Growing up, I often felt afraid of my mom. She was very strict, with high expectations I knew I couldn’t meet. Her standards felt impossible, especially as I began to understand myself more—discovering that I’m queer, valuing my independence, and realizing that my path was different from what she envisioned.

During my college years, I found myself attracted to women and had relationships with hearing women, but I lied to my mom, pretending I was dating men. I was terrified of her reaction. That fear became real when she discovered notes from my relationships hidden in my room. She didn’t confront me right away, but I later found those notes in her purse and hid them before she could bring them up. It seemed she forgot, but the tension lingered.

Eventually, she caught me with Stacy Tan, a brilliant, tall woman I deeply admired. My mom’s reaction was harsh—she grounded me for two weeks during the holiday break and handed me a Bible to study. She hoped to “fix” me, even quizzing me on my studies. I played along and passed her quizzes, but nothing changed inside me. I pretended it did, just to avoid further punishment.

That was the beginning of a pattern—lying became a way to protect myself, to avoid rejection, and to be accepted by those around me. Over time, I learned to hide my truth, even reinventing parts of myself. One of the biggest lies I told was about my education. I claimed to have completed my master’s degree when, in reality, I didn’t.

I realize now how much damage that lie caused, especially in my marriage to Jenna. When she found out, it shattered her trust in me. It wasn’t just the lie itself but the deeper issue of how I hid parts of myself, creating a barrier between us. She struggled to give me a second chance and found it too difficult to rebuild trust.

In May 2024, Jenna asked for separation, which I reluctantly agreed to. We tried couple’s counseling, but throughout the year, she asked for a divorce multiple times. I held on, desperate and heartbroken, hoping we could rebuild. But Jenna needed time and space, and I had to let go, even though it tore me apart.

I attend individual therapy, where I’ve been learning more about myself and gaining a deeper understanding of why I made the choices I did, including unpacking all my emotions and the roots of my actions. Through this process, I’ve come to realize that I hurt a few friends I used to cherish deeply. I took the step to apologize to them, and while I’m glad I did, I’ve had to accept that things aren’t the same anymore. We used to be very close, but the damage I caused has changed our dynamic. Even though it’s painful, I’m grateful for the opportunity to take responsibility and make amends. It’s part of my journey toward becoming more authentic and rebuilding trust—not just with others, but also with myself.

Now, I’m living with the consequences of my actions. Jenna has expressed that she may want to be a friend to me in the future, but even that thought feels like a heartbreak. Losing her has been the most painful experience of my life. It has forced me to confront my patterns of dishonesty and understand how deeply they’ve affected the people I care about, and myself.

I’m sharing this because I want to take responsibility for my actions and the pain they’ve caused. Reinventing myself may have felt like a way to survive and be accepted in the past, but it’s clear now that honesty and authenticity are the only paths to genuine connection. This is a hard lesson, but it’s one I’m determined to learn.