Bisexuality felt right for me because it is inclusive of all genders.

Jen Winston (she/they) is a writer, creative director, and bisexual. Jen runs a monthly newsletter called The Bi Monthly, and their first essay collection, ‘Greedy: Notes From A Bisexual Who Wants Too Much’, comes out with Atria Books on Oct 5.

Today is Bi Visibility Day. At first glance, it seems like just another Instagram holiday – an excuse to post thirst traps with long captions. But unpack this further, acknowledging how an epidemic of bisexual erasure has manifested in troubling mental health statistics for the bi+ community, and those very thirst traps become radical. They’re grassroots activism that puts bi people and advocacy center stage.

I love Bi Visibility Day. It fills me with immense joy to see bi people shouting our truth. But all too often, I stumble across a caption where someone has written that their bisexuality is an attraction to “both men and women”. It makes me want to throw my phone at the wall.

I first came out as bisexual in 2019. Before I did, I worried about a lot of things: People would think I was greedy. They’d call it a phase. They’d ask for “proof”, details of my sexual experiences with anyone besides men. They’d tell me bisexuality wasn’t a big deal and wonder why I said anything at all. But what I worried about most of all was that my entire sexuality was dismissive of non-binary identity and that people would urge me to identify as pansexual instead.

In terms of attraction, I was interested in pretty much everyone, non-binary people very much included. But the word “bisexual” had always resonated with me and, knowing that the prefix “bi” means “two,” I couldn’t figure out why. I tried on broad labels like “queer” or “fluid”, but I didn’t feel confident in my sexuality enough to claim them just yet.

I considered “pansexual,” often defined as “attraction to everyone regardless of gender” – it seemed to be bisexuality’s gender-inclusive alternative. But, while I deeply appreciated that part of its definition, the word itself didn’t hit me the same way. “Pansexual” may have been the right term for some people – and it was for millions. But not for me.

I couldn’t put my finger on why, so I assumed that it was due to nuanced differences between the definitions. Gender felt like a massive component of my attraction to others (even when that gender was genderqueer, or the rejection of gender). I chalked my discomfort up to semantics – specifically, the definition of pansexuality’s inclusion of “regardless”.

I knew intrinsically that “bisexual” described my truest self – every time someone said it, it made me feel seen. But, because of its many stigmas, I carried too much shame around saying it out loud. Rather than come out using a label that didn’t feel right, I opted to stay closeted instead. I switched my dating app settings back to just men, figuring I should just lean into my “straight side” – it would make life easier anyway.

But my mind kept drifting back to bisexuality and I considered that I couldn’t be the only bi person who’d run into this issue. I needed answers and I started searching things like, “Does bisexuality reinforce the gender binary?” and “Is bisexuality transphobic?”, anxious to see the results.

I couldn’t believe what I found – tons of bi theorists were speaking about this issue, many of them genderqueer or trans themselves.

I learned bi activist Robyn Ochs’ gender expansive definition of the word “bisexual”: “The potential to be attracted-romantically and/or sexually-to people of more than one gender, not necessarily at the same time, not necessarily in the same way, and not necessarily to the same degree.”

I learned that the radical bi+ movement has always been about challenging binaries of all kinds – gender included.

I learned from activist and writer Shiri Eisner that, despite its gender-expansive history, bisexuality was often “scapegoated” as perpetuating the gender binary, while other binary-driven LGBT+ identities weren’t seen as bearing that responsibility.