Chappell Roan’s Music Revealed My Long-Held Secret and Changed My Life

Chappell Roan performs during the 2024 Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival on June 16 in Manchester, Tennessee.

Sitting in a dusty field amid festivalgoers dancing in bikinis and denim chaps to Sean Paul’s “Temperature,” I confessed my crush.

It didn’t go as planned. The loud music was distracting, my stomach was swirling, and I dropped my water bottle to hide my shaking hands. I was 31, not 14. Nearly two decades too late.

Frances was an old high school friend. We lost touch after college but reconnected online over a shared love for Chappell Roan and our upcoming Bonnaroo trip.

We caught up quickly, sharing years of history and past relationships. Finally, I blurted out, “I had a huge crush on you. I just didn’t realize it until a few years ago.”

I’m a cisgender woman married to a cisgender, heterosexual man. Only recently did I begin openly exploring my bisexuality. Through my 20s, it was easier to ignore this part of myself until it wasn’t anymore.

Growing up shy, Baptist, and conservative in the Southeast, I was told not to “stumble” men with my dress. Family members assured me I’d make a wonderful wife and mother. In school, gay men were bullied, and bisexual women were sexualized.

It was easier to accept my attraction to men and push down that persistent question, “Are you sure that’s it?”

Then came Frances. Brilliant, funny, and shorter than me. I remember her dark curls when she let her hair down. I was introverted and awkward, but she made me laugh and feel seen.

Looking back at old photos, I see the signs. In one, we are close — my forehead touching hers but not too close. I felt heavy when she said she was transferring schools during sophomore year. I didn’t want to return to biology class without her.

We reconnected after college. Over a beer, she asked if I liked women. Unsure, I said, “Maybe 10%?” It felt like a lie.

I became an enthusiastic LGBTQ+ ally, working pride booths and fighting with family on social media. I felt giddy around queer women, but I wrote it off as shyness. I briefly tried matching with women on dating apps but deleted them out of fear.

I dated cisgender men exclusively. In therapy, I would casually mention not knowing if I only wanted to date men. No therapist asked me to elaborate, so I internalized that as proof of my straightness. Even though I Googled, “How do you know if you’re not straight?” often.

It started to hurt not to talk about it, but I lacked the vocabulary. I felt like an impostor, thinking I hadn’t earned the right to this identity. Jen Winston’s book “Greedy: Notes From a Bisexual Who Wants Too Much” resonated with me, explaining how culture taught me bisexuality was something you did, not something you were.

So, queer artists sang the words I couldn’t say. As a freelance music writer, I connected deeply with queer music. Songs like “Strangers” by Halsey featuring Lauren Jauregui and Boygenius’ “Not Strong Enough” spoke to me.

Then I discovered Chappell Roan. Her song “Pink Pony Club” mesmerized me. Her embrace of queerness was refreshing, especially in Tennessee, where anti-LGBTQ+ legislation is rising. Songs like “Naked in Manhattan” and “Red Wine Supernova” gave me hope.

Chappell’s hit “Good Luck, Babe!” became my wake-up call. Lines like, “You know I hate to say, but I told you so,” spoke to my younger self and pushed me to confront my truth.

I started reading queer books, bought a pride top, and mentioned my sexual identity to close friends and my partner. No one was surprised, least of all my husband. Over dinner, I said, “I think I like more than just men.” He responded, “You talk about how attractive women are all the time.”

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone. I felt relieved and conflicted, thinking I wanted celebrations or shock. But that wasn’t what I needed.

It took years to find my voice. Sure, I’m a “bisexual late bloomer,” but I came out when it was right for me. I credit the final push to Chappell.

Today, my heterosexual side feels mature, while my queer identity is in its infancy. I feel like I’m learning to walk again, more confidently with each step.

I’m seeking out queer communities, talking with my husband about what my bisexuality means for our relationship. Loving and being with a man doesn’t negate my bisexuality.

So, when I recently saw Frances at a festival, I was ready to admit what I should have years ago. And more importantly, I was ready for her response: “I had a crush on you, too.”

Source: HuffPost