What It’s Really Like to Be Bisexual in a HeteronormativeWorld

Let’s play a little game. I want you to walk into a room and
hold hands with someone of the opposite sex. Now, walk into another room and
hold hands with someone of the same sex.

 

For a straight person, the first walk is normal, the second
is a political statement. For a gay person, the first is a lie, the second is a
liberation. For me, a bisexual woman, both walks are just… a walk. But to the
world watching, they are two entirely different stories. One is a default, the
other is a deviation. This is the invisible tightrope walk of being bisexual i
a world that assumes you are one thing or the other.

 

The most common misconception is that bisexuality is a
phase, a pit stop on the way to “gay town” or a quirky detour on the path to “straight.”
It’s not. It’s a destination in its own right. My attraction to men and women
isn’t a 50/50 split that changes day to day. It’s not confusion. It’s simply
the capacity to be attracted to a person, regardless of their gender. My heart
doesn’t have a gender preference; it has a “vibe” preference.

 

This is where the heteronormative world starts to warp your
reality. When I’m with a man, I’m in a heterosexual relationship. To the
outside world, I’m straight. My identity is erased, flattened into a
convenient, digestible box. I’ll sit in a group of friends listening to them
make a “lesbian joke” and I have to decide: do I out myself and make it
awkward, or do I stay silent and feel like a traitor to my own identity? In
that moment, my queerness becomes a secret I keep, not because I’m ashamed, but
because it’s easier than explaining the complexity of my existence.

 

Then there’s the other side. When I’m with a woman, I’m in a
homosexual relationship. To the outside world, I’m a lesbian. I’ve had people
in queer spaces look at me with suspicion, as if my past or potential future
with a man invalidates my present. There’s a bizarre gatekeeping that happens,
a sense that I’m not “gay enough” to truly belong. I’m perceived as a tourist,
just dabbling in the queer experience before I inevitably “go back to men.”
It’s a unique kind of loneliness—feeling like you don’t fully belong in either
camp.

 

The dating world is its own special circle of hell. On
dating apps, my profile is a flashing neon sign that attracts a specific kind
of person. I’ve been approached by straight couples looking for a
“unicorn” to spice up their sex life, as if my sexuality is a novelty
for their consumption. I’ve had men tell me it’s “hot,” but then become
insecure and threatened when I mention an ex-girlfriend. I’ve had women
question if I’m truly ready for a “real” relationship with a woman, fearing I’ll
leave them for the “easier” heteronormative life.

 

It’s exhausting. You are constantly coming out. Over and
over again. Every new friend, every new coworker, every new partner. It’s not
one big, dramatic event; it’s a thousand tiny cuts of having to correct
someone’s assumption.

 

So, what is it really like?

 

It’s feeling like a spy in both worlds. It’s having your
identity erased by a partner’s gender. It’s the frustration of being told
you’re greedy or confused. It’s the loneliness of not having a clear-cut
community that is automatically yours.

 

But it’s also something else. It’s a superpower. It’s seeing
the full, beautiful spectrum of humanity and being able to connect with it on a
level that is uniquely yours. It’s a deep understanding that love, attraction,
and connection are not bound by rules or binaries. It’s having a capacity for
love that feels vast and limitless.

 

Being bisexual in a heteronormative world means you learn to
be strong. You learn to define yourself for yourself, because the world will
constantly try to do it for you. You learn to find your people, the ones who
see you for all of you, without reservation. And you learn to walk into any
room, holding the hand of the person you love, and know that your story is
valid, real, and whole—even if the world only sees one chapter at a time.