How I Wrote About Finding My Authentic Self at Midlife

The stranger climbed onto the empty barstool next to mine—my laptop was still open, and he asked if I was a writer. Confirming that I was, he asked what I write.

“Memoir and personal essays,” I answered, handing him a card with the cover of my book on it.

“I’m a late bloomer too,” he said. “How do you do it? How do you write about such personal things and let the world see it?”

Being a private person, I often wonder about this as well.

(How You Know When the Time Is Right to Write a Memoir.)

The writing doesn’t feel like something I do, like scrapbooking or gardening. Thoughts arise at various times—typically when I’m sleeping, in the car, or showering—as if the moment my hands are idle, or my naturally busy brain slows down, the words form in my mind begging to be shaped into a story. I imagine them gathering like ticketholders in the theater lobby waiting for the doors to open. Sharing the stories doesn’t come as easily as the words do, but the choice to do so, to expose my innermost thoughts and feelings, is with the hope that they’ll be meaningful for someone reading them.

For years the world moved so fast that I semi-joked about wanting to pause my life, to rest and catch up. The 2020 pandemic granted that wish, albeit the hard way. Furloughed from work and without the usual constraints, I had time. In between performing the ordinary chores required of any parent and homeowner, I revisited the kid’s unfinished scrapbooks and my old writing.

Rediscovering the abandoned pages containing pieces of my story about being a late bloomer, someone who made a later-in-life discovery about their sexuality, piqued my interest. I began writing again.

Under the editorial guidance of Brooke Warner (She Writes Press), chapter by chapter I rewrote my story of having a same-sex attraction in my 40s and the subsequent journey that revelation sent me on.

Writing my story, and choosing to publish it, allowed me to deconstruct the experience, and heal while offering it to those needing to hear it. Brene Brown’s quote echoed in my mind, “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through, and it will be someone else’s survival guide.”

Early in my crisis, I sought out other people’s stories, needing validation. Books filled with vignettes from women who had a similar experience reassured me I wasn’t the only one. Further along, I collected pieces of wisdom, advice, and resources, from my support system. I envisioned my story, unfurled to expose the ugly and beautiful aspects while sharing the nuggets that became my mini mantras, the simple reminders that carried me through.

As the pandemic raged on, I returned to my job as an occupational therapist, writing whenever the opportunity arose, learning quickly that binge-writing suits me. I sought out chunks of time—weekends and weeks-long sabbaticals to dig deep into research and memory. And emotion. Studying craft, I immersed myself in workshops, podcasts, and books by authors I admired—those from whom I could learn. The sabbaticals were invaluable. Staying in flow and excavating the meaning of my journey was a high I didn’t want to come down from. Exploring Provincetown and the impact it had, and still has, on me while putting the pieces together, provided a pathway for healing.

Remembering the stories came easily. Reliving the moments of fear and pain, of wrestling with my truth and what it meant for my family was like washing my hands with broken glass. Writing about those excruciatingly difficult conversations—like coming out to my children, brought me right back there—sparring in the ring with ghosts, getting knocked down plenty. In contrast, revisiting those intimate moments with my partner, Vivian, sent the same “whoosh” sensation through me as if it were the first time. I fell in love with her over and over as I wrote the book, savoring the memories.

(Writing From Shame Is Hard, but It’s Still the Best Place to Begin.)

A later-in-life experience that turns your world upside down and you inside out as you reconcile with uncharted information, reevaluating everything you thought you knew about your life and your body is not for the faint of heart—challenging you to confront old demons and new fears. But it’s worth it. To “come out” on the other side with a fresh perspective, a better understanding, and authenticity is priceless.

In writing Late Bloomer, I wanted to share my story—the pain, twists, and joys—with others who are navigating their own tumultuous journey, have crossed to the other side, or anyone with an interest in the human condition. And to the man at the bar that night, yes, it’s difficult to share the very private aspects of me publicly but if my story validates, resonates, or evokes emotion in someone, I will consider it a worthwhile endeavor. Zen Buddhist Priest and author Ruth Ozeki recently told me, “Writing is a gift, and gifts are meant to be given away,” reinforcing the inherent reward for answering the call—an opportunity for healing and also the opportunity to touch another human being in a most unique way.

All we have are our stories and we’re better for sharing them. I tell mine to understand my experience, to understand me. I hope my stories help those trying to sort through their own scramble of thoughts and feelings. In this way, we are connected, ever-growing, evolving. Blooming.