When I separated from my husband a year after having my son, I didn’t see it as ‘blowing up my life’. I was aware of the long-term implications of single parenthood, having been raised by a single mother myself, but it was very much something that needed to happen in the immediate-term, and the future would have to figure itself out. But nothing could have prepared me for the decade that followed – or the direction my life would take – that would lead me to being a 40-year-old queer mum in a happy relationship with a woman.
© Rebecca CoxIt took a few years of settling into single motherhood until I felt ready to date. My son was just one when his dad and I separated, so he had only known life at home with the two of us, or just him and his dad at his other home. I was reluctant to disturb the peace I had painstakingly created for us over several difficult post-separation years. But on the nights I had to be away from my son when co-parenting I was eventually ready to carve out a space for myself, and to dip my toe back into the dating pool (though I knew from friends how murky it was).
The first person I dated as a single mum was a man. He was a few years younger than me and he was inconsistent and arrogant and what I obviously thought I deserved at the time. But away from him I was spending more time with friends, too, some of whom were in queer relationships. Looking back, I feel so grateful that I had them in my life, because – just as the old saying goes – you cannot be what you cannot see. I had known since my teenage years that I felt attraction to both men and women, but I didn’t know any other bisexuals growing up. I assumed that most people felt some attraction to both men and women, but that people chose heterosexual lives because that’s what we’re supposed to do. I chose the path of least resistance. Seeing people around me in happy, queer relationships showed me that there was an alternative way of living.
© Rebecca CoxBut still, I was nervous to make such a monumental change later in life. For one thing, I was keen to avoid the ‘late-life lesbian’ trope. Or the ‘bicurious single mum who’s swearing off men forever' trope. Having gone through becoming a single mother I knew only too well that people are happy to throw their opinions and stereotypes – and ignorance – at you (‘boys need a dad at home!’ ‘You must be getting a lot of benefits now?’ ‘I better not leave you alone with my husband!’) and a thick skin takes time to develop. I didn’t know if I was ready to join the ranks of yet another stigmatised group so quickly. But the more I thought about it, the more I knew I couldn’t go my whole life without stepping into my true identity. It wasn’t about testing the water for me, I already knew I could swim, I just needed to get up the courage to dive in.
After a few pep talks with friends, I switched my Tinder settings from seeking ‘men’ to seeking ‘everyone’. I continued dating men, but after a few weeks of swiping, I matched with a woman in my local area. A daytime coffee date turned into a Friday night dinner date, turned into several months of dating, until she moved away to Spain (not to escape me, I promise). After that I started seeing a man, and then the pandemic hit, and I was back to being home alone with my son and wondering what it all meant.
© Rebecca CoxFor me, accepting my bisexuality was easy, which I am incredibly grateful for; I know it is not the case for many. But just because I felt comfortable in my new identity didn’t mean everyone else in my life would. Like any mother, my first thoughts were for my son, and how he would feel as he got older about having a queer mother. I knew my family would be accepting, but how would other friends and the local community of school mums I’d built around me feel? The ripples of the life choices we make seem to extend further the older we get, the more we weave our lives into those of others. As we get older it can feel impossible to follow our hearts with freedom.
But as the iron bars lifted following the pandemic, like a caged bird I flew toward the light, which for me meant the possibility of finding a big love again. At the end of the summer of 2020 I met my first proper girlfriend and as things got more serious I had to make the choice of whether I could make my dating life a part of my other life, my main life – the one with everyone else I loved in it. So I did. I came out to my mum, then the rest of my family. They were suitably disinterested, and welcomed my girlfriend into their lives and homes with no questions asked. I waited longer to tell my son, who was five. When I did talk to him he was also unmoved. I carefully explained to him in an age-appropriate way that some people have girlfriends, some people have boyfriends and some people are happy with girlfriends or boyfriends. Kids are different now; despite my explanation of what I believed to be a complicated romantic concept he looked at me like I was a moron: ‘yeh, I get it mum.’ And he did.
That relationship lasted just over a year and after a few more false starts I have been happily with my now-girlfriend for over two years. My life has a lot of challenges, but entering my 40s I am the most authentic version of myself I’ve ever been. I know who I am and no part of me is hidden or repressed; I’ve found someone who loves and accepts me in all my messiness, and whom I love in kind.
© Rebecca CoxWhen I was young it was so easy to feel like the path was all laid out for me and the only choice available was to follow it. But my life began again when I veered away from it, and into the weeds. Yes, the way forward from there was hard to find, but I would rather spend my whole life treading a muddy little track of my own making than walking a path paved for someone else.
Rebecca Cox writes about her experiences in her Substack Series ‘The Coming Out Diaries’.
