Sara Mednick

In August 2020, I got married to the woman I love, the woman I have always loved, the woman I wasn’t able to love for the past 30 years. It was a Covid wedding, just my kids (ages 11 and 7) beaming, the mayor of the village officiating, our photographer friend photographing, and two nearly 50-year-old ladies finally tying the knot in a paganish New York state civil ceremony at the party dock on the Hudson River. I’m finally with my person. It took two dead parents and the dissolution of a 14-year marriage with children to get here. But better late than never, right?

It might be hard to understand how someone like me — a punk rock feminist from way back, a bleeding-heart lib, a Harvard-trained university professor, and author — took so long to get my head out of my ass and come out of the closet. Why was it so hard to stand up to my parents and the anti-gay culture of the 1980s and ’90s that I grew up in? What did the pressure to conform to the heteronormative lifestyle do to my physical, cognitive, and emotional health?

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