53

Dear Diary,

When I came out of the closet at 46, I underestimated how much things would change. Yes, it would be big for my children. Yes, there would probably be a divorce. Yes, my extended family might struggle. Yes, some friends might judge.

But I didn’t know the huge, gaping holes my coming out and divorce would leave in the fabric of my own life. As a married, suburban mom in the Midwest, I was surrounded by friends, by people I’d grown up with, by people my kids had grown up with, by people who said they loved me.

But they loved the me they thought they knew. The married, heterosexual me. The me who looked like everyone else. The me who fit in.

I had worked hard to be that me. But the real me couldn’t—wouldn’t—stay buried forever.

Chris and I were the “Golden Couple” to many: outwardly happy, financially comfortable, professionally successful. We attended lacrosse games and theatre performances and concerts with limos full of friends. We were invited to pool parties, to barbeques, to fancy holiday shindigs.

Then I came out, and those invitations stopped coming.

It wasn’t really even a subtle shit. They just stopped.

Chris still received a few invitations. Sometimes his girlfriend (now his new wife) went with him. Sometimes he went alone.

It was the hardest black hole for me to fill. I already felt like I was on shaky ground, trying to maneuver my way through a new reality, one that was weighed down by shame and failed expectations.

And then came the loneliness.

I had a community. And then I didn’t.

Two days ago, I turned 53 in our beautiful luxury RV retirement resort.

And you know what happened?

People showed up. My new people.

People who have only ever known me as the white-haired, floral-pants-wearing, gay me.

Julie and I went to lunch—chicken marsala at Napolinos, complete with Cabernet, the birthday song, and cannolis with a candle—and we took a little detour on our way home. We turned a corner, and there they were, chairs gathered in a circle, our friends.

When we got close, they cheered and sang “Happy Birthday.” They helped me out of the car, gave me a birthday crown, and handed me a glass of Prosecco.

I had not felt that kind of communal love and acceptance in years.

I thought, maybe, that I would never feel it again.

But there it was, in the most unexpected faces. These beautiful, kind, funny, hard-partying retirees who play some mean pickleball and corn hole, their faces—like mine—elegantly wrinkled with time and love and loss and experience. There was wine and there were snacks and there was a homemade chocolate cake so good, it resulted in an impromptu marriage proposal. There was laughter, and there was music, and there were stories, and there was a realization.

These people had shown up for me.

It was humbling and lovely and altogether heart-warming.

It was my unexpected community.

It was my home.

When we first moved to central Florida, we were worried. I mean, it’s the state that doesn’t say gay, and our politics and religious beliefs definitely don’t align with the majority. But we came here so we could be close to sweet Bob as his mind becomes less and less reliable, so we can be his backup caretakers when Kyle and Jeanna can’t.

And here in this place, we don’t talk about politics or religion. We talk about our kids. We talk about grandkids. We talk about our aches and pains (as older people do). We talk about food and drinks. We talk about pickleball. We would talk about golf and bocce ball, but our lack of knowledge in those areas would leave the conversation very one-sided.

In this place, we have not just felt welcome, we have felt love.

We have a kind friend and neighbor who trims our summer grass just because he can. We have another who expertly towed our new rig back to our waiting lot. We have a group of friends who awaited our arrival so they could help us turn on our electric and hook up our water. We’ve had loans of massagers and medical devices to help alleviate our various aches and pains. We’ve had gifts of cupcakes and bottles of wine and homemade donuts and fresh vegetables and potted flowers and Bloody Marys delivered directly to our door. We’ve had dinner invitations, party invitations, drinking invitations.

We have a beautiful, accepting community in a very unexpected place.

And I had a 53rd birthday filled with love and laughter and the best damn chocolate cake in the universe. It’s not nothing to be surrounded with people who care about you, with people who have your back, with people who accept you in your flip-flops and your rainbow tanks.

It is, in fact, everything.

How lucky we are.

Love,

Katrina