• My husband and I had been together for almost 14 years when he came out to me.
• We tried to stay together at first before deciding to divorce.
• It was painful, but we both love each other's new partners and spend time together frequently.

My husband told me he had something he wanted to tell me after dinner.

"Why can't you just tell me now?" I asked.

"Because I just want to wait," he said.

I had a bad feeling.

"So what is it?" I asked the minute the table was cleared.

"Here's the thing," he said, and then he let a few beats pass without talking. I could tell he was nervous. "I need for you to know that I have never been exclusively heterosexual." He paused. "I need to be able to explore that part of me more."

"What do you mean?" I asked. I was filled with anxiety. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

It was 1990, and my husband and I were in our mid-30s. We had been together for almost 14 years. I thought we had a great marriage. We talked and laughed and traveled, and shared a love of music and books and food and nature. He was a great dad to our daughters, who were 2 and 5 at the time. He satisfied me intellectually, emotionally, and physically. I never had a reason to question his sexuality.

"I'm sorry I never had the courage to tell you this before," he said.

He told me he felt he had no choice but to keep his desires hidden, growing up in the machismo world of Miami's Little Havana in the 60s. He thought he was gay until he was 23 — until he met me. He had never had unsafe sex, he assured me, but he also had not been faithful.

I was surprised I wasn't mad at him. I know my rage would have been infernal had he told me had slept with other women. But this felt different. This felt like a dark secret he had carried with shame for over 20 years. I just felt sad for him — and for me.

We tried to stay together at first

At first, we weren't sure we would have to split up. We still loved each other and enjoyed spending time together, including in bed. I joined a support group for straight people married to gay or bisexual spouses. It turned out I was not alone.

I sought out academic journals and read everything I could related to bisexual people and marriage. I wanted to know our prognosis. Not good. Studies showed that the couples who tended to make it were those who knew the full picture when they first got together. We weren't in that category.

I wondered what an open marriage would feel like. I viewed myself as an open-minded person, but I had a hunch my husband's nonmonogamy would be too painful for me. Could I handle him going on vacation without me? Not coming home at night? I was doubtful. We decided to play it by ear. We'd see how things progressed and then reassess.

But really, nothing progressed. We worked, we took care of the kids, and we continued to live as we had before, he told me, as though nothing had changed. But everything had changed.

Almost exactly one year later, it became clear that clinging to the status quo would not work. I knew I had two choices, and both were excruciating: stay with my husband knowing I would always have to share him, or end my marriage and be alone. If I left, my new world might be bleak and lonely, but at least it would hold the possibility of some future joy. At 35, I was still young. I wanted to find a relationship where I would feel like enough. I didn't want to compete with someone else. I wanted to be the only one.

We both came to this realization simultaneously. We sat together on the couch one dismal night. We didn't even have to say anything. I realized I could not flourish in this union, and he realized he could not live his life fully with me by his side. We held each other and cried.

Our separation was slow

I remember the last week we lived together before he moved out. There should be a name for this strange period. A Divorceymoon, maybe. A time when instead of starting to build your life together, you must begin to take it apart. Separating the books, photos, and posters was the easy part. Far harder was cutting up the fabric of our shared life. Soon, I would stop seeing him when he came home from work. Soon, I would wake up alone in the morning. Soon, the marriage would be over.

The first few weeks of starting a life apart were more painful than I expected. The house was so quiet when the kids were with him, and I was always happy when they came back. I felt like I had not understood true loneliness until then. To have a full family one day, and the next day, to be alone.

The separation continued at a gradual pace. We still spent time together as a family, going out to eat or to the playground with the kids. We went camping on the Cape. Once, we even traveled to Spain together. And then, a few months later, he met someone. Soon we were spending less time with each other, and I missed him terribly. But then, a few months after that, I met someone too. We had now become two separate families.

We've incorporated our new big loves into our big family

Years passed, and relationships came and went for both of us. We rarely met each other's love interests. They rarely joined us at our shared meals. They didn't feel like part of the joint family we still had together.

But then my ex met his big love. And two years later, so did I.

I guess it shouldn't have surprised me that I liked my ex's new boyfriend and that he liked mine — and that the two boyfriends liked each other. We all seemed to have the same sense of humor and spent a lot of time laughing, and often had dinner at each other's houses. Usually, I'm not a big fan of socializing with other couples. It often feels unbalanced because I rarely like both spouses. But this didn't feel like that. This felt like family.

It's now been more than 20 years that the four of us have been hanging out together, sometimes every week; sometimes more. Recently our gatherings have gotten much larger. I've picked up a stepdaughter along the way, so now we are often joined by our three daughters, three of their spouses, and three little grandkids. Last year I had to buy a bigger table and four sets of benches.

These days, the grandkids hold center stage at the table. Once the food is cleared, we'll play a round of Junior Mad Libs which will make everyone shriek with laughter. Then later, my husband and my ex will pull out their guitars and everyone will join in for a raucous round of Wheels on the Bus. Though there's not a specific name for what we are to each other, the way there are for relationships like "daughter-in-law" or "uncle," the term "family" still fits — perhaps even better than it did before.

• My son found his dream college at California State University Maritime Academy.
• He struggled to make friends on campus in his freshman year, and I tried to help.
• He ultimately realized he didn't fit in with the students on campus and dropped out.

It was like a whirlwind romance: finding the right college, applying, getting accepted, and finally moving in. My son was so happy with his college decision. Everything was magical — until it wasn't.

When my son, Jack, chose California State University Maritime Academy, it seemed like an absolutely perfect fit. He could major in oceanography, take classes aboard ships, and get hands-on experience. There were summer trips to Nicaragua to plant coral. I saw Facebook posts of students in Morocco holding monkeys. It appeared to be the college experience that everyone wanted for their child.

For a while, everything was perfect. Jack would wake up and go to "formation" in uniform at 7 a.m., and then he would take water samples around the bay to examine under microscopes in the lab.

It was a dream come true for Jack. As his mother, It was also a dream come true for me to see him so happy and creating a future for himself.

That was until the phone calls started, and he said he didn't fit in socially at the school.

"I want to come home"

A couple of months in, Jack told me he was having difficulty finding friends. I responded, "You will find your people. Keep trying."

He volunteered, joined clubs, and put himself out there. I mailed him cases of Girl Scout cookies to walk around and hand out; I mean, who doesn't love a free box of Thin Mints? He would leave his door open and offer his vacuum to people if they wanted to borrow it. He was trying at school, and I was trying from home. We are not quitters.

When winter break rolled around, he came home and told me he didn't want to return. I should have listened, but I didn't.

"You made a commitment; you need to see the year through," I told him.

Upon returning from break, he found that his roommate had moved out. Jack was given no warning and no reason. My son was crushed, and his self-esteem dipped even lower, but I kept encouraging him. However, he never found his tribe.

It wasn't until I visited the college campus that I realized the problem.

My son didn't fit in with the other students

Jack, who is gay, was at a very conservative college. Who he fundamentally is at his core doesn't seemingly match with the large percentage of conservative young men that attend the school.

The other kids were tackling each other in the halls and having Nerf wars, which Jack would have joined if he had felt welcomed. Instead, Jack was often quietly in his room with a video game. Sadly, it seemed he would never fit in, no matter how hard he tried.

The school itself wasn't bigoted or against LGBTQ+ people. The college had a gay-straight alliance club that Jack attended, along with the other nine kids

At its core, Jack said in his experience, the student body seemingly had different interests.

Jack enrolled in a community college back home

Ultimately, at the end of the year, Jack moved home and now attends a community college, where he is working on his general education requirements. If and when he is ready, we will work on finding a new college for him to transfer to.

I now advise high school students and their parents to look at the entire picture when choosing a college. Looking for the perfect academic program is fantastic, but not the end of the road when finding the right college to attend.

Kids need to examine the majors, the social life on campus, and the vibe of the surrounding city. The school's entire culture needs to be analyzed so students know what they will be in for on campus.

After his experience, Jack is somewhat disillusioned with the college experience. As a mother, I wish I had done more to find a better fit for him. There is nothing wrong with going to a community college, but for most, it's a stepping stone toward a four-year college.

I'm not sure Jack will be making that step, and that's OK — as long as it's what's best for him and he's with his people.

Editor's Note: California State University Maritime Academy declined a request for comment.

• I'm a bisexual woman who just got engaged to a man.
• I haven't officially dated women because I was afraid to come out to my family.
• Now, I'm worried I'll never get the chance and that I'm cutting off my queerness.

When my boyfriend proposed, my younger sister was surprised; she was convinced that I hated men.

This joke started in my teenage years because I was a naive but outspoken feminist, which caused some stir in my traditional Protestant family. My beliefs never really meshed well with my religious family.

Though I was a proud bisexual woman, I kept my queerness a secret from them. It helped that my romantic history only involved men.

Now I'm engaged to a man and thrilled. But I'm worried I've put up a permanent wall between two parts of my sexuality — and I'll lose access to my queer self entirely.

Bisexual women often deal with stereotypes

Many people have certain beliefs about queer women: Bisexual women sleep with women but only date men, or they only sleep with men because they find women so intimidating, or they like women but are happily settled with their "golden retriever boyfriend."

If you go on social media, where these jokes are recycled for content and solidified in cultural canon, you'd think a bisexual woman had never successfully dated another woman before.

It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I worried for years that I wasn't being true to my sexuality. Sometimes, I'd wonder if I was straight and somehow duping myself. With an impending marriage, the anxiety returns.

Julia Shaw says in her 2022 book "Bi: The Hidden Culture, History and Science of Bisexuality" that there's a "sense that, once people are married, the gender of their partner is indicative of their 'real' sexuality."

It's taken years to admit that my hesitation to pursue women came from the restrictive, internalized ideas of my Christian youth. I believed in the church, and only after discovering my sexual interests in my late teens did I question my faith.

I spent the better part of a decade agnostic and happily bisexual, in theory, but struggling in practice. I kept thinking I would eventually date a woman. After all, I found women attractive and daydreamed about them plenty.

But dating a woman meant coming out at home. I convinced myself that I'd come out to everyone if I fell in love with a woman. I didn't recognize how much that would subconsciously dissuade me from pursuing them. So, not coincidentally, I kept dating men.

Fetishizing versus respecting bisexuality

Many men fetishize queer women, and this provided an outlet for me in past relationships. I could flirt or be intimate with women without jeopardizing my relationship with a man because my sapphism wasn't viewed as "real" or "valuable" the way heterosexuality is.

My sexuality was finally viewed as something other than a sin: It was hot. I felt bad for furthering this horrible dynamic, but I was suffocated no matter what I chose.

When I met my current partner, I nearly avoided dating him. I'd repressed my sexuality for too long, I told him, and I wanted to explore it.

In the end, though, I wouldn't sacrifice my time with him for the theoretical pursuit of queer romance with women I didn't yet know. Discussions abounded in the first months of the relationship, and I felt a grief I'd never encountered before.

It took a while to recognize it was because he fully respected my sexuality, thus removing my toxic outlet. It felt ironic. He saw physicality or romance with women as equally valuable, so it could have no space in our monogamous relationship.

I'm now mourning missed opportunities

I mourned this loss, which may be confusing to someone heterosexual. I don't want to cheat or be non-monogamous. I'm happy with one person and feel no need to experiment with that.

My relationships with women — romantic, platonic, or familial — have simply been different from those with men. It's something integral and hard to articulate. They each bring something unique to my life.

Nothing is scarier than the unknown, except maybe missed opportunities, and I felt I'd spend the rest of my life not knowing what I missed. Ultimately, though, we lose something no matter what we choose.

After much discussion, my partner and I know maintaining my connection to queer people and events is integral. I may be in a heterosexual relationship, but I don't have to bar myself from all the beautiful cultural aspects of the LGBT+ community.

Beyond that, my partner and I acknowledged that things change. My decisions aren't all made now. Our sexuality and our needs can develop as we age, and we may have to return to and approach the issue differently throughout our marriage.

Honesty and understanding are the best features of our relationship, and they make my bisexuality feel cherished instead of stifled.

Famm, the discovery platform for queer-owned brands, was created by BIPOC queer married couple Cat Perez and Marianna Di Regolo to help users find LGBTQ-owned businesses. Now it’s launching a new social networking app for LGBTQ+ professionals and business owners to connect and collaborate.  Famm Connect, now available on iOS and Android devices, includes common […]

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• Before becoming pregnant, I came out as nonbinary but didn't change much of my appearance.
• After giving birth, I felt detached from myself and knew I needed to make changes.
• Giving birth became the fuel I needed to start hormone replacement therapy finally.

My morning sickness began at six and a half weeks. I told others it was like having a monthslong stomach bug.

As I fought nausea while teaching lesson after lesson in my elementary classroom, I wondered if this would be the hardest part of being pregnant. Over the next eight months, I was lucky enough to have a medically uncomplicated journey, with every doctor's visit note filled with the word "unremarkable."

But as the nausea let up, I still felt off. I blamed it on the hormones when I couldn't bring myself to get dressed and go to important social events for friends and family. I did it again when I declined a free professional pregnancy photo shoot. As my bump grew and I began to receive the excited swell of compliments, I drifted farther from myself. Soon, I avoided all mirrors.

My pregnancy became the final straw, and I started gender-affirming care.

I had already come out as nonbinary

A few years prior, I had come out to my husband as transgender and nonbinary. He and I were raised in conservative Christian homes, but his response was instantly supportive and celebratory. Over the following year, I told my siblings and friends and received waves of encouragement.

Now that I was "out," there were so many gender-affirming things I theoretically wanted to do to my appearance, but, to me, they felt too large to comprehend.

I told a member of my support system, "I would love top surgery, but that sounds way too scary."

I decided I would just stick with sharing my pronouns. Eventually, I thought I would tell my workplace. I could still blend in and switch back to she/her when I felt unsafe. I told myself that I needed to pass as a cis woman.

Despite trying different hairstyles over the years, I had never quite felt like myself. Usually, a fun sweater I had thrifted or my floral Doc Martens would brighten my day.

Everything changed when I gave birth

Surprisingly, giving birth was amazing. Again, I was lucky and had a quick four-hour labor and delivery — free of complications. I instantly burst into emotional tears when I held my son for the first time. He was, and continues to be, one of the brightest lights in my life.

But 10 weeks postpartum, I began to notice I was entirely detached from my body. I did not want others to see me. I shied away from photos with my son. Every limb and piece of flesh felt separate from myself, just as it had in pregnancy.

When I stopped breastfeeding, it did not go away, and I began to panic that I wouldn't have the small presence I had enjoyed in my physical self again.

I found community and made some gender-affirming changes

My therapist, who is also nonbinary, encouraged me to find things that brought me joy. I decided to start with being social. I made plans for a handful of coffee dates with friends, including one with my husband, to see one of his friends I had met once before.

This friend had been an acquaintance, but this time, when we met at a café, he let me know that he was trans as well. We began texting, and he mentioned his own gender-affirming care, always stating he was open to questions from other members of the trans community.

So I asked: Do the T shots hurt? Is top surgery a hard recovery? Do any insurance companies cover it? How do you find trans community?

A few weeks later, I cut my hair. I had dreamed of a short haircut for over a decade but had told myself my face was not structured the right way. Instead, as I looked in the mirror at the salon, I smiled at myself for the first time in over a year. It was glorious.

My new friend began to invite me to queer events. I enjoyed styling my short hair. I bought a binder, new clothes, and began showing up in queer spaces. I heard poetry, danced to goth music, and engaged in deep discussions about parenthood and queerness with a stranger at a queer dive bar takeover.

A few weeks later, I began hormone replacement therapy.

Becoming a parent helped fuel my gender journey

I suddenly realized that I could love being a parent and transition, too. I could live for my son and myself.

Beginning gender-affirming care postpartum made my lost body into a home. I will never be thankful enough that, as I was drifting away from myself, I found community.

I am proud to be a transgender parent. It's an honor to raise my beautiful son with my husband and to fill his childhood with a lovely and gender-diverse community.

Transitioning postpartum has not only been a way of choosing myself, but showing up authentically makes me the parent my son needs.