My Journey of Self-Acceptance as a Bisexual, Modern Orthodox Jew

It was never a choice.

In hindsight, all the mental energy I spent agonizing over the decision as to whether to come out as bisexual or continue to masquerade as heterosexual was always going to lead to the same conclusion. Because I didn’t pick who I am.

I came out to be authentic. I came out because being in the closet SUCKED. I came out because a big piece of me was missing. 

Growing up in the Modern Orthodox Jewish community, it was well known that one type of relationship was okay: between a man and woman. The Torah, and every sign around me, said so.

As I began to understand who I was attracted to, I realized I had a big problem. I liked other boys. That realization, which happened around age 13, was catastrophic and unacceptable, so for a while it was pushed away.

Soon, I realized that I also liked girls; which for adolescent me was a huge relief, because we all have weird things about ourselves, right? And the whole liking boys thing didn’t have to be life-altering, right? I liked women, so I could marry one and live a ‘normal’ life. Why should I deal with all this LGBTQ meshuggas?

This way of thinking worked for a few years, and while in the closet, I dated several women and had meaningful connections with them. But a huge piece of me was missing, locked behind a concrete wall of shame and secrecy. That shame, which surfaced every time I had a thought about another man, led to significant depression and anxiety with which I still grapple at times. In my worst moments, I felt disgusting and self-loathing. I thought I was cursed with something gross inside me that I had to push away. And worst of all, I was going through all of this alone, because the idea of sharing it with another person felt more painful than actually ripping my skin off.

During this difficult time, I had several lifeboats to which I clung. I had many friends who seemed to want to be around me, and didn’t seem to have strong feelings about how their friends lived their lives. I had the Torah and Halacha, which while at times were complicated and painful, also gave me a blueprint for how to live and provided a lot of meaning. I had loving parents, who, while never shy about their traditional beliefs, always made me feel that I was loved. So while I was feeling tremendous shame, I think I always had a sense of my inherent goodness and worthiness as a person.

These lifeboats helped me move towards more self-love and self-compassion. In doing so, it became untenable to believe that my sexuality was shameful, that it was a problem, that I needed to keep it in and refuse to explore relationships and communities that might be meaningful for me, enriching, and make me feel whole. 

But the Torah said it was forbidden. A relationship between two men is an “abomination.”

I began to explore Orthodox Judaism’s perspective on same-sex attraction, through various essays, shirium, and conversations (while still in the closet). There was one word that came up over and over again:

“Gay.”

Another word came up frequently, but not quite as often.

“Lesbian.”

One word I don’t remember ever encountering:

“Bisexual.” 

For all those years, I had wished I was straight. When I began to accept that I was attracted to men, and that wasn’t going away, I started to wish I was gay. Sadly for me, (and for 5.2% of Americans, per a 2025 Gallup poll), I realized I was neither. I was, am, and will always be: bisexual. I am physically attracted to, and can develop emotional intimacy with members of the opposite sex and of my own.

I tried to discern whether there was any flexibility around this within Modern Orthodoxy. I was pleased to learn that there was some. Countless rabbis and scholars promoted love and compassion towards gay and lesbian individuals, reminding us that everyone is created B’tzelem Elokim, in God’s image. Further, some even went as far as to permit same-sex relationships (though they always emphasized that this was still outside the purview of Jewish law, Halacha). 

This was their logic: gay and lesbian people did not choose their sexual orientation. Asking a gay person to live as celibate, which would clearly lead to loneliness and suffering, was not aligned with Jewish values. Asking them to have a relationship with someone to whom they are not attracted would do the same, with the added problem of punishing the unwitting spouse.  Because they have no choice for a relationship other than with someone who is their same sex, and we don’t want them to live a life of loneliness and suffering, the relationship, while far from ideal, was permitted and even welcomed (by some). The lines: “they didn’t choose to be this way” and “it’s only one thing, and who among us really keeps all 613 commandments?” were peppered throughout these conversations. 

In short, as a friend of mine so aptly put it: “people can grasp gay.”

And that didn’t help me. 

Because I had a choice, didn’t I? I could ignore my feelings towards men, marry a woman, and be happy, right?? I spiraled, obsessed, perseverated, worried, and davened for many years to find a satisfactory answer to these questions. 

With the support of truly loving friends and a compassionate, non-Jewish therapist who never imposed his values on me, I eventually decided to come out as bisexual at the age of 25. My family and friends were all supportive and showed that their feelings about me had not changed. Part of my coming out process included cultivating a self-acceptance which I attribute to the Jewish values with which I was raised and educated. It was during my year in Israel at Yeshivat Orayta that I learned to appreciate that every part of every person is part of a greater whole, all of which is part of Hashem’s creation. When I finally embodied that idea, I knew I could, and must, embrace my whole self.

Being a member of the LGBTQ+ community isn’t just about which type of person you find attractive and who you want to marry. It’s an identity. It’s about living the way you want to live, connecting with people who have the same experience as you do, and feeling like you are an authentic version of yourself. This is the part that was never a choice.

Choice. This word has clanged around my mind; it causes me deep pain and tremendous hope. 

Because denying who I am and how I feel was not a choice, but what I do with it is. When choosing the person with whom I want to spend my life, I have twice as many choices as everyone else. I’m still figuring out what I want. While dating men, I’m realizing that there is an ease to my soul and authenticity of being that I have not felt when dating women, possibly because we connect over a shared gender and shared LGBT identity.  

Does that mean I won’t or can’t date a woman? Absolutely not. For a while, I thought that any woman, especially one from the Modern Orthodox community, would never want to be with me because of my bisexuality; or if she was okay with it, she would expect me to suppress my identity. I’ve begun to learn that that is not always the case, and if Hashem predestined me to be with a woman, I know she will celebrate all of the parts of me, including my LGBTQ identity. I have the privilege of being able to explore different types of relationships, figure out what makes me happiest, and find a deeply strong connection with another soul. 

The implication of the “choice” language—that gayness is okay because people do not choose their sexual orientation—is inherently diminishing of LGBTQ+ individuals. It implies that their identities and preferences are worse, but acceptable. For if they did have a choice, of course they would choose to be heterosexual or cisgender. Acceptance based on the “they don’t have a choice” argument still puts us as second-tier, unideal, people who if given a magic pill to become straight would take it ten times out of ten. 

My hope is that one day we can move beyond this; we can recognize that no sexual orientation is better or worse than another, and that choices, when based in ethical and moral values, are all valid and good, even if we do not agree with those choices. For me, there are parts of my identity that are fixed and immutable. But other parts are choices—choices that I know will help me lead my best life, feel good about myself, and find a deep connection with someone else. My hope for our community is that we can connect and love one another while honoring all of our different choices and expressions of ourselves.