#choosing yourself

Sometimes choosing yourself means staying.

Sometimes choosing yourself means speaking up.

broke up with my boyfriend, finding my true self again. going to be a bridesmaid in november to my best friend, my older cousin - the sister i never had. rekindled my stationary obsession and still obsessed with my dog.

Light the candle

Book the trip

Take the chance

Celebrate your beauty

Do the hard thing first

Wear the outfit

Approach that gorgeous stranger

It’s weird, you know.

When I first watched the pilot of Hazbin Hotel, I was immediately drawn to Alastor. Then the first season came out, and the more I read about him, the more I loved the character. Somewhere along the way, I felt this connection forming, one I didn’t fully understand at the time.

For years, I haven’t exactly been confused about my sexuality… more just detached from it. “Meh” is probably the best word. I’ve always known I’m male, and I’m happy with that. I went through my transition to get here, and I’m proud of that. But my sexuality? That’s always been something I kept tucked in the back of my mind.

I used labels when I needed to mostly to make things easier for other people to understand quickly. But if anyone had asked me to explain what I actually felt in detail, I wouldn’t have known how.

I’m a millennial who grew up in a sheltered, religious household. It took me years to even learn that identities like transgender existed, let alone that there were sexualities beyond just “gay” or “straight.” For a long time, I called myself gay. It was the closest fit. But it never fully clicked.

There were things I just didn’t understand especially what I now know is sexual attraction. I remember men talking about seeing a woman naked and instantly getting aroused, or saying they struggled to control themselves around an uncovered body. (Those conversations were uncomfortable. And so were those men.) I just couldn’t relate. I didn’t understand how someone could look at a body and think, "yeah, I’d fuck that."

To me, bodies were just… bodies.

Friends would try to set me up with people, saying we’d look cute together or that someone had a crush on me. And that confused me too. My first thought was always, "But they don’t even know me." Or, "I don’t know them." How could there be anything meaningful there without deep conversations, without emotional connection?

For me, even considering dating someone required emotional intimacy first. And for the longest time, I didn’t have a word for that.

I also felt this pressure around sex not necessarily from partners, but from society. It felt like I was expected to want sex, to initiate it, to be driven by it. But I didn’t want to rush anything. I always felt like sex should happen naturally, organically something mutually desired and expressed, not something performed because it’s what you’re “supposed” to do.

Relationships would fall apart because I “wasn’t enthusiastic enough in bed, didn’t ask for sex, didn’t have many kinks, had a low sex drive, didn’t talk dirty, didn’t react strongly to seeing my partner naked." Over and over, I was told I wasn’t enough in that way.

And each time, I internalized it.

I kept thinking: "It must be me. I’m the problem."

I didn’t realize I might just be wired differently.

And then along comes Alastor from Hazbin Hotel — confident, composed, unapologetically asexual.

The more fanfiction I read, the more lore I explored, the more I resonated with him. It wasn’t just surface-level admiration anymore. It felt personal. I started researching asexuality more seriously, and for the first time, something clicked. The pieces I’d been carrying around for years ,confusion, disconnection, pressure, guilt, suddenly started forming a picture.

I realized I didn’t “not care” about labels. I just hadn’t found one that fit.

When I began calling myself asexual, it didn’t feel restrictive. It felt relieving. Like exhaling after holding my breath for years.

I started writing stories about Alastor exploring his asexuality, weaving in themes of trauma and survival. It became deeply cathartic. He’s strong. Prideful. Independent. Self-possessed. He carries himself with certainty. He felt like the version of myself I used to be, or maybe the version I wanted to find again after years of abuse from family and emotional neglect in my marriage.

Through him, I could process things safely. I could put him in painful situations and know he’d handle them. Through his voice, I could fight my own demons. Writing him felt like reclaiming parts of myself I thought were gone.

When I finally embraced the word asexual out loud, it felt empowering.

Unfortunately, it didn’t land that way in my marriage.

My husband took my coming out as asexual as a rejection of him. He grew angry. Hurt. Defensive. I still don’t fully understand why my identity felt like a personal attack to him, but that’s how he received it.

What confused me most was that, from my perspective, nothing about how I loved him had changed. I connected with him emotionally. That connection was the foundation of everything for me. Why wasn’t that enough? Why was it a flaw that I didn’t center our relationship around physical desire?

His physical appearance had never been what drew me to him. When we first got together, he was about fifty pounds heavier. After leaving the military, he became happier and lost the weight quickly. My reaction wasn’t, “Wow, he’s so hot now.” It was concern. I actually made him see a doctor because I was worried something might be wrong, like cancer. Other people commented on how attractive he looked, but that wasn’t the lens I viewed him through. I loved him for who he was, not how he looked.

To me, that felt steady. Safe. Genuine.

But to him, my lack of sexual attraction translated into something missing, something essential. And when that difference collided with other long-standing issues and countless unresolved arguments, it became the breaking point.

Divorce followed.

In a strange way, Alastor gave me the final push I needed. Not because he “caused” anything, but because understanding myself clearly made it impossible to keep shrinking to fit someone else’s expectations. I loved my husband. But in his eyes, I was “a great roommate, bad husband” because I didn’t experience sexual attraction the way he did. Because my interest in sex was minimal. Because I couldn’t force enthusiasm I didn’t feel.

Realizing I wasn’t broken — just different — changed everything.

I had a conversation with my best friend today and it hit me: Alastor helped me leave a relationship that wasn’t healthy for me. He helped me uncover parts of myself I didn’t even realize were missing. We joked that he’s my “savior,” and honestly? It kind of feels that way.

Since moving out and getting my own place, I’ve felt more comfortable and confident than I have in years. I’m embracing this part of myself without apology. I’m not forcing myself into roles that don’t fit.

Do I hope that someday I’ll find a partner who understands and embraces my asexuality? Absolutely. Someone who loves me exactly as I am. But right now, I’m okay on my own.

Adulting in America is… a lot. But it’s also been strangely peaceful. I went to a revolving sushi bar by myself recently. Sat there alone, just enjoying the quiet and the food. I probably should’ve brought a book. It would’ve been perfect.

For the first time in a long time, being alone doesn’t feel lonely.