Not Just a Phase: Reclaiming Gender Fluidity and Non-Binary Identity
“So… is this just a phase?” The question hung in the air at a queer meet-up I attended last year.
I had just introduced myself as non-binary and mentioned that my gender identity is fluid.
The person who asked probably didn’t realise how dismissive that question felt. Still, it was. In their voice, I heard the echo of a broader assumption: that surely I’d “figure it out” and settle into a fixed identity eventually.
Here I was, in what should have been a safe space, suddenly defending the validity of my ambiguity. It wasn’t the first time, and sadly, it likely won’t be the last, that I will have to remind someone: my fluidity is not “just a phase.”
In a world obsessed with clear-cut categories and definitive answers, living outside the either/or can be uncomfortable for others. Even within LGBTQ+ communities, there’s often an unspoken pressure to define, clarify, and stay put. The irony is, those of us who embrace fluid identities are not confused. We’re liberated.
This post is both a personal reflection and a cultural commentary on reclaiming fluidity. It’s about challenging the notion that everyone’s gender or sexuality must fit in a neat box, and about embracing multiplicity, liminality, and the power of not having to pick a side.
The Comfort of Certainty vs. The Reality of Fluidity
Human nature craves certainty. From earliest childhood, we’re taught to sort the world into categories; this or that, A or B, male or female, gay or straight. Ambiguity unnerves people.
We see this play out in how society reacts to anyone who doesn’t fit expected norms. When faced with something (or someone) that isn’t easily labelled, many feel a reflexive discomfort. It’s as if not having a clear answer to “What are you, exactly?” short-circuits their understanding of the world.
Nowhere is this obsession with certainty more evident than in conversations around gender and sexuality. We’ve made progress; terms like transgender, non-binary, genderqueer, genderfluid, asexual, and more are entering mainstream vocabularies. Yet, even in otherwise accepting circles, there’s often an expectation that once you come out, you stick with one thing.
The narrative goes: figure out who you are, state it proudly, and that’s you for life.
For some people, that’s authentic; they have one static identity and it works. But for many of us, identity isn’t static at all; it grows, shifts, and evolves.
I often describe my gender as a living, breathing thing. Some days I lean femme, other days masc, and many days neither. However, I’m just… me, always, in all my indefinable glory. This isn’t indecision or confusion; it is my identity.
Fluidity is the reality of how I experience gender. The certainty others seek (“Are you finally a man or a woman? Are you gay or straight?”) simply doesn’t exist in me. And I’ve learned that that’s okay. The problem isn’t that my identity is fluid; the problem is society’s insistence on a fixed identity.
Not Just a Phase: Fluid Identities Through Time and Space
One of the most hurtful assumptions about fluid or non-binary identities is that they’re a trendy phase or a quirky personal whim.
Let’s smash that myth right now: fluid gender identities and sexualities have existed across cultures for millennia. There is nothing “new” or “Tumblr-made” about being beyond the binary.
Indigenous cultures around the world have long recognised third genders and fluid roles (from the Two-Spirit people of many Native American tribes to South Asian Hijras, to name a couple). Our era may introduce new terms like genderfluid or enby, but the experience of living outside fixed categories is as old as humanity itself.
So when someone says, “It’s just a phase,” they’re not only dismissing an individual’s truth, but they’re also displaying ignorance of history. Being non-binary is not a trend, and fluidity is not a temporary rebellion. It’s a genuine identity that, for some of us, spans a lifetime. Even if our labels or self-understanding evolve (as often happens on any self-discovery journey), that doesn’t mean earlier identities were “fake” or disposable. Each chapter of our identity story is real and meaningful.
It’s worth noting, too, that a change in identity can be natural. People grow. What feels true at 18 might deepen or shift by 30, and that’s not a flaw; it’s human.
In my case, I once identified in a more binary way before I had the language for my non-binary fluid self. That doesn’t invalidate who I am now. And if down the line my experience of gender or orientation shifts again, that won’t invalidate who I am today.
As the team here at Enby Meaning has put it, coming out again (or changing labels) isn’t a failure, it’s “a reminder that you get to change and still be valid”. We need to allow ourselves and each other the grace to grow without immediately crying “phase!” at every evolution.
When Even “Progressive” Spaces Expect Fixed Identities
You’d think the LGBTQ+ community, of all places, would wholeheartedly embrace fluidity. After all, we’ve fought for the idea that people have the right to self-identify. And many do get it!
Yet, I’ve found that even in queer and “progressive” spaces, there can be an implicit bias toward fixed identities. It often stems from a desire for legitimacy in a world that constantly questions us. There’s an unfortunate tendency to overcorrect and say: “We are valid because we are sure of who we are – see, it’s not a phase!” And inadvertently, that can sideline those of us with more fluid or evolving identities.
I experienced this bias firsthand in a local LGBTQ group that was predominantly cisgender gay and lesbian folks. They were very accepting on the surface, but I noticed an underlying current of binary thinking. Group events were often split into “boys’ nights” and “girls’ nights.” Non-binary people like me had to choose where we fit, or sit them out. When I brought up that discomfort, suggesting more inclusive mixed events, someone said, “Oh, I thought you were just figuring things out. Once you know for sure, it won’t be an issue.” Oof.
The message was clear: if you’re not one thing or the other, you’re a temporary problem to be solved.
Even some trans spaces can struggle with this. For example, I’ve seen online discussions in ostensibly trans-inclusive groups where a non-binary person using binary pronouns or presenting differently was labelled as “basically a trans man in denial” or “not really non-binary.” It’s precisely as writer Sam Dylan Finch observed: many spaces assume all people have a fixed understanding of their gender, which is “patently untrue”. He notes that when communities fail to hold space for more fluid individuals, they’re failing at true inclusivity.
In my own life, I’ve had to explain that yes, I present very masc some days and more femme on others, and it doesn’t mean I’ve ceased being non-binary or that I’m confused. It just means I’m expressing the different facets of myself, all of which are real.
Let’s not forget our bisexual, pansexual, and sexually fluid friends here, either. They know precisely what it’s like to have even queer peers question their “phase.” Bisexual people are often told they’re just indecisive or that they’ll “pick a side” eventually, which is a hurtful myth that’s been debunked time and again. (Spoiler: bisexuality is a valid orientation, not a stopover on the way to Gay or Straight.)
Similarly, a genderfluid person might be seen as “on the way” to a binary transition, which echoes old prejudices that invalidate our identities in the present. It’s painful when this scepticism comes from inside the community because these are our supposed allies. If even the “progressive” folks insist on certainty, where are fluid people supposed to feel at home?
Embracing Multiplicity and Liminality as Strength
Here’s a radical idea: what if we viewed fluidity not as a lack of certainty, but as a presence of multiplicity? What if existing in the in-between (living in the liminal space) is its own form of wholeness?
Personally, once I stopped apologising for not fitting a single box, I started to see my identity’s fluid nature as a strength. I contain multitudes; I have a richer palette of gendered experiences to paint my life with. Liminality, that state of being neither here nor there, or maybe both, can be deeply empowering when we reclaim it on our terms.
Think about it: strict categories can be limiting. Embracing a both/neither/all-of-the-above identity opens up possibilities. I get to define myself anew as I grow. There’s a flexibility in that which has made me more resilient, more empathetic, and yes, more understanding of others. I’ve had the experience of navigating different social perceptions like being seen as a man, as a woman, as “what are you?”, and it’s given me a unique perspective on how gender expectations confine people.
My comfort with ambiguity often puts others at ease with their own uncertainties. In a society that constantly pressures everyone to know and prove their identity, simply saying, “I don’t have all the answers about myself, and that’s fine,” is a powerful statement. It invites a conversation, a curiosity, rather than a conclusion.
Culturally, we are starting (slowly) to appreciate fluidity more. Younger generations are increasingly identifying as queer or fluid in their sexuality, rejecting the notion that they must have an exact percentage of gay/straight defined. Non-binary public figures and stories are gaining visibility, showing that being genderfluid or genderqueer is a valid way to be, not a plot point before the “real” identity emerges. Every time someone lives openly in their multiplicity, it challenges others to expand their thinking. We become living proof that life isn’t black and white but rather a spectrum with infinite colours.
If you’ve ever felt the magic of dusk or dawn, that in-between light where day isn’t quite day and night isn’t fully night, you know liminality can be beautiful. There’s mystery there, and potential. That’s how I feel about fluid identities. Yes, it can be hard sometimes, like we’re forever in transition. But what if we see that as continual becoming, rather than “never arriving”? What if the journey is the destination? Embracing the grey areas of identity can free us from the impossible quest to fit ourselves into a prefab mould.
Navigating Others’ Discomfort with Ambiguity
As much as I celebrate fluidity, I won’t pretend that navigating other people’s confusion (or outright discomfort) is easy. It’s an ongoing process of education and assertion.
Over time, I’ve picked up a few strategies (and scars) for dealing with it:
Clarify if you have the energy: When someone says something like “make up your mind” or asks overly invasive questions, I take a breath. If I’m up for it, I’ll gently challenge them. For example, I might say, “Why is it so important to you that I fit one category? I’m happy as I am.” Sometimes, turning the question back on them exposes the bias. At other times, I explain that this is my identity and try to share a bit of what it means to be non-binary or gender-fluid. Yes, it can feel exhausting being a walking Gender 101 class, but every genuine conversation plants a seed.
Set boundaries when needed: Not every inquiry deserves an answer. It’s perfectly fine to say, “My identity isn’t up for debate,” or “I don’t owe an explanation for how I identify.” Especially when facing bad-faith arguments or intrusive grilling, protecting your peace is paramount. Remember, you don’t have to educate every person; sometimes it’s best to direct them to resources or simply disengage.
Find your people: One of the most lavish comforts for me has been connecting with others who live in the in-between. Whether it’s fellow non-binary and genderfluid folks, or bisexual/pansexual friends, or anyone whose life doesn’t fit neat labels. These are the people who just nod and get it when I vent about the latest “phase” comment. Surrounding ourselves with those who celebrate ambiguity makes us feel less alone and reminds us that there’s a whole community of beautifully undefined humans out there. In those circles, our fluidity is shared and validated.
Point to the positive: When appropriate, I’ll reference how fluidity has its advantages. Sometimes I share that psychological studies and queer narratives have documented how rigid binaries can harm everyone (for example, strictly enforced gender roles hurt cis people too), and how a bit of fluidity can make society more compassionate and creative. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen a person’s scepticism soften when they realise I’m not suffering by being this way, I’m often thriving because of it. Sure, there are challenges, but I wouldn’t trade the self-knowledge and freedom I’ve gained for anything.
Allies and curious friends reading this: the best thing you can do is get comfortable with being uncomfortable. If ambiguity makes you anxious, ask yourself why. Is it truly about the person in front of you, or is it because it challenges your worldview? You don’t have to fully understand someone’s identity to grant them respect and acceptance. As Aida Manduley (a non-binary activist) wisely noted, society often pushes people toward binaries and makes non-binary folks feel “like they’re doing something wrong for ‘not picking a side already’”. We can change that. We can all unlearn the knee-jerk need to label everything. Start by listening, by believing people when they tell you who they are (even if their identity might evolve tomorrow). Trust that they know themselves, and that even if their self-knowledge grows, it doesn’t mean it was absent before.
Reclaiming Fluidity: You Have the Right to Change and Be Certain of Your Truth
The phrase “not just a phase” has become a rallying cry in queer communities, and for good reason. It’s a pushback against the casual dismissal of our identities. However, reclaiming fluidity takes it a step further. It’s not just saying “I’m here to stay”, but it’s also saying even if I change, it’s still real. Fluid identities are not about indecision; they’re about openness.
I often think about the concept of flow. A river is fluid, always moving, changing course slightly with time, yet it is undeniably there, a force of nature. My gender (and my sexuality) flows too. Over the years, I’ve ebbed in different directions, but every drop in that river is authentically me. Reclaiming fluidity means seeing that flow as natural and beautiful, rather than something to be dammed up for others’ comfort.
If you take one thing from this post, let it be this: certainty is overrated. Certainty can be static, even brittle. Fluidity is flexible, resilient, and alive.
In an era obsessed with certainty, those of us who embody ambiguity are not problems to be solved; we’re people to be respected. Our identities might challenge others to sit with discomfort, to embrace the unknown, but that challenge is ultimately a gift. It pushes the culture forward into understanding that valid identity isn’t limited to fixed checkpoints on a map; it can be the journey itself.
So no, this is not just a phase. It’s an embrace of the many phases I’ve experienced and will continue to experience. It’s a life that refuses to be boxed in by either/or. My fluidity is my truth, as solid as any “certainty” out there. And if that truth evolves, it will still be mine, still valid, still me. In a world that demands we choose A or B, I’ll be living happily in the ampersand, in the and; and I hope more of us, queer or not, can learn to appreciate the beauty of that space in-between.
You are not alone, you are not “confused,” and you are not a phase.
You are wonderfully, transformatively, real.
And your ambiguity? That’s just another word for possibility.
Your turn: How do you experience fluidity — in gender, sexuality, or life in general? Share your story in the comments, or tag us on social with your thoughts. Let’s build a space where ambiguity isn’t feared but celebrated.
