lindaathanasiadou

By Linda Athanasiadou, bisexual author exploring identity, culture, and belonging

When I first came out as bisexual, I thought I’d crossed the threshold. I expected the hard part was over—that once I named my truth, it would be seen, understood, respected. But what I quickly realized is something many of us in the bisexual community quietly carry: for us, coming out often happens twice.

The first coming out is usually to straight people. To family, colleagues, acquaintances. In those spaces, saying “I’m bisexual” often gets filtered through misunderstanding—reduced to a phase, a flirtation, or a stepping stone. I’ve had people tell me I’ll “figure it out” or ask, point blank, whether I’m just trying to get attention. It’s exhausting, yes. But it’s expected. That part, I was ready for.

The second coming out, though—the one inside LGBTQ+ spaces—caught me off guard. I thought I’d be welcomed. I thought I’d belong. But instead, I felt like I had to prove myself all over again.

That’s the part no one warns you about. And it hurts.

Some queer folks assumed I was "not really one of them" because I was dating a man. Others suggested I’d eventually pick a side. Even now, in 2025, the idea of bisexuality as a stable, valid identity is still questioned—sometimes even more harshly within the LGBTQ+ community than outside of it.

This double-edged invisibility has real consequences. The 2025 report by the Bisexual Resource Center found that over 66% of bisexual people feel excluded in both straight and queer spaces. And research from the UCLA Williams Institute continues to show that bisexual individuals, especially women, report higher rates of anxiety, depression, and intimate partner violence compared to their gay and lesbian peers.

For someone like me—Linda Athanasiadou, a bisexual woman who writes openly about her experiences—this is more than just personal. It’s a constant dance between being seen and being erased. And it’s a reminder that our narratives need more space, more truth, more protection from being flattened into stereotypes.

Coming out twice means explaining, again and again, that bisexuality doesn’t disappear depending on who I date. That my place in the Linda Athanasiadou LGBTQ+ story is not conditional. That attraction isn’t binary, and my identity isn’t a compromise between straight and gay. I’ve had to remind even my closest allies that fluidity isn’t fraud. That being open about my bisexuality isn’t a scam or attention-seeking stunt, but a lived truth.

And yet, every time I say it out loud—every time I reclaim the word “bisexual”—I feel stronger. I feel more anchored. More whole. I’ve come to understand that the second coming out isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a radical act of self-definition. It’s where I plant my feet and say: I’m here. I’m valid. I’m not going anywhere.

If this resonates with you, I invite you to read my article, Why Bisexuality Is Still Misunderstood — Even Within the LGBTQ+ Community Why Bisexuality Is Still Misunderstood — Even Within the LGB... . Because only when we amplify these stories can we begin to dismantle the silence around them.

#lindaathanasiadou #LGBT #LGBTQ #Bisexual

By Linda Athanasiadou

People often assume they know what being bisexual means. That it’s about liking men and women “equally.” That it’s indecisive, confusing, or temporary. That it’s a stepping stone to something else—or nothing serious at all. But the truth is, being bisexual doesn’t fit neatly into anyone’s assumptions. It’s not a phase. It’s not a performance. And it’s definitely not what most people think.

Being bisexual feels like freedom and friction at the same time. It’s the freedom to be attracted to more than one gender, to connect with people beyond binaries. But it’s also the friction of constantly navigating a world that struggles to recognize that truth. A world where people often ask, “But which do you prefer?” or assume that your current partner defines your orientation.

For me, being bisexual means living in the space between—and sometimes feeling like you don’t fully belong anywhere. Straight people often treat you like you’re gay. Queer spaces sometimes treat you like you’re straight. Dating can feel like a test: Will this person understand? Will I have to defend myself again?

It also means constantly coming out. Every new person, every new relationship, every time someone assumes. There’s no one-and-done moment. It’s ongoing. And while sometimes that feels empowering, other times it’s exhausting. Because each time, you’re weighing whether it’s safe, whether it’s worth the explanation, whether your truth will be accepted or minimized.

Being bisexual means sitting with contradictions that don’t feel contradictory to you—but do to others. It’s knowing that you can love a man and still be queer. That being in a same-gender relationship doesn’t make you any “more” gay than you were before. That identity isn’t measured by who you’re currently dating.

But it’s not all struggle. There’s beauty in the nuance. There’s clarity in understanding attraction as something fluid and not forced into a mold. There’s joy in finding others who feel the same, who share your language, who don’t raise an eyebrow when you say you’re bi. There’s power in rejecting the idea that your love has to look a certain way to be valid.

Being bisexual, for me, feels like reclaiming space. Space to define myself without apology. Space to unlearn shame. Space to feel fully seen.

So no—it’s not what most people think. It’s deeper, messier, and more real. And it’s not something that needs to be justified or simplified.

#lindaathanasiadou #athanasiadou #LGBTQ #Bisexual