A Different Kind of Happily Ever After ♡

A Different Kind of Happily Ever After

Growing up queer is strange…

For many of us, our younger years are spent in denial, confusion, bargaining, or simply trying to survive. We learn very quickly which parts of ourselves are acceptable and which parts are better hidden away. Maybe that is why ‘youth’ becomes such a prized thing in queer spaces. We are constantly reminded that attractiveness has an expiry date. That being young is valuable… desirable… and your worth is attached to your youth!

For a long time, I bought into that idea too.

At first, I thought staying young was important. Then, as I got older, I told myself that “staying young at heart” was what really mattered. But somewhere along the way I realised that even that definition was tied to external validation. How old do I look? Can I still party like the younger crowd? Am I still adventurous enough? Can I still blend in and belong?

I was constantly seeking adventure. Or perhaps hopping from one adventure to another. One excitement to the next. There was always something to chase, somewhere to be, someone to meet, a story waiting to happen.

Eventually, however, time does what time always does. It moves forward whether we are ready or not. And at some point, every queer person has to make peace with the inevitability of growing older.

My own journey has been a little unconventional, even by queer standards.

As a bisexual man, I often find myself in conversations where people assume my story followed a familiar path. Most bisexual men I know spent a large part of their lives believing they were straight before realising they were also attracted to men. My journey happened in reverse.

I have known myself to be attracted to men for as long as I can remember. I dated men. I fell in love with men. For the longest time, my understanding of myself was that I was gay. I knew my first crush to be Hrithik Roshan from “Kaho Na Pyaar Hai” all the way back in 5th standard.

Then, when I was twenty-five, life decided to throw me a curveball.

It was a college party. One of those evenings where everyone is having a “good time”, laughing a little louder than usual and conversations were becoming more honest as the night passed. ‘She’ had become a close friend by then, someone I trusted deeply, someone who knew parts of me that many others didn’t.

We were drunk… And completely out of nowhere, she kissed me.

Not the other way around.

She kissed me!

And to my surprise, I liked it!!!

The irony was that I was already in a long-distance relationship with a man at the time. I remember being utterly confused. Not guilty or ashamed. Just confused, but excited! Because the experience didn’t fit neatly into the story I had been telling myself about who I was.

That unexpected kiss eventually grew into a four-year-long relationship and forced me to revisit everything I thought I knew about myself. It didn’t erase my attraction to men. It didn’t make me any less queer. It simply expanded my understanding of who I was capable of loving.

And if there is one thing growing older has taught me, it is that life rarely fits into neat little boxes.

For most of my adult life, my parents and I occupied a curious middle ground when it came to my sexuality. We never really discussed it, but we never really didn’t discuss it either. My relationships with women gave them something familiar to hold on to. Something that fit more comfortably within the future they imagined for me.

Marriage… Children… The standard blueprint. The happily-ever-after that society hands us long before we are old enough to decide whether we actually want it.

Then, quite unexpectedly, just a couple of days ago, finally at the age of thirty-six, I came out to my father.

The timing was almost comical. It was the day I appeared for an interview on Queer loneliness and ageing. That evening I called up Dad and we were just having a regular casual conversation and in the flow of it I just felt that I can finally tell him that I am bisexual.

I had imagined that conversation in my head for years. I had rehearsed possible reactions, prepared answers, braced myself for difficult questions.

Instead, he listened… And then he told me to do whatever I felt was best for myself when it came to finding a partner and making decisions about marriage.

That was it. No dramatic confrontation or emotional explosion or ultimatum. Just a quiet moment of acceptance. Of course, over the years, I had sensitised him with my other queer friends into what being from the queer community is like. The ground work was laid well. He was always an ally.

Life has taught me to be cautious with optimism, but so far, so good. Sometimes the things we fear for years arrive gently.

When I was approaching thirty, however, none of these things felt quite so simple. I was about a year out of a difficult breakup with my first girlfriend and second serious partner. Thirty felt like one of those landmark ages that society has assigned meaning to. There is this unspoken expectation that by thirty, you should have figured things out. You should be married, or close to getting married, because, as every Indian family likes to remind you, “Boyesh hoye jache!” (You’re getting old for marriage!)

The funny thing is that I never really wanted children. The anxiety of a ticking biological clock was never my concern. What I wanted was much simpler.

I wanted a partner.
A companionship.
A witness to my life.
Someone whose arms felt like home at the end of a long day. Someone was beside me when I woke up in the morning. Someone who would choose me every day, and whom I would choose in return.

That desire, I think, is universal. Queer or straight, most of us are searching for some version of that.

A few years later, life handed me another lesson.

I met a man.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I saw a man and fell in love…. immediately… at first sight!

Five years had passed since my breakup by then, and I was no longer actively searching for anything. Yet there he was, awakening a part of me that still believed in impossible things.

And there I was, doing something deeply unwise. Falling in love with someone who did not love me back.

At least not in the way I wanted.

I nourished that love. Expressed it. Wrote about it. Held on to it long after it became obvious that it was never going to become the relationship I had imagined. And like most one-sided loves, it eventually brought a great deal of pain.

Yet in hindsight, that pain became one of the greatest gifts of my life. It pushed me towards therapy, towards deeper meditation, towards self-inquiry and towards healing.

It forced me to ask difficult questions about attachment, expectation, loneliness, and the stories I was telling myself.

And somewhere along that journey, I realised something important.

No one is coming to save you.

Yes, there will be friends. There will be family. There will be community. There will be privilege, resources, support systems and people who love you.

But ultimately, there are parts of your life that only you can carry.

There are nights only you can survive.
There is healing only you can do.
And strangely enough, accepting that reality can be incredibly freeing.

Another thing age has taught me is that love and relationships are not the same thing.

Love can be enough if you are not looking for commitment. Relationships, however, require many things apart from love. Compatibility. Respect. Honesty. Shared values. Similar goals. Timing.

Love forms a crucial limb of the journey, but it is not the entire body.
Love is not everything.
And yet somehow, it is everything.

These days, I find joy in places my younger self would have completely overlooked.

My morning coffee excites me. My workouts excite me. My meditation practice excites me. Writing excites me. The stories that appear out of nowhere and refuse to leave me alone until they are written down excite me.

And then there are my cats — Pride and Glitter.

In December 2023, a tiny orange kitten was left in a cardboard carton by residents in our housing society. They knew my sisters, staying in the same society were experienced cat parents and hoped would know what to do.

She was barely the size of my fist… Covered in mud… Hungry and extremely vocal!

I remember watching her gulp down food with absolute determination while letting out tiny, demanding meows. Somewhere between the food, the meowing and the muddy orange fur, she quietly started making a space for herself in my heart.

My sister suggested I foster her until we could find someone willing to adopt her.

Earlier that very day, I had walked in the Kolkata Pride Parade. I remember dazzling the city in a saree and corset, proudly carrying the colours of the bisexual pride flag.

That night, before going to bed, I texted my sister.
“Ami hoyto rekhei nilam. Naam dilam PRIDE 🫣”
(Maybe I can keep her. Name her PRIDE 🫣)

And just like that, I became a fur-father.

Couple of months later, Glitter arrived, almost like a prayer to the universe answered, asking for a playmate for Pride, for when she is home alone while I’m at work all day.

These days, Pride and Glitter are the reason I look forward to coming home. They wake me up every morning. They greet me when I return from work. Their love is uncomplicated and unconditional in a way that human relationships rarely are.

And honestly, I would not change that for anything.

Growing older also means watching your peers move through milestones that society has laid out for them. Marriages. Children. School admissions. Parent-teacher meetings. Kids’ tennis practice. Graduations. Family holidays. Sometimes even divorces and second marriages. The conventional roadmap unfolds before your eyes.

And if you choose a different path, there are moments when you have to actively resist the fear of missing out. You have to make peace with the fact that your life may look very different from theirs. You have to fight against expectations, against normativity, against the little voice that wonders whether you should simply conform.

There is also a kind of discrimination that people rarely talk about. When you are young and queer, people bully you for being effeminate or for your orientation. Over time, you become almost bulletproof to that. You learn not to care.

But another form of judgment quietly replaces it, as you grow older. People question why you are “not settled.” They assume you must be lonely. They tell you that you cannot possibly understand responsibility because you do not have children. They call you out for being “different.” Some view your life with pity. Others romanticise it as freedom. Both often miss the point entirely.

What they fail to understand is that a life can be unconventional and still be deeply meaningful.

These days, ageing feels less about holding on to youth and more about finding closure… finding peace… Defining it in my own way. Making peace with the understanding that whatever is happening is exactly what is meant to happen.

This version of my life is not a consolation prize. It is not Plan B. It is not a life waiting to begin.

It is my life. The only one I have. The only one that could have happened.

I am still a romantic. Probably always will be. I still believe love is one of the most beautiful feelings that exists. I still love the idea of companionship. I still hope for meaningful connections. If love arrives again, I will welcome it with open arms.

But I no longer need it to complete me.

Fifteen years from now, many of my friends may be celebrating their children’s graduations or helping them begin lives of their own.

I may be dealing with my cats in their old age. Writing another story. Drinking another cup of coffee. Sitting quietly in meditation as the sun rises.

And that is okay.

Because growing older has taught me that sometimes choosing peace, choosing truth, and choosing yourself will be called selfish by the world. People will tell you that you are being difficult. That you are wasting opportunities. That you are doing life wrong.

Maybe.
Or maybe you are simply doing life differently.

As for me, when I look back at the road behind me, I do not see regret.

I see heartbreak, healing, adventure, mistakes, discoveries, friendships, love, loss, poetry, therapy, meditation, Pride, Glitter, and a thousand tiny moments that shaped me into the person I am today.

And despite everything, I can honestly say this:
I have lived a life of peace.
And a life without regrets. ❤️

Journal entry
24th June 2026
Dr. Krish