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Once a year, as if by magic, the world blooms in the vibrant colors of pink, blue, and purple, symbols of what the British author and actor Jodie Lawrence describes as “resilience amidst hardship” and “a reminder to stay optimistic.” Lawrence was writing about cornflowers, whose sudden appearance on European battlefields gave hope to exhausted, broken soldiers fighting World War I. Troops described in letters and poems sent home how the flowers seemed to carry a promise of better days in a time when the world seemed to be falling apart.

That message still resonates today, as we celebrate bisexuality by waving flags with stripes of pink, blue, and purple, colors chosen by Michael Page in 1998 to represent same-sex and opposite-sex attraction. Those colors hold a particular significance now, with hard-fought protections suddenly at risk and a president determined to erase bi and other LGBT people. Those who rip down Pride flags and rail against same-sex rights seem to feel re-empowered. Pride Month itself felt tentative this year, more cautious, like an earlier, more dangerous time. Corporations that for years were accused of rainbow-washing their logos in June simply ignored Pride in 2025 under pressure from a hostile administration and changing cultural tides.

And yet, we fly Page’s flag and remind the world that bi people exist, if only for a fleeting few days as summer gives way to fall and sunsets creep ever earlier. But this year, like those majestic cornflowers, I’ll stand tall in the sun and wear the colors. As I write these words on Celebrate Bisexuality Day, I feel more inspired than ever to say that I’m bisexual, and I won’t go back into hiding.

I’ll admit that I still trip over the word “bisexual.” As a guy who’s spent decades as a television reporter and anchor, I’m pretty good at reading words out loud, but that one specific word often crashes into my teeth and comes out of my mouth as though spinning and flying off in the wrong direction. “Bisexual” carries years of added weight for me, thudding into sentences like a cinder block and transforming me back into a teenage boy in the ‘80s, terrified of how that word could hurt me.

Until recently, the notion of speaking the simple, two-word sentence “I’m bisexual” was unthinkable. Even though I’m now out and have given talks on bisexuality inside my company and at conferences like the Out & Equal Workplace Summit, I still find that I trip over that word, my brain hitting the brakes and shouting in my head, “Are you seriously planning to say that out loud?”

When I was a kid, the boys — and the bullies — in school made it very clear: being bisexual or gay was not an option. It was a quick and easy way to open yourself up to relentless abuse and the threat of being beaten up. At that time, there were no bi role models I was aware of. Graphic novels, books, TV shows, and movies with LGBT characters were all but nonexistent and nothing like what now exists. I got the message. I put all my energy into trying to be “guy enough” and make myself into the person I thought I needed to be in order to fit in and not stand out.

As a skinny kid with no ability to throw or catch a ball, I was already on shaky ground. But as I entered my teenage years, I realized that I had bi attractions. I saw no option but one: take that queer part of me and lock it away, hoping my secret would never, ever come out. I decided in my teens that I was just like other guys, repressing the parts I’d decided didn’t fit in. That worked to an extent, until I’d go to a concert and have confusing feelings about Sting or David Bowie, or catch sight of the headless, buff male torso on an Abercrombie & Fitch mannequin and suddenly become inexplicably angry.

When I began dating, I found myself working the subject of bisexuality into conversations with girlfriends, hoping for a positive response. Instead, I’d inevitably hear something like “ewww, no.” I was ready to explore, but still receiving strong signals that I should stay in my straight boy lane. When I’d notice a guy and feel a flutter of attraction, part of me would lie to myself and write it off as being an open-minded ally. My brain refused to let me tell anyone — or myself — the truth, even in my innermost thoughts.

Even with all the progress we’ve seen, for a lot of bi guys, coming out feels far too risky. What's sad is that by keeping their sexual orientation hidden, it allows stereotypes about bi people to endure and translates into fewer bi male role models of the sort that could have changed my life and the lives of many young people today.

I recently came across Dr. Julia Shaw’s book, Bi: The Hidden Culture, History, and Science of Bisexuality (2022), in which she urges bi folks to stand up and be visible.

"If you can safely be openly bi at work, please do it,” she writes. “Do it for all the people who can't or haven't yet been able to bring their whole selves to work. Do it for your younger colleagues and those with less privilege or power. It makes a bigger difference to yourself and your colleagues than you would think."

As a middle-aged white guy living in the suburbs, married to a woman and a father of two, I’d never thought of myself as a bi role model, much less a “bicon.” But after reading Shaw’s book — and getting the chance to speak with her — I realized that being a bi role model wasn’t about fame or celebrity, but about simply being seen as an example of someone who is openly, comfortably, and happily bi. So I decided to ignore my fear, step up, and be that person.

I work for a huge tech company with a lively community of LGBT groups in countries all over the world. I’d gotten involved and considered myself an ally. It was around this time that I realized, with the help of an amazing therapist, that the anxiety I’d battled all my life was partly connected to the taunts of those grade-school bullies and the paralyzing fear they instilled in me. I was still stuffing parts of myself into that box, treating my sexual orientation as a shameful secret.

I don’t have to tell you that shame and fear are parasites that eat away at your mental health, and ultimately — once I’d choked over the word “bisexual” in a session with my therapist — I decided that accepting my sexuality and releasing all that shame and fear was the path forward.

But how could I possibly come out?

In the summer of 2019, a huge group from my company gathered in New York for World Pride. As one of the “allies” representing my company, I was testing the waters, exploring what it felt like to be in queer spaces. I realized quickly that it felt safe and supportive. More than anything else, I felt at home. The first step I took when I got home was a small one, but it was thrilling. In my company’s HR system, I went into my profile and made my sexual orientation visible. I knew it was private and that co-workers would not have access to it, but I was declaring myself bisexual. It felt like a giant step. I confided in a mentor who was also active in my company’s LGBT employee groups. Over a long walk on the corporate campus, I tripped over my words and was hugely nervous, but ultimately said it: I’m bisexual. It felt liberating, and the love and support I received in return felt amazing.

I practiced saying things like "I'm bisexual" out loud, even if my mind tried to stop me every single time. And the more open my sexual orientation became, the more I heard from other guys who revealed to me that they were also bi. They told me that seeing me come out as bi gave them the courage and confidence to think about doing the same!

During a recent team meeting, my manager selected me for recognition, and in addition to mentioning my work, I was surprised to hear her describe me as "an advocate for bringing one's whole self to work." I'd gone from being terrified that someone might single me out as bisexual to being celebrated in front of my team as someone comfortable with who they are.

It's a scary political and cultural moment, and I can understand why some may think this just isn’t the time to come out. But America, unlike some other parts of the world, remains a place where your sexuality won’t get you arrested or killed. And despite what online noise, incendiary headlines, and a resurgence of homophobia may suggest, most of the country is just as supportive of LGBT friends, relatives, and co-workers as they were a few years ago. To anyone wondering if it’s worth it to step out into the light, I’d say the experience for me has been instrumental in meeting other bi folks and finding bi community. That’s not something I’m prepared to fold up and store away in the attic when Bi Visibility Day or Bi Visibility Month ends.

People need role models all year-round, and I’ve resolved to be the person I wish had existed when I was a kid, especially given my reach as a senior contributor at Forbes. And it all begins with standing up and saying — out loud and without hesitation — I’m bisexual, and I’m proud.

Published Sep 24, 2025