Come on Out
How moving to South Korea sparked a change that would last a lifetime.
Wandering Into Myself: Discoveries Made a World Away
Moving to a new country unraveled the perfect little map I thought I’d follow and handed me a blank page instead. In the in-between of unfamiliar streets and late-night conversations, I met parts of myself I hadn’t known to look for — soft, stubborn and delightfully queer. Each small discovery felt like finding a rainbow on a rainy day: unexpected, warmly illuminating and utterly mine.
When a Straight Girl Turns Gay
About a year into teaching English in South Korea, a coworker invited a small group of us to her going-away party at Labris — a tucked-away lesbian bar in the heart of Hongdae, the neighborhood famous for its indie spirit and street art. The place lived up to its secretive reputation: perched on an upper floor of an unassuming building, it felt like stepping through a hidden door to another world — and, yes, men were politely left at the threshold.
I arrived in my usual nervous, awkward state. I’d never been to a gay bar, didn’t have any gay friends and had no map for how the night would unfold. This was one of my first real departures from home and from Growing Up Mormon, so much of what felt queer and unfamiliar had been carefully kept at bay until that moment. Social situations like this have never been my forte — I’m the one who prefers to hang back and watch — though a few drinks can work wonders on my courage.
Out of the blue, I struck up a conversation at the bar with a woman named Kim, a friend of the host and a gyopo — a word that can carry a sting, used for Koreans who’ve been distanced from their heritage after growing up abroad. She’d come back to Korea searching for her birth mother, hoping to reclaim that missing piece of home.
She was androgynous and striking: short black hair, covered in tattoos and a face that lingered in your memory. Her presence felt electric — smart, fiercely creative, quick-witted and just a touch self-assured. We talked for hours that night and in the weeks that followed the conversation deepened. We stayed up late messaging, I’d lose myself scrolling through her photos and a new, unexpected feeling threaded through my days — unfamiliar, heady and quietly thrilling.
One night, a few drinks in and feeling brazen, I sent her a message confessing my crush — then immediately tried to blame it on the booze, just in case. Her reply was swift and unruffled: "If you're drunk, fuck off. If not, let's go on a date." I read it, blinking, equal parts mortified and exhilarated and typed back, somehow steadier than I felt, "Let's go on a date."
Calling it terrifying barely scratches the surface, yet I felt oddly liberated — like I had nothing to lose. I was in a foreign land where no one knew me and few spoke my language. Family and friends were thousands of miles and several time zones away; there was no one to judge me or even raise an eyebrow. It was pure freedom, a chance to reinvent myself. For the first time in my life, being with a woman was a real possibility — an idea that had never before occurred to me.
We did go on that date and for a few thrilling weeks we lived in our own little bubble until she returned to the States. She gave me my first true kiss — not the reckless, clichéd kind from a 21st-birthday blur — and because of her, my whole world shifted.
Entering the Queer Universe & Dating Someone Trans
After Kim left Korea, my love life took an unexpected detour. I met a mutual friend — a Korean woman who ran a cosy bar in Sincheon — and we began seeing each other. Not long after we started dating, she confided that she was transgender but unable to be open about it because of her business and her relationship with her father. In Korea, coming out can carry serious risks: losing a job or being rejected by family and friends.
From the beginning, it was complicated. We tried but we drank too often, dodged honest conversations about what we each really needed and stumbled over the language barrier — my Korean was shaky, her English the same. She wrestled with anger and the turmoil of accepting herself and she wasn’t ready for physical intimacy; she wouldn’t let me touch her or see her undressed. Less than a year later, after she flew to the States to meet my family and we had a dramatic fallout, we decided to go our separate ways.
Finding My True Colors: Coming Out
Before she arrived, I finally decided it was time to let my family in on my little secret. One by one, I rang my four brothers and confessed that I was no longer interested in men — a confession I now see was a bit unfair to the person I was dating. It felt strange to be realizing I was attracted to women while I was in a relationship with someone who wasn’t. Dating a trans person added another layer of complexity I hadn’t yet learned to navigate. I didn’t even know how to be gay, let alone the subtleties of gender identity, especially across cultures.
To my relief, my brothers took the news better than I’d imagined. No drama, just their usual easygoing selves. When I told my mom she joked about Cher and laughed, which made the whole thing feel lighter. My dad was another matter — I wanted to tell him face to face. As the eldest and only daughter in our Mormon family, I was supposed to marry a man and fill the house with children. So I braced myself and his reply has stayed with me: “I don’t agree with your decision but I will always support you no matter what.” That was that — simple, steady and exactly what I needed.
Troubled From the Beginning
After a brief holiday, I returned to Korea for another year of teaching, ready to begin a new chapter. My previous relationship was behind me and the idea of dating again felt fresh and a little thrilling. Almost immediately, I reconnected with a Korean friend and, to my surprise, sparks flew. At the time, he was in a long-term relationship and I found myself in the awkward role of the other woman. We spent months sneaking around before he finally ended things — though his past didn’t stop casting shadows over us for years to come.
Not long after our connection deepened, I learned he was transgender. That detail came into focus slowly; at the office he presented more feminine but with me and a few friends he lived more openly as a man. Navigating that new reality was confusing and eye-opening. I was exploring life as a gay woman while simultaneously introducing the world to my boyfriend, who was transgender.
When we planned a trip home to the States — Utah to see my mom and grandparents, then on to Chicago and Michigan to visit my brothers and dad — I wanted him to feel safe and respected. I wrote my family a thoughtful message explaining what it meant to be transgender and kindly asked that everyone use his chosen pronoun, “he.” It felt important to protect our time together and to choose compassion over fear.
The visit went smoothly in many ways but my worst fear quietly came true when we couldn't find our footing for even a few days. One night in Chicago, he disappeared — drunk and wandering the streets — behavior I had learned to expect back in Korea but couldn't bear with my brother there to see. I felt humiliated.
Back in Korea, things steadily went downhill. After nearly two years of him wrestling with alcohol and me running out of patience, we finally called it quits — and honestly, it’s a small miracle we made it through without doing permanent damage to one another. The last stretch of that relationship was especially heavy; I felt trapped and unsafe in a country that had once felt like a dream, with nowhere to turn. In the end, I decided to come home after four years of loving a beautiful place and learning I no longer belonged there.
Those struggles and failed relationships taught me invaluable lessons. The clearest one: only chase someone who is actually available. I also realized I want a partner who’s comfortable in her own skin, who wants to be touched and to share intimacy — a work-in-progress for me too, as I’m addressing my own trauma with the help of a sex coach — I Have a Sex Coach. I learned I can’t fix someone else’s pain, nor am I responsible for their choices. The best thing I can do is live honestly and protect my boundaries by removing people who don’t respect them.
Coming Home to Myself: A Full Circle Moment
A few months ago, my grandmother asked if I had a "special friend" — her sweet shorthand for girlfriend. I told her no but she wanted to talk more. We’d never had a frank conversation about my being gay; years before, one of my brothers had let my secret slip at the dinner table, so she wasn’t entirely in the dark.
She mentioned having watched Caitlyn Jenner on TV and I could tell where she was going. Gently, she asked if that’s what I liked, whether I was only attracted to transgender people — an understandable question given my past. She reassured me she had an open mind and that I could tell her anything.
I explained that my relationships usually start with a connection to a person, not a checklist of sexes, and that it wasn’t deliberate who I fell for. For now, though, I’m intentionally looking to date women. She nodded and understood.
That conversation surprised me in the best way. Often, we assume others won’t accept us and keep our truths to ourselves but my 80-year-old Mormon grandmother told me she could accept me for whoever I chose to be. There’s something quietly beautiful in that simple, wholehearted acceptance.
