I was biphobic for years – until my fiancée changed everything

I sat on the edge of my bed, cupping my face with my hands as tears dripped onto my legs.

My long-distance girlfriend and I were in a complicated argument over the phone about the dynamics in our relationship. She wanted to feel protected and provided for – even though we were teenagers, both fresh out of high school.

During our argument, her final eight words struck me.

‘I think we both know what I want,’ she said.

She was right, we did. She wanted traditional gender roles, despite being in a relationship with another woman. She made it clear that if we were to stay together, she needed me to wear male-presenting clothing and cologne, and have stereotypical male mannerisms.

In an effort to ease tensions and hold onto the person I thought I was supposed to spend my life with, I complied. I didn’t want to lose her.

I had never been a feminine person, but I wasn’t yet at a point in my life where I felt comfortable in men’s clothing or wearing fragrances designed for men.

Despite knowing this, I started shopping for clothes in the men’s department to appease her. I was transitioning my wardrobe to be more masculine-presenting.

But, because I felt as though my girlfriend was trying to make me as masculine as possible, I assumed she’d rather be with a man. I worried I could never provide in the way she had wanted.

This inevitably led to tensions in our relationship, eventually playing a significant role in our toxic split.

But, without realizing it at the time, I was growing something much deeper than resentment.

Because my girlfriend was a bisexual woman, I was subconsciously forming prejudice against women who identified as such. Because of this relationship, I started to associate bisexual women with being confused and experimental.

In short, biphobia began to take root in my mind, and this biphobia lasted for nearly seven years.

But it wasn’t just that relationship; another contributor to my developing biphobia was that, at 14 years old, I myself had come out as bisexual to my family. I was fortunate to be surrounded by nothing but support, but within a year, I realised that I am a lesbian.

In retrospect, because my own path to coming out as a gay woman included bisexuality, it was difficult for me to understand that some people truly are bisexual; that it’s not just a gateway to the acceptance of being gay.

Rather than addressing this issue after breaking up with my girlfriend, I unintentionally allowed it to manifest. I carried my biphobia into my early 20s, and my prejudice reached a point where I’d actively avoid dating bisexual women.

In fact, this was always an early question I’d ask on dates, before entering relationships. At times, the question was met with resistance from women who identified as bisexual, as they were taken aback that their sexual identity alone could be a red flag for someone. But I noticed lesbians carrying a sense of pride when they’d answer.

And I chose not to pursue bisexual women simply because of how they identified.

I held the belief that bisexual women only wanted to experiment, rather than take the relationship seriously. I didn’t believe they truly wanted to be with another woman.

Lying awake at night, I thought about how I was no different than those who fail to support gay men and women

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At the time, I didn’t see any issue with my approach. Biphobia isn’t unheard of in the lesbian community – in fact, the term ‘gold star lesbian’ is often worn as a badge of honour.

Then, in 2020, I met my wonderful partner Shea online. Of course, one of our early conversations was about sexuality and I popped the big question over text: ‘How do you identify?’.

To my relief, she quickly told me that she’s a lesbian, and we dated for three years before I dropped to one knee and proposed.

During our engagement, Shea started opening up about potentially being bisexual, rather than a lesbian. There wasn’t a defining moment in which she told me, but rather, there were brief conversations in passing. It was such a gradual progression that it allowed me time to process.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned at first. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was missing something I couldn’t provide, and I felt myself slipping back into the anxious cycle I had experienced in my previous relationship. The fear of not being enough was consuming.

But after careful thought, I was disappointed in myself. When I had proposed to Shea, I had committed myself to accepting every part of her; now, beyond acceptance, I needed to offer her genuine support.

As I considered this, I realised my acceptance and support shouldn’t stop with Shea – and I realised how much I had previously neglected women in my own community.

Lying awake at night, I thought about how I was no different than those who fail to support gay men and women. I was a part of the problem. I was a hypocrite, preaching acceptance while not giving it.

I had let myself down.

I had two options – address my biphobia in support of my fiancé and the LGBTQ+ community, or allow my prejudice to contribute to our already divided society.

I chose to face my dilemma head-on. Shea and I started having open discussions about her identity, and together, we approached the insecurity behind my biphobia.

Through these conversations, I realised that, ever since I was a teenager in a relationship where I’d felt I needed to present as masculine, my issue had never been with bisexuality itself.

I had simply feared I would never be able to fulfil what I automatically – and, most likely, wrongly – assumed a bisexual woman’s desires would be.

Gradually, I came to understand that Shea was not, is not, and never will be, a direct reflection of my past relationships.

I had proposed to Shea, willing to accept all of her, and she had agreed to marry me, a woman.

I was enough.

In October 2025, Shea and I got married. It was the small celebration we had hoped for, and we were fortunate to spend our special day with those who matter most to us.

In the months following our wedding, we’ve continued diving into the topic of sexuality. I’ve come to accept how fluid it can be. Sexuality is a spectrum, rather than a fixed category, and this acceptance felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders.

Prejudice is a heavy burden to carry. I used to find myself caught in a loop of resentment, leaving my body and mind drained. There’s a beauty to challenging your thought process and growing as an individual.

And I have been fortunate to do this alongside my wife, who has been patient with me every step of the way.

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