When It Comes to Coming Out, It’s Never Too Late
By Leslie Price
Suzette Mullen knows what it’s like to start over. In her 50s, she came to realize she was a lesbian, a truth she’d turned away from for years. This meant eventually leaving the comfort of a life she’d built for decades, a daunting process she details in her new memoir, The Only Way Through Is Out.
The book is a fast read; I raced through it in a morning, alternatively hopeful and concerned for her as the challenges unfolded. Ahead of its debut, I spoke with Mullen about coming out later in life, what was gained – and lost – in the process, the cost of authenticity, and more.
The book shows what it's like to come out after making a lot of serious decisions, like getting married, having children, and leaning out of your career. You were living a life that, by all accounts, was incredibly safe and comfortable. Even after realizing your sexuality, you tried to make your marriage work. How long did it take you to fully come out and then leave your marriage?
It was about 18 months between the time I had the initial revelation that I was in love with my best friend until I decided to leave my marriage. Everyone's experience is different, but the pattern that unfolded for me is not all that unusual for people coming out later in life. First, it was this realization about what was really true with the relationship that I have with this friend. And then there was this hope that, well, maybe it's just her, and then I don't need to do anything.
The cost of leaving my life felt so terribly high, both for myself and for my then-husband. There was also this part of me that was like, what if I'm wrong? Because I had not had an intimate experience with a woman. I had never even kissed a woman. I'd done lots of things in my head, but nothing in actual reality.
There was a day I woke up and had the clarity that I wasn't willing to go to my grave without knowing who I was. It also was not fair to my then-husband to drag it out any longer. It was agony being in that limbo.
It reads like a thriller. It was a real page-turner, and I felt that I needed to finish it to find out that you were going to be okay in the end. Was that your intention when you were writing it?
I was absolutely trying to tell a story that would compel people to turn the page. I'm also a book coach, so I am pretty well-versed in story structure and storytelling. What I will say is that it certainly didn't just come out that way. There were many, many drafts and many stops and starts along the way. One of the big challenges with memoir, of course, is it's from your life. So you have to curate a narrative structure. It took me quite a while to get there, and I'm happy to hear that, at least for you, I succeeded.
While I was reading, I was furious on your behalf. There were so many unsupportive people in your life, as well as those giving you terrible advice who should have been there to help you, like a therapist. How did you work through all of that: the issues with family, the therapist telling you that you're sexually attracted to women because you weren't breastfed?
At times, it caused me to question myself. A big part of the journey that I share in the book is the journey to learn to trust myself. Early on, I didn't. For a good amount of my adult life, I looked to other people for answers.
Was it painful? Was it disappointing? Were there times I was angry? All of those things. I wanted everyone to embrace me, my decision, and my new identity with open arms, and that wasn't the case. It wasn't possible for everyone.
As far as my therapist goes: When I was going through therapy in my late 30s into my early 40s, I was so naive. There were a lot of good things that happened in that therapeutic relationship, but I had no understanding of the religious overtones. I didn't know that a lot of the language was what conservative Christians use.
The story is about sorting out all of the different voices that I was hearing, the ones that were supportive, the ones that weren't supportive, the conflicting advice. There was so much noise. Part of the journey was trying to finally find enough quiet so that I could really hear what was true for me.
What factors played a part in obscuring your ability to listen to your own instincts? There's the assumption of heterosexuality — of being raised in a culture that assumes you're going to get married and have children. But it's also clear that religion played a part.
How could I have not seen what now seems very obvious? What kept me from going there? One [factor] was the message I got as a young child: Follow the rules, play it safe, don't take risks. I don't like making mistakes.
Another factor, frankly, was the heteronormativity that I grew up in. I'm 62 now, so I went to high school in the ’70s, and there was not another person, at least that I was aware of, in my high school who was out at the time. I had no role models or mentors. It was not even on my radar. The religious component absolutely played a role [as well]. I did not grow up in a religious family, but I had a religious experience. And it was happening right around the same time I met Reenie, who became my best friend and the woman that eventually I fell in love with. It was all mixed up. Our relationship was very spiritual.
What advice would you give people who are in a similar situation as you were?
There are lots and lots and lots of women questioning and coming out later in life. I am in a bunch of Facebook groups now with thousands of them from all over the world.
Even though I considered myself progressive, I came to realize I did not have any close friends who were queer. I did not know a single person who had experienced what I went through. So I Googled, and that's where I started finding a few stories, which eventually led me to a Facebook group.
There are lots of people out there who are going through what you're going through. You may not know any of them because of the life that you've led. This might be a silly thing to say, but they can reach out to me, and I can try to connect them with one of the many groups that are out there, because this is absolutely something that you need community for. You cannot do this on your own.
You don't shy away from the challenges. You talk about feeling isolated and suicidal.
It was a really, really, really difficult time. It was difficult getting to the place where I actually made the decision, and the immediate aftermath was very difficult, too. Ultimately, what saved me was community. In particular, the women whom I had met through a Facebook group. That's why I dedicated my book to them. Finding community and finding people who understand, and have been there or are on that journey, allowed me to finally be able to trust myself and take the steps I needed to take to build a new life.
I also will give a shout-out to therapists. I mentioned at least three therapists in my book, and they all played a role. I finally found an LGBTQ+ therapist who understood what I was going through, and helped me climb out of the hole I was in at my lowest point.
Is there anything else that you hope people take away from the book?
There are two messages I want to leave people with. One is that it really is never too late. I did all of this in my mid-fifties, and I know people have done it older than that. The other is about the cost of authenticity. When we're stepping toward authenticity, there is often something we're leaving behind. That certainly was the case for me. We want to make the leap and have it not cost us anything. But for me, it was worth the cost.
I'm in my early 60s, and I feel like I'm living my best life. Not only personally, but professionally. None of that would have happened if I hadn't been willing to make that leap.