Give It to Me Bi: Am I Behind if I Came Out as Bi+ Later in Life?

At this point, we're professional bisexuals. Give It To Me Bi is a bi-weekly advice column in your favorite Bisexual Killjoys answer all your questions about being bi+.

Q.

Dear Bailey & Jace,

It took me more than 38 years to realize I’m bisexual, and this still feels like a new and awkward truth to sit with. I’ve shared this with a few close people in my life, including my husband, but I struggle to talk about it beyond that. I often feel intimidated, shut down, or unsure how to have deeper conversations about my identity at all.

I work in a very LGBTQ+-affirming environment and have many queer friends, yet I still feel invisible, not queer enough, and unsure whether I even get to use the word queer. Intellectually, I know much of this is internalized, but emotionally it’s hard not to feel “behind” people who seem to have figured themselves out long ago. I also find myself minimizing my own struggles because others have had it harder.

What I want is to be out in a low-key way at work and to be able to talk honestly with the people closest to me. What I’m afraid of is staying guarded and quiet, continuing to erase myself because being seen feels overwhelming. How do I start living more openly without feeling like I’m doing bisexuality “wrong” or taking up space I don’t deserve?

Sincerely,
Late to Myself

A.

Dear Late to Myself,

What you’re describing is very common for people who come into their bisexuality later in life, especially when they’re already working in or surrounded by queer spaces. You didn’t just come out into the world, right? You came out into a community that already has shared language, reference points, and histories you weren’t raised inside of. That alone can make everything feel awkward, even when the people around you are affirming.

A lot of what you’re struggling with isn’t about whether you’re “bi enough.” It’s about not knowing how to be visible without feeling like you’re performing. Many of us are taught that coming out is a one-time event, not an ongoing practice. We learn disclosure, not conversation. So when you don’t know how to move beyond that first admission (or when you avoid the topic because it feels loaded or, like, a whole thing) that’s not a failure. It’s a skill you were never taught.

The feeling of being “behind” your queer friends deserves special attention. It’s not just insecurity; it’s the result of watching other people have language, mirrors, and recognition long before you did. Many bisexual people spend years (decades, even) without seeing themselves reflected clearly anywhere. That absence has consequences. When you finally arrive at your own truth, it can feel like everyone else got a head start you never had.

This is where bisexual erasure and bi antagonism take a real mental health toll. Being questioned, minimized, or treated as “less queer” trains you to doubt your own perceptions. Over time, that self-doubt becomes internalized. You start policing yourself. You minimize your struggles. You tell yourself you shouldn’t feel this bad because others have had it worse. That kind of internal pressure doesn’t motivate healing, it erodes it.

And being surrounded by LGBTQ+ people doesn’t automatically protect you from that. You can be in queer spaces and still feel unseen within them. You can be affirmed in theory and erased in practice. That quiet, chronic invalidation is exhausting, and it often shows up as anxiety, depression, and the feeling that you need to stay guarded to stay safe. None of that is a personal failure. It’s a predictable response to living in a world (and sometimes a community) that struggles to make room for bi+ complexity.

When it comes to what to do next, I’d encourage you to aim lower than “deep conversations.” That’s a lot to ask of yourself, especially while managing depression. Instead, focus on low-effort, repeatable visibility. Small moments matter more than one big declaration. This might look like:

• Using the word “bi” once and letting it sit there.

• Casually correcting an assumption without elaborating.

• Allowing your identity to be present without turning it into a teaching moment.

These aren’t tests of bravery. They’re ways of slowly teaching your nervous system that being seen doesn’t automatically lead to danger or scrutiny.

With close friends, it’s okay to name the discomfort directly. Saying “I want to talk about this, but I don’t really know how” is often more honest (and more connecting) than trying to sound confident or articulate. You don’t need to perform any kind of certainty to validate yourself to queer community members or friends. You’re allowed to process out loud.

The part of your letter that stands out most to me, though, is the cost of staying hidden. You’re clear that this self-guarding is straining your mental health. That doesn’t mean visibility will solve everything, or that you should push yourself faster than you can handle. But it does mean that continuing to disappear has consequences, too. There’s no neutral option here, only different kinds of risk.

So rather than asking yourself how to do this “right,” I’d suggest asking something more manageable: What’s the smallest way I can stop minimizing myself this week?

Not forever. Not necessarily publicly. Just enough to loosen the grip.

You don’t owe anyone a version of bisexuality that looks confident, political, or fully integrated (hell, I don’t even do that and it’s most of my personality). You don’t need to have the language perfect or the feelings resolved. You’re allowed to take up space while still figuring out what that space looks like.

Also, you get to use whatever word or label that feels best for you, and that label is allowed to change. Being visible doesn’t have to be aspirational. It just has to be survivable.

Take good care of yourself,
Bailey

Was there something that resonated with you about this post?
Have a question or situation you could use advice on?
Share your story with us to be featured in a future Give It to Me Bi+ entry!