Coming Out at 50: Love, Loss, and Living My Truth

“The privilege of a lifetime is to become who you truly are.” ~Carl Jung

We all had a wild ride during the pandemic, am I right? Mine included falling in love with a woman. At fifty years old.

That’s not something I expected. But isn’t that how life goes?

One day you’re baking sourdough and trying not to touch your face, and the next you’re coming out to the world and losing half your family in the process.

I’d been single for over two decades—twenty-five years of bad dates, some good therapy, and quiet Friday nights. I’d survived abuse, betrayal, and abandonment.

I’d been struggling to make peace with my solitude. My biggest fear was dying alone in my apartment and not being discovered for days. It felt very possible.

Trying to accept that this was as good as it gets didn’t leave me in state of letting go but in a state of absolute dread.

Deep down, I was aching to be seen. To be chosen. To feel at home. To belong to someone. Then I met her. And my life cracked wide open.

This wasn’t just a late-in-life love story. This was a story about becoming who I really am—about peeling back decades of shame, “am-I-gay?” denial, and internalized homophobia.

It was about stepping fully into my own skin. And the price of authenticity? For us, it was being shunned.

Neither of us had explored this path before, so when my now-wife came out to her devoutly Catholic family, they told her she was going to hell.

They called her an abomination.

Her mother hung up on her and never called back. That was years ago, and the silence still rings in our home.

That phone call still makes my stomach knot. It wasn’t even my mother, but I felt it in my bones. I’d been orphaned as a teen, and I knew that kind of cutting loss.

But this was different. This was intentional. This was betrayal in the name of righteousness.

There are siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephews who claim to “support us,” but their actions say otherwise. We’re invited to some events and left out of others. They hide the truth from the kids like we’re shameful secrets.

We show up, smile, make small talk, and leave. No one asks how we’re doing. No one mentions our wedding. We invited them.

And you know what? I’m angry.

I’m angry because they get to pretend they’re not part of the harm.

I’m angry because they preach love and acceptance, but it only extends to the people who fit their mold.

I’m angry because my wife, the kindest human I know, cries in the dark sometimes and says, “Maybe I shouldn’t have told them.”

But I’m also angry because we did the brave thing. And bravery shouldn’t cost this much, but it often does.

We tried to find ways to “pass.” To live a half-truth.

We discussed keeping things quiet “for the sake of the kids.” But ultimately, we knew any ruse would fall apart. Four kids have big mouths. And love deserves the light.

We wanted to be models of integrity—for ourselves and for them. So we came out. Fully. And paid the price.

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be ghosted by an entire family. It’s grief, yes, but also rage. Deep, blistering rage. It’s the disorienting sense that you are both too much and not enough at the same time. And it brings up everything.

All the old stories from my childhood: that I had to earn love. That I wasn’t lovable unless I was perfect. That my voice didn’t matter. That taking up space was dangerous.

Those lies were hardwired into my nervous system. But this new rejection? It cracked them wide open. And inside that crack, I found a painful truth:

Living authentically can cost you people you thought would never leave. But living inauthentically costs you yourself.

So, here’s what I’ve learned, for anyone navigating the heartbreak of being rejected for who you love or who you are:

1. Grieve it.

Don’t skip over the pain. Feel it. Let it rage. You’re allowed to be hurt. You’re allowed to be furious. You’re allowed to be human.

Journaling helps. Venting to supportive friends helps. Finding people who get it helps.

Fear can strip people of their humanity. Fight fear.

2. Build your chosen family.

Find your people. The ones who cheer for you, hold you, and text you dumb memes when you’re sad. They are real. They count.

Thankfully, my siblings were accepting ‘enough.’ They don’t hate. They may not be fully comfortable, but they have never excluded us.

And my Irish wife has plenty of cousins, aunts, and uncles who have heard our story and have shown up to support us and champion us.

Our existing circle of friends never batted an eye or skipped a beat in giving us love and support.

3. Stop performing.

Even if it feels safer. Even if it wins you approval. It’s exhausting and soul-crushing. You’re not here to be palatable; you’re here to be whole.

My four stepchildren have adjusted well because we have owned our truth while staying gracious.

The kids can spend time with their grandma and relatives no matter what they think about us.

It’s their relationship to develop and foster on their own, and eventually the kids will come to their own conclusions.

We will continue to model that love is love.

4. Give your inner child the love she missed.

Your inner child deserved unconditional acceptance. They still do. Speak to them gently. Show them they’re safe now.

This took effort for me. And for my wife. It’s been a process of grieving and letting go—of rebuilding our lives and identities.

Rejection has been a theme in my life, and it hit hard. Especially when I have always longed for family.

But I realize my family is within the walls of my own home, and there is plenty for anyone else I allow to enter it.

5. Hold the boundary.

You don’t have to chase people who can’t see your worth. You don’t have to explain your humanity. You are not too much. They are simply not ready.

We continue to reach out to my wife’s siblings because they and their children will be around a lot longer than their mother will (their dad died three years ago). They live a mile away.

And even though they say they are “Switzerland,” and I say they are complicit, I do know they try in their own ways to walk a middle line.

Sometimes, I’m struck by sadness as this feels like we have lost something, and, other times, I’m open to the ways they show up without needing to judge or quantify it.

The truth is, I still have days where the sadness grabs me unexpectedly—at weddings, holidays, or when I see how tender my wife is with our kids and wonder how anyone could deny her love.

But mostly, I feel proud.

I did something really f***ing brave.

I stopped asking for permission to exist.

I didn’t do it at twenty. I didn’t even do it at forty. I did it at fifty. And that’s okay. That counts.

If you’re out there thinking you’ve missed your chance, or that it’s too late to start over—I promise you, it’s not. You don’t need a pandemic either.

You’re not too late.

You’re right on time.

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