Navigating Queer Imposter Syndrome: Overcoming Internalized Biphobia as an Afro-Latina Woman

“So, you believe you’re bisexual?”

At 12 years old, I sat quietly in the bathroom, watching my mother straighten her hair before heading to work.

The house was unusually calm—no younger sister running around, no stepfather demanding silence. The fluorescent light cast a stark white glow. We had been living in our Jersey apartment for a year.

My mother carefully slid the straightener through her curls, taming the damage caused by years of heat styling. Then, without warning, she asked, “So, you think you’re bisexual?”

Her question caught me off guard. Clumsy in clothes that didn’t yet fit my changing body, I stammered, “What?”

“Tití Jessie overheard you chatting with your cousin,” she said—meaning she had eavesdropped by picking up the house phone. Fantastic.

My mom set down the straightener, turning from the mirror to look at me. “So, you want to put your mouth on another girl’s vagina?”

Panic surged through me. “What? No!”

She turned back to the mirror and said, “Okay, then. That’s what I thought.”

And just like that, the conversation ended.

For the next 12 years, my mother and I never spoke about my sexuality again.

During that time, I was left to wrestle with my feelings alone, often plagued by doubt and the belief that maybe she was right.

I immersed myself in romance novels filled with strong men pursuing strong women who softened for them. As a late bloomer, I didn’t have a boyfriend until I was 17. We navigated adulthood together until I outgrew him.

I attended a small college in Southern New Jersey, known for nursing and criminal justice programs, surrounded by classmates whose values often clashed with mine.

As a commuter, I drove through Atlantic City—a predominantly Black city burdened by unemployment and overshadowed by towering casinos—into the quieter, wooded suburbs.

Lawns dotted with Thin Blue Line flags reminded me constantly of the attitudes toward Black lives in my community.

In such an environment, there was little acceptance for an introverted Black girl who made friends by attaching herself to outgoing personalities.

I still struggled with my Black identity, and I sensed other Black students could tell.

So, I found comfort among literature majors, becoming accustomed to attention from people who didn’t match my interests, while never attracting those who did. This dynamic led me into a series of sexual encounters driven by a need for validation.

I was often the “first Black girl” for many cisgender white men. My quiet nature made me seem approachable and more “acceptable.”

Friends would joke about my relationships, doubting the authenticity of my queerness as I dated multiple cisgender men.

Internalized biphobia often stems from self-doubt fueled by others’ perceptions.

Bisexual individuals represent over half of the LGBTQIA community, yet we frequently face invisibility and skepticism, as if we’re confused or undecided. I began to internalize these harmful ideas.

My first sexual encounter with a woman happened during a threesome. It was overwhelming—I was slightly intoxicated and unsure how to divide my attention between two partners while navigating their relationship.

I left feeling disoriented, wanting to share the experience with my boyfriend but constrained by the unspoken rules of our open relationship.

Continuing to engage with women in group settings, I still felt “not queer enough.”

These early experiences never felt perfect, deepening my internal conflict.

I questioned whether I was truly attracted to other femmes or only sexually interested in women. I hadn’t allowed myself to realize that queer sexual experiences can be imperfect too.

Despite many underwhelming encounters with men, I never doubted my attraction to them.

Lacking queer role models in life and media left me uncertain about what was authentic.

Returning to New York City opened my eyes to a world far beyond the blue-collar, often conservative neighborhood I’d grown up in.

I discovered I could embrace polyamory, sex positivity, kink, and unapologetic queerness—even while maintaining relationships with men.

When I began dating a woman seriously, I realized I had been reducing my sexuality to just physical acts—much like my mother had years before.

She never asked if I wanted to be intimate with a boy, which would have triggered the same reaction. At that age, I couldn’t comprehend sex or the anatomy involved.

My feelings for that woman were genuine, thrilling, and comforting. I felt safer in that same-gender connection than ever before.

When the relationship ended before it truly began, I was heartbroken over the loss of what could have been.

Embracing the term bisexual took time and understanding.

Initially, I thought it meant being equally attracted to two genders and wondered if it included other identities. So, I identified as pansexual or queer at first.

While I still use those labels, I’ve grown comfortable with bisexuality, recognizing its evolving and inclusive meaning.

For me, sexuality isn’t about who I’m attracted to but who I’m open to.

Ultimately, that includes everyone. I no longer feel compelled to prove my queerness—to others or myself.

Gabrielle Smith is a Brooklyn-based poet and writer focusing on love, sexuality, mental health, and intersectionality. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram.

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