In May 2020, I embarked on a two-week solo camping trip, leaving behind the two things I loved most: my husband and my dog.
I had no map, no plans, and no idea what would happen next. The trip was a means to escape from what felt like the world crashing down. Little did I know, in those two weeks, I would come to a realization that would change my life.
When I returned home, I came out as a lesbian and ended my decade-long, happy marriage.
It was his height that got me at first; he stood over 6 feet tall. But it didn’t take long for me to realize there was so much more to him: He was kind, respectful, smart, funny, and handy. We dated for three years, got engaged, bought a house, and then got a dog. Two years later, we got married.
We didn’t have sex on our wedding night, but we were tired. I mean, not everyone has sex on their wedding night, right?
We spent the next five years immersed in our careers — him in finance and me in nonprofits. But on girls nights, I stumbled home after having too many drinks and climbed on him like a child.
We would lie in bed eating mac and cheese as I sloppily recounted the gossip shared over the course of the evening. I never had anything juicy to share with the girls because my life and my marriage were perfect. I had the house, dog, career, and husband.
But the truth is, my husband and I were having sex only a couple of times a year. I kept telling myself it was OK if we didn’t have sex because I had everything else.
A couple of years in, I signed us up for a weekend retreat that was marketed to couples who needed a little refresh. We considered it an opportunity to get away and reconnect.
From sunup to sundown, we sat in a hotel conference room with our lukewarm coffee listening, holding hands, participating in the cheesy group activities, and taking notes. We left that weekend with a shared Google calendar for scheduled s€x. Thursdays were supposed to be our day.
But another year went by with little s€x. We decided to go to marriage counseling. We told our friends it was for “maintenance.” Our therapist gave us homework: Read “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus” and look into each other’s eyes while holding hands for one minute a day. We did it, but we made fun of it every step of the way.
Then the pandemic hit, and our attempts at maintenance turned into misery. I was drowning in work and severely depressed. I wanted out — out of my house, out of my career, out of my life.
My husband was happy, though. He liked his life, the life we built. He was OK with a mostly sexless marriage because he was happy — genuinely happy. Hearing that hurt more than anything. I had everything I had ever dreamed of, so why did it feel like something was missing?
“Maybe I’m gay,” I said one night as I changed into pajamas.
“Maybe,” he responded with the same amount of airiness behind his words. “Bring it up this week in therapy.”
I nodded, got into bed, kissed him goodnight, and rolled over.
I just ignored all the signs. I had been making out with my friends since high school, but I thought everyone did that.
When I told our couples therapist that I might be a lesbian, she brushed it off. I needed time to get away and think everything over. That’s when I booked my solo camping trip.
On it, I came to the realization that I wasn’t straight. I was just committed to a specific vision I had for my life. That vision was so ingrained in heteronormativity that I couldn’t even see straight — or rather, could see only straight. I loved my husband and my life. It was exactly what I wanted and needed until I realized it wasn’t mine at all. It belonged to a dream — a dream I could no longer identify with.
Two weeks later, I came back from that camping trip and said the words out loud for what felt like the first and last time: “I’m gay.”
My husband knew it, and I knew it. We cried, we hugged, and we cried some more. This beautiful thing — our life together, our marriage — was over.