Tender Beginnings: Navigating Style and Identity After Coming Out
A Dear Queer Abby column about how we give and receive words.
Dear Queer Abby,
I’m feeling tender. It’s been almost two years since I came out at 43. It’s taken me until five weeks ago to experiment with my gender expression and allow myself to start dressing more masc. Today, at a group lunch, a newer friend said to me, “I did this (meaning dressing masc) when I was in my 20s. All lesbians do it. It will be interesting to see where you end up.”
She’s a very kind and empathetic friend who has been out her whole life, but her comment hurt my feelings, and I’m trying to understand why.
Sincerely,
Tenderhearted in Tucson
Dear friend,
THANK YOU for initiating this conversation in such a kind and receptive way. Your question touches on a book’s worth of topics, from masc/femme presentation and everything in between, to the similarities and differences between the always-out and later-in-life communities, to microaggressions and delayed adolescence. Since I don’t have a book’s worth of time to write, let’s start at the beginning of your letter: *I’m feeling tender.*
I remember when I first came out as a lesbian, just before turning forty. I described my life at that point as walking around like I was a giant open wound. I felt exposed. Raw. Hurt. I felt like everyone could see I was wounded (they couldn’t), yet I would get angry, sad, or resentful when they said or did something that didn’t take my wounded state into account (even though they weren’t always aware of it).
Words that would have rolled off me in the past suddenly felt like salt in the wound. If someone in our friend group talked about “our husbands,” I felt called out as the odd one out, even if the comment wasn’t directed at me. Everything hurt more, and I didn’t know why. When you say, *“I’m feeling tender,”* I know that many of us who have been through the same are nodding in agreement. You are not alone.
Why do these comments cut so deep?
My wife has been out since her teens. She has only been in romantic relationships with women. I am a later-in-lifer who was in a relationship with a man for almost 20 years. We have very different experiences as queer women, but through sharing our stories, I’m confident in two truths: 1) Coming out is hard, and 2) Coming out later in life presents its own unique challenges.
My wife’s “hard things” were tough and created fears that a young adult shouldn’t have to deal with— like if they’ll be kicked out of their home, subjected to violence or conversion therapy, or lose their family’s love.
I always assumed my coming out was far easier than hers because people are now generally more accepting. Plus, I came out as a fully formed adult who could figure out finances and housing more easily than a teen. But she pointed out a clear difference.
When she came out, it was at a time when everyone around her age was figuring out who they were. The teenage years are about finding your people, your style, your identity, and where you want to head in the future.
In my grown adult life, I had built an identity centered around my roles as wife and mother. My friends weren’t just “my” friends; they were “our” friends. My family members were his family members. Even our business was built on the story of our “mom-and-pop shop.” Coming out in midlife affected nearly every aspect of my life, and in the process, it obliterated my identity—my sense of self and where I fit in the world.
Sending Out the Bat Signal
It’s strange to be in our adult years and realize we no longer know who we are. But it’s also thrilling! Do you know how many people are stuck at this stage of their life? We’ve been gifted the perfect opportunity to figure out what feels truest to us and how we choose to show up in our most honest life.
My dresses, ruffles, and most pairs of heels went straight to the donation bin. My Ann Taylor Loft card could collect dust.
But the process of identity discovery isn’t easy. In coming out, we can lose family, which is why it’s important to find a chosen family. In coming out, we may lose our community and need to rebuild a new one. The way we dress becomes an extension of our new identity, one we’re trying to discover. It’s also how we signal to potential chosen family and community that we’re here and ready to be embraced.
So when people, especially those in our new community, question how we show up in ways that feel invalidating, the not-yet-fully-healed wound of coming out can feel ripped wide open.
This is not about being trendy
Do you hate it as much as I do when someone calls queerness a “phase”? Does it annoy you when people say you’re “experimenting” with your sexuality (even though we never say that about hetero attraction)? Are you gutted when you come out to someone, and they ask, “Are you sure?”
For many in the later-in-life community, self-doubt is part of our story. Many of us doubted our attraction and identity for years, if not decades. It can feel liberating to finally live in our truth. So, it makes sense that anything that calls into question the authenticity of how we show up feels extra critical. We’ve worked so hard to know ourselves that language (even well-intentioned) implying our identity is a passing phase feels incredibly frustrating.
We may call ourselves “baby gays,” but when others do it, we become sensitive to the term. We may acknowledge our uncertainty in the bedroom, but when someone else points it out, we feel hurt. And when we buy outfits that make us look like a wannabe Avril Lavigne from her *Sk8er Boi* video, even though we’re minivan-driving suburban moms, and someone tells us we look like Avril Lavigne, we get offended.
But that’s life, right? We may know our shortcomings or sensitivities, but we don’t want others shining a spotlight on them.
Why Did She Say That?
I’m not saying the way you dress is a shortcoming or that it will change. You’ve probably researched the heck out of it and took your time to find just the right outfit that made you feel good. You weren’t cosplaying a “masc lesbian”; you were living it.
So why did your new, kind friend make that comment? I once worked for a company whose teamwork rule was “assume positive intent,” so let’s do that. Here are a few possible reasons for her statement:
1. We bond by finding commonality. Changing styles was her experience, and this may have been her way of welcoming you in and expressing interest in where your journey takes you.
2. She may be reflecting on the concept of delayed adolescence many later-in-life queer people go through. It’s as if we revert to the age when we started denying ourselves and live that out again through piercings, wild hair, or poor choices. Like real adolescence, we eventually outgrow it and look back with a few regrets.
3. She may have foot-in-mouth disease. We all say things we later realize could have been phrased better.
Let’s Wrap this Flannel-Covered TEDx Talk
You were justified in how you felt. And your friend may still be an awesome addition to your friend circle. If you choose, you can let this one roll off you, knowing that the more you heal, the less comments like this will sting.
But if you want to talk it out, consider asking her about her style evolution and how she knew when she found “it.” Maybe you’ll both discover that style and identity are always evolving. Maybe you’ll get more insight into queer culture and the stages many of us go through.
In the meantime, enjoy dressing in a way that feels good to you. The truth is, it doesn’t matter where you land with your final style. If coming out has taught us anything, it’s that we always have the ability to change and grow into the best version of ourselves. And that process never stops!
I would have been annoyed by the assertion that "all lesbians" do anything, even if--or perhaps especially if--the person making the assertion was a lesbian.