Stepping Into Authenticity

There was a lot of dark and quiet before anyone ever saw the real transformation.

Nights where, after the exhaustion of a full day of putting on my armor and being the glue to everyone else’s needs, I’d curl up in bed and cry on the inside. Holding it together on the outside, falling apart in the places no one could see. Feeling alone.

From the outside, it all looked “right”: marriage, kids, a business, a life that photographed well. On the inside, something kept whispering, “ This doesn’t quite fit,” and I kept working harder, smiling bigger, and trying to outrun that feeling.

This past year has been both beautiful and brutal for me and for our family.

In that time, my marriage to Jim has ended, and I’ve also come out as a queer woman. I want to share some of that in my own words, as a story, not an announcement, and with as much honesty and care as I can.

I didn’t get married thinking I would one day get divorced. I love Jim. That hasn’t disappeared; it’s just changed shape. To me, loving him now means honoring my truth and not holding either of us in a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.

The stress of life was real. The pressure of unwinding generational norms that were passed down to both of us. Caring for my parents and grandparents while raising a family and building a business. Carrying financial responsibility and the invisible labor of keeping everyone afloat—and still not feeling truly seen.

Inside, the little girl in me was screaming, “Why can’t someone see I’m drowning?” And then another part of me would whisper back, “Oh… it’s me. I’m not asking for help because I don’t know how. I have a history of being let down. And I’m making it look perfect because I feel like I have to.” I was the one putting the armor on and polishing the picture, even as I was suffocating inside it.

A lot of people may wonder, “Why now? Why not before you got married?”

Like many women my age, I grew up in a really heteronormative world. The script was clear: be the good girl, find a man, get married, have kids, build the kind of family everyone approves of.

And for women, there was a bonus layer: build a killer career, sacrifice yourself to climb the ladder, and provide, while never dropping the ball at home. Build a business or career that makes everyone proud, even if you’re not being seen for your actual talents. Breastfeed or pump in bathroom stalls between meetings. Pick up Depends for your aging grandparent on the same Target run where you grab snacks for the kids. Juggle deadlines, parent-teacher conferences, caretaking, and the financial pressure of “being the responsible one.” Do all of that with a smile and a cape.

Do all of that inside systems that were not designed to support you… and somehow still feel like it’s your fault if you’re exhausted. 

I was good at that script. I chased achievement and impact and belonging like they were oxygen. I built the family that looked like it was “supposed” to. I joined a new family through marriage and tried so hard to be enough there, too. But underneath, it often felt like I was constantly auditioning, for the family, for society, in my professional life. Strive and look the part. Perform the role. Not because it was who I was, but because it seemed like the only way to be accepted. 

In 2020, something in me started to peek through a bit more visibly. When I left corporate, I ditched the pencil skirt and blazer for jeans, a tailored shacket, sneakers, big hoops, and a pop of lip color. It was a small outward shift, but it felt like my real self slipping a hand out from under the costume. And still, even as I shook off some of the old look, I was asking myself in the quiet, What’s still missing?

Part of my confusion for years was that I didn’t fit the “queer woman image” I had in my head when I was younger. I didn’t see myself in the stereotypes or the limited stories around me, so I truly didn’t know where I belonged. 

Honestly, it’s been watching our younger generations refuse to be put in boxes, redefining gender, sexuality, and relationships, that kept nudging me to keep exploring. Seeing friends leave marriages, come out, and rebuild lives that are more honest gave me language and courage I didn’t have before. It was like, “Oh. Maybe there’s a place for someone like me, too.”

Some might want to label all of this as a midlife crisis. It isn’t. It’s what can happen when you reach a certain level of life experience and you can’t ignore your own truth anymore. There comes a point when you want to actually experience your life fully and decide what truly fits, instead of wearing what you were handed. Doing that inner work is not easy, that’s exactly why a lot of people stay on the path that looks neat and familiar. The path I’m on now feels more like the one less traveled and more honest.

I recently read a post from a woman with a similar journey who said coming out was like slowly unweaving a sweater she’d spent decades knitting, only to realize it never really fit. That’s what this season has been for me. There are pieces of that sweater I will always carry with love. There are pieces I need to heal from, and that’s what I’m investing in now, therapy, reflection, and designing a new “sweater” that can grow and evolve with me, instead of something I’m stuck wearing forever.

A big crack in my old life came when I lost my dad. Grief has a way of ripping the surface off and forcing you to question everything. That’s when the unraveling really began. I started asking: What fabric do I want now? What design? What kind of life can move and breathe with me instead of holding me in place?

All along the way, my chase for perfection and achievement was driven by a deep hunger to be “enough” for everyone, partners, families, communities, even while I was questioning inside if it would ever actually feel like enough. The wild thing is: I was already doing super fucking cool stuff and making an impact. I know so many women who live in that same chase and battle. If that’s you, I want you to know: you’re not alone. It’s fucking hard.

I also want to name something about our men. Modern men are often handed the same old, outdated stories about what marriage, fatherhood, and masculinity should look like, with very few examples of anything different. Building new models without examples is hard. Jim is a phenomenal dad, and this isn’t an attack on him, it’s a reflection on how society hasn’t done a great job equipping any of us for this, and how we’re starting to see more and more people crack open under the weight of those old narratives.

For anyone wondering, “But are you really queer? How do you know? Why didn’t you know sooner?” I want to gently say: it’s not a queer person’s responsibility to prove their queerness or their timeline. My queerness has always been part of who I am. My marriage did not end because I am now out as queer. Coming out is one thread in a much bigger story of growth, disconnection, grief, and two people changing over time.

If you feel curious, I’d invite you to turn some of that curiosity inward and notice the assumptions we’ve all been handed about what love, family, and identity are “supposed” to look like. 

Divorce doesn’t always happen because someone cheated or abused someone. Sometimes it’s the painful, honest recognition that the relationship that once fit no longer does, and that the kindest, bravest thing you can do is let it evolve into a different form.

That’s what we’re aiming for. Jim and I are committed to supporting each other in the next parts of life. We will always be a team for our kids and cheer each other on.

This is a both/and story.

I can grieve the loss of the story I thought would keep going, the anniversaries, the shared holidays, the version of “forever” I once believed in, and at the same time feel the queer joy and aliveness of the life I’m building now. I can miss parts of what was and be certain that living as my whole self is the right choice. I can honor the marriage we had and honor the truth that it no longer fits. I can love my kids fiercely and choose to live as my full self so they learn they’re allowed to do the same.

You’ll still see us together for the girls’ events and milestones. You’ll see my partner, Jamie, with us. Someday you may see whoever enters Jim’s life, too. Our family may not look traditional or make everyone comfortable, but it will be rooted in love, honesty, and respect. Modern families can look different; we’re doing the work to define our own, not by society’s design, but by what is healthiest and most honest for us.

I know this is a lot to unpack in one post. It’s not something I take lightly or share casually. This is years of quiet wrestling, grief, therapy, hard conversations, and small brave steps condensed into a few paragraphs. Please receive it as a glimpse into a much bigger story, not the whole book.

Out of respect for everyone involved, especially our girls, I won’t be sharing private details or rehashing the past, and I may not be able to answer every “what happened?” or “why now?” question. My intention is not to throw anyone under the bus, but to stand in my truth with softness, bravery, and love. 

For the women who feel like they’re constantly auditioning, striving, and still wondering why it doesn’t feel like enough… for anyone sitting in their own dark, quiet nights of questioning… for those navigating loss, identity, or big change: you are not alone. This path is hard, and it is also holy. 

Thank you to those who continue to hold us through both the beautiful and the brutal, even without knowing the whole story.