For most of my life, I felt like I was chasing a shadow—something just out of reach, something I couldn’t name. My sexuality shifted constantly, and I blamed myself for the confusion. Was I indecisive? Broken? I didn’t know. It wasn’t until I turned 30 that I stumbled upon the term “abrosexual” and everything clicked. That moment felt like a lightbulb exploding in my chest. I wasn’t lost—I was finally found.
Coming out as abrosexual was liberating, but the backlash was brutal. Friends I trusted mocked me, questioned my validity, and dismissed my identity as made-up. “Pick a lane,” they said. “Just say you’re bisexual.” Their ignorance cut deep, and I realized they weren’t friends at all. I walked away, choosing self-respect over their approval. It hurt, but I was done apologizing for who I am.
I started sharing my story publicly, hoping to educate others and offer comfort to anyone feeling the same confusion I once did. Abrosexuality means my attraction shifts—it’s fluid, not fake. Some days I’m drawn to women, other days to men, and sometimes to no one at all. It’s not indecision—it’s authenticity. I wish I’d known this term earlier, but I’m grateful I know it now.
Today, I stand firm in my truth. My family has embraced me, and I’ve found new friends who listen, learn, and love without judgment. Still, I hear the occasional “You’re just confused,” but I refuse to be boxed in by someone else’s ignorance. Growth means learning who you are—even if it takes 30 years. I’m abrosexual, and I’m proud.
