But coming out to my father still presented a real challenge.
The first time I fell in love, I was 15 years old — an emerging high school freshman boasting a newly found pseudo-maturity. The object of my affection was a 17-year-old upperclassman whose hormones were so charged, they’d enter a room before he did. He was it, or so I thought for the two months we dated. In that time of young lust, I decided I would ingratiate him into my family’s life. I saw it so clearly: He’d come to family bar mitzvahs, join us on vacations, and snuggle with me on the couch while my parents looked on approvingly.
I asked my parents if I could bring him to dinner at my dad’s golf club and the very next weekend, he and I were sitting across from them at a four-top, nervously fiddling with our napkins. My parents tried hard to make conversation; we talked about school, hobbies, favorite foods, and why our football team was on a losing streak. Things seemed to be progressing nicely until my dad asked him what he wanted to do when he got older. Jason replied, “Well, I’m not sure yet, but I either want to be a cop or in the mafia.”
And that’s when I saw it and truly felt it for the first time — my father’s disappointment. I don’t think I could’ve articulated until that moment just how much his approval meant to me. But when I saw my dad’s chest deflate, I knew my relationship with Jason was over.
I was such a good daughter, not only dutifully obedient but happily obliging. The love and respect I had for my parents — even during my teen years when resentment was the more fashionable emotion — dictated the majority of my young decisions. And so, with the word “mafia” still hanging in the air like stale smoke, I knew I could no longer go out with Jason. On Monday morning, I told him to “fuhgettaboutit.”
Over the next 15 years, my life was filled with experiences and decisions — good and bad — that undoubtedly weighed upon my parents. There were honor rolls but also stashes of marijuana, degrees earned, and jobs landed and lost. There were phases of financial struggle, regained footing, relationship drama, and an impromptu move across the country. Throughout, my parents were my unconditional rocks. They showed up time and time again to have my back, which I hoped meant that they approved of all of my twists and turns. Deep down, I longed that they did.
In 2002, I moved to San Francisco trying desperately to find myself. I’d just ended my engagement to a man who was perfect on paper — my father had been very fond of him, confident that I would be well cared for and loved. And while my head agreed, my heart told me otherwise. So I left him, left NYC, and landed in the arms of a friend 3,000 miles away who had held my hand very tightly throughout my uncoupling. And once again, I fell in love (or so I thought). But this time it wasn’t mafia ambitions that made me question my relationship. It was that I fell for a woman.
The experience rattled me: I wasn’t gay, couldn’t be gay, and back then, I sure didn’t want to be gay. It didn’t make sense, but the emotional and eventually sexual connection I had with this woman was clear as day. So I allowed myself the relationship, under the agreement that we’d be best friends to the world, and lovers behind closed doors. For four years, we told no one. We simply lived our intense romance in secrecy, alienating friends, co-workers, and worst of all, family. It was one of the most exciting and lonely times of my life.
This relationship would eventually end partly because the lies and stress weren’t sustainable, but largely because my sexual confusion was slowly chipping away at our romantic foundation. I still crushed on men and didn’t know how to embrace my sexual fluidity. So for the next few years I dated both men and women, but always kept my trysts with women a total secret from those around me. To me, it seemed senseless to “open that can of worms,” since I was convinced I would eventually marry a man. I also couldn’t bear my fears around my parents’ reaction.
I believe it was John Lennon who said, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” It was Thanksgiving 2008, and I was home visiting my family for the holidays. The time together was wonderful, full of reminiscing, career updates, and shared stories of all the failed dates I’d been on with guys from J-date. Even though I was 28 and single, the picture of the life I painted for my parents seemed to make them comfortable. It even convinced me on the surface that I was on the “right” track of meeting the perfect guy, settling down, and starting a family of my own.
And that’s when a casual search through my old camp’s alumni Facebook page in my family’s kitchen put Nicole back in my orbit after 25 years. She was my older brother’s first girlfriend when they were 10 years old; back then, I idolized her and she adored me. But we lost touch in 1986 and our friendship faded away…until her profile picture stared back at me that fall afternoon. The moment felt so profound that I could sense a change was brewing.
She and I excitedly reacquainted; first via email, then on the phone, and finally, after months of communication where our feelings felt undeniably more than platonic, we met in person. Our long-lost connection immediately sparked something special as adults. We had so much in common: our childhoods, our journey to self-discovery, and even our career choices aligned. The emotional and physical attraction was so powerful and effortless that the quarter-century absence dissipated within moments. I chuckled to think of all the times in my life that I’d thought I was in love. Because it felt nothing like this: This was love.
We dated exclusively for a year, traveling back and forth between L.A. and San Francisco each weekend; even the American Airlines flight attendants knew our names. The relationship grew quickly and intensely, and for the first time since I was a 20-something, I thought about the notion of “forever” with someone. There was no doubt that I was the best version of myself with her. She helped free me from the need to define myself for others, encouraged me to live in my truth, and reminded me that I was so much more than society’s labels. She’d often tell me that my identity was larger than who I slept next to at night; I was a friend, a sister, a writer, an athlete, and most importantly, someone who was allowed to be happy.
Then, out of the blue, a card from my parents arrived in the mail. It read, “Not sure what’s going on with you lately, but the happiness in your voice makes our hearts sing.”
“Think it’s time you share your life with them?” Nicole asked.
It was. So I picked up the phone and made the scariest phone call of my life. When my mom answered, I poured my heart out. I told her how happy, in love, and complete I felt in my relationship. I let her know I made the decision to move to Los Angeles to live with Nicole. I also explained that my new path hadn’t originated in a bubble: I had seriously dated the two women I’d previously introduced her to as my “best friends.” She listened compassionately and told me that while this all felt a bit hasty, none of it was a surprise. She knew me, as moms do, inside and out — and always questioned the nature of my other friendships. She just wanted to give me the space to figure it out and tell her when I was ready. My relief was palpable.
The conversation with my father went a bit differently. I absolutely adored him; he was soft spoken, wise, effusively loving, supportive, and always wanted the best for me. I was still his little girl, eager to live up to his expectations. So when I shared my news and heard the familiar sound of air deflating from his chest, it devastated me. I swore to myself in high school that I never wanted to feel his disappointment again and here I was, two decades later, reliving the “mafia” moment.
He asked a bevy of questions: “When did this happen?”
“You tell me you want to get married and have children, but how will you do all those things with a woman?”
“Are you certain this is the life you want?”
I answered all of his questions, but the regret I felt in that moment was crushing. To my father, this announcement came out of the blue. I’d never given him the opportunity to understand my truth, because I withheld it from him. So he saw this as a confusing, rash, and risky decision. He didn’t grasp how I was “suddenly” in love with a woman. Worse, he feared the world wouldn’t be kind to us at a time when gay marriage wasn’t legal. I knew he needed time and space to digest my news and face his own concerns.
I hung up the phone overcome with relief and sadness. I felt like I was letting my father down, dashing his dreams for me once again. But this time, my heart was so full of certainty and a new found self-trust that I forged ahead anyway.
Over the next year and a half, Nicole and I built a life together. We even went to couples therapy to learn how to communicate. Our relationship was strong, and our engagement quickly followed. My family witnessed all of our hard work and commitment to one another, but it wasn’t until my father gave his speech at my wedding that I truly knew I had his heart. He raised his glass in our honor, and told our family and friends that Nicole reignited a spark in me that had been missing for years — that he was so grateful to finally have his Jill back. Clearly, he too had detected my struggles during those explorative years, and despite not being “in the know,” he knew.
His speech was the icing on our wedding cake, the warmest display of approval I could have ever dreamed of. But as I hugged him afterward, I realized something important — I stopped needing his approval the night I made that nerve-racking phone call home, the same night I finally started to trust myself. I think that’s all he ever wanted for me.
I wrote this in loving memory of my father, Artie Goldstein, our biggest champion. He was featured in a commercial a decade ago, talking about his journey with my coming out, and I couldn’t have put it better myself:
(Expedia “Find Your Understanding” / 2013 / Directed by Elliot Raush / Ad Agency 180 LA)
