myself they don’t matter—but deep down, they do. That I’m being too dramatic, that none of this is a big deal. But if it wasn’t a big deal, it wouldn’t still sit heavy on my chest.

The reality is, I haven’t fully dealt with it because I don’t know how.

Living in the In-Between

The truth is, I don’t have all the answers. Maybe I never will.

But I do know this: my identity is valid, even if it doesn’t fit neatly into a box. I don’t need external validation to prove who I am. And I don’t have to choose between my queerness and my marriage—they coexist because they are both part of me.

I’m learning to find spaces where I can be fully seen, even if those spaces are small.

Sometimes, that looks like online communities where others share similar experiences, friendships where I can be open without explanation, or even just moments of self-affirmation in my own reflection.

These spaces may not always be large or obvious, but they matter. I’m finding comfort in the simple act of dressing in a way that affirms me, even if no one else recognizes what it means. And I’m reminding myself that invisibility doesn’t mean nonexistence.

Owning My Truth, Even If It’s Quiet

Maybe I won’t ever be the loudest voice in the room. Maybe I’ll always live in this liminal space, neither fully in nor fully out. But that doesn’t make my identity any less real. It doesn’t make me any less queer. It doesn’t make me any less me.

If you’re out there feeling the same way—if you’re in the middle, feeling unseen—I see you. And you belong, just as you are.