Today, a memory came back to me and caused me to pause.

The year was 1972. I was 18 years old, about to turn 19, when I moved to Minneapolis and discovered something that, until then, I barely knew existed: a gay community.

It was a whole new world for me.

Not long after arriving, I met a man named Steven. We dated for only a couple of months, but the story he told me about his life was one I would hear over and over again during those early years.

Let me set the stage.

Steven was 40 years old, but a remarkable 40. He had that unmistakable Scandinavian look, and the very best of it. He was tall, had a great tan, and because he was what we would now call a weekend warrior, he was in remarkable shape.

We met at a local bar and quickly discovered that we lived in the same building. It had originally been built as a hotel and later converted into apartments. I lived in a single-room apartment, while Steven had one of the building’s very few two-bedroom units.

Living in the same building meant we could see each other frequently and without much effort.

At 18, I knew nothing about the whole May-December relationship thing. Even if I had, I doubt it would have mattered.

Being with Steven made me feel safe and wanted, and both of those feelings were relatively new to me. My previous experiences with men who looked like him had left me believing that I disgusted them. I could sense their disdain for me.

Not Steven.

When he looked at me, I could see that he was genuinely happy I was there with him.

And, to be fair, as good-looking as Steven was, I was 18 years old and a dancer. I drew my share of attention, too.

Steven was also one of those people who could put his arms around you and somehow make the rest of the world disappear. For that moment, nothing existed except the two of you.

I knew I was in love with him, or at least what my 18-year-old heart understood love to be, and I never wanted to leave.

Looking back more than 50 years later, I understand those feelings differently. Much of what I was experiencing were emotions I had suppressed for years. For the first time in my life, I was in a place where I could experiment with allowing those feelings to exist openly.

I was in transition.

And that brings me to the real reason I am telling this story.

Steven’s life represented something I would encounter many times during that period of my life. Stories like his still exist today, but I don’t believe we hear them nearly as often.

Steven had been married.

He also had two daughters who were only a few years younger than I was.

He told me he had grown up in one of the Dakotas; I no longer remember which one. He went through school, joined the Army and attended college, all while knowing there was something different about him but not understanding exactly what it was.

He told me he had never met another gay man during all those years.

At 18, I didn’t think to question that. After all, until shortly before meeting him, I hadn’t known there was an entire gay community out there either.

Apparently, neither had Steven.

He believed his life was simply going to feel uncomfortable. He assumed, in some way, that perhaps other men struggled with the same feelings.

So he followed the path society had laid out for him.

He married his high school sweetheart.

They had two daughters whom he absolutely adored.

He built a career and eventually landed a great job in public relations for a national sporting-goods company. The position required him to travel frequently.

Then, during one of those business trips, everything changed.

Steven met a man who invited him to have a drink.

That man took him to a gay bar.

It was Steven’s first.

Imagine that moment.

A grown man with a wife, two daughters, a career and an entire life already built suddenly walked through a door and discovered a world he hadn’t known existed.

For Steven, that door could never completely close again.

After that chance encounter, he began finding reasons to return and explore this newly discovered world. Eventually, he was forced to confront something he could no longer ignore.

He was gay.

And the life he had so carefully constructed wasn’t one he could continue living.

But acknowledging that truth came with an enormous price.

To live honestly meant dismantling the life he had built with his wife and children.

When Steven and I met, it had been less than a year since his divorce became final. His emotions were still raw.

He told me he had given virtually everything to his former wife. He was granted visitation with his daughters every other weekend.

Whenever he talked about them, I could hear the sadness in his voice and see it in his face.

He felt terrible about what had happened to his wife. He hadn’t intended to deceive her. He hadn’t entered their marriage planning to someday leave her for another man.

He simply hadn’t understood that there was another path available to him.

His former wife struggled to understand that.

According to Steven, she believed she had somehow caused it, that she had done something that made him reject women and turn to men. No amount of explaining could convince her otherwise.

I felt tremendous sympathy for Steven.

But I also felt sympathy for her.

Because, in many ways, society had set both of them up for heartbreak.

Then there were their daughters.

Steven said they were trying to adjust, but everything was so new and confusing to them. They loved both their mother and their father, yet they couldn’t understand how their father could suddenly prefer men to women.

Of course, he hadn’t suddenly changed.

Only their understanding of him had.

As I became more involved in the gay community, I heard versions of Steven’s story again and again.

I also saw the men who slipped into gay bars on weekends while their wives and families were at home. You could often recognize them. They seemed uncomfortable in the room, constantly glancing around as though they expected someone they knew to walk through the door.

They were hiding.

And I felt sorry for them.

I also felt sorry for the families waiting at home.

Steven’s and my relationship ended rather quickly.

Every other weekend he would leave to spend time with his daughters. That never bothered me. I knew how much he loved them and how important their time together was.

The problem came when he asked me to go with him and meet them.

I couldn’t do it.

I loved Steven, or at least I believed I did, but I didn’t want to become part of that side of his life. I was perfectly comfortable with him spending time with his daughters and keeping those two worlds separate.

I had just escaped the world of pretending and hiding. At 18 years old, I had no desire to step back into anything that felt like it.

So I walked away.

More than five decades later, I understand all of this very differently.

I don’t hear stories exactly like Steven’s very often anymore, although I know they still happen. Today, information is everywhere. Young people can discover words for what they are feeling, find other people like themselves and realize they are not alone long before they ever walk into a gay bar.

That wasn’t always true.

There was a time, not really so long ago, when gay men and women followed the life they had been told they were supposed to live because they didn’t know another life was possible.

They married. They had children. They built careers, homes and families.

And sometimes, years later, they discovered a door they hadn’t known existed.

Walking through that door could finally allow them to become who they really were.

But it could also leave heartbreak on both sides.

When we talk about how far the LGBTQ+ community has come, I think it is important to remember stories like Steven’s. Visibility isn’t simply about seeing gay people on television, in movies, in advertising or walking openly down the street.

Visibility lets people know they are not alone.

It gives them language for feelings they may not yet understand.

It gives them possibilities.

And sometimes it prevents people from spending half their lives building a life they were never meant to live.

Steven taught me that more than 50 years ago.