biobook

It was April 15, 2000. I had a few books stacked beside the bed—reading material that reflected the many states of mind I moved through in a week: psychodynamic theory, ego state therapy, even a book written by a woman with dissociative identities using collages and magazine cutouts to represent the parts of herself.

I had been reflecting on all of it—how we carry different selves inside us, how trauma and healing play out over time—when Lynn appeared at the doorway.

She had that mischievous smile I loved.

“I want sex,” she said, straightforward as ever.

My heart lifted. “Me too.”

We undressed quickly, comfortably. Familiar, yet new each time. The kind of comfort and chemistry that only deep love can produce. When she moved toward the bed, her gaze locked with mine, I felt the same awe I always did. Like seeing her again for the first time.

She climbed on top of me, our lips finding each other fast, hungry. Her body pressed close, arms wrapped tightly around me, the space between us seeming to vanish.

“I feel like I can’t get close enough,” she breathed, her mouth pressing into mine like she was trying to merge with me—hungry, urgent, needing more than just touch.

“I know,” I said, pulling her even closer.

She shifted, her breath catching as our bodies moved together. Then, gently but firmly, she paused.

“You’re too close, sweetie,” she said with a soft sigh, her meaning unspoken but understood.

We had talked about it before—her health, the impossibility of pregnancy due to her condition. It was the one boundary we couldn’t cross, no matter how much we wanted to become one in every way.

But still, we held each other. Moved together. Loved each other as fully as two people can.

The intensity built. She clung to me, her body not arching but wrapping itself around mine—like she was trying to become part of me. Our mouths met again and again, hungry, urgent, like we could dissolve into each other if we just held tight enough.

And then—suddenly—I let go.

She felt it. Paused. Still. A quiet smile crossing her face.

There was silence, the kind that only happens when two people have given something wordless to each other.

She whispered, “We should shower.”

I caught my breath. “But you…”

She looked at me, her eyes soft. “I'm happy,” she said. “It’s okay.” 

I was confused a bit and wanted more for her.

This was about connection. About wanting and being wanted. About love so deep that it didn’t need to be measured. It amazed me that this kind of passion was still happening nearly every day - like we were newlyweds. Yet, we were years into the life as husband and wife. It didn’t feel routine. It felt alive. Urgent. Sacred.

Afterward, she went to start the shower while I stayed in bed, a wave of serenity washing over me.

We were in love—because she was in love with me. Because I was in love with her. Because we had become, in so many ways, one.

“I love you,” she said as we stepped into the water together.

“I love you so much,” I replied, heart full.

Then I laughed softly.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking of that song by The Moody Blues—the way the singer repeats those lines like he’s overcome, like he just can’t hold it in.”

I spoke the words that the singer in the song sang:

'Cause I love you,
yes, I love you,
oh, how I love you,
oh, how I love you…'

“That’s how I feel,” I told her. “I want to tell the whole world that I love Lynn.”

She smiled, the way she always did when she knew I meant every word.

And I did. I would have shouted it from rooftops. Not just after making love, but anytime. Every day.

That night, as I lay beside her, I started thinking about her dreams. About how much I wanted her happiness. She had talked about getting her Master of Fine Arts one day. Maybe I could help with that. Maybe I could buy her a kiln so she could fire her pottery at home. Maybe, with this practice I was building, I could give her more than just love. I could give her the things that filled her dreams.

I was in love. Not just based on the passion we shared but the peace and serenity that matched our connection together.

Graduating in May 1996 with my Master’s in Social Work should have been the climax of a long journey. But in truth, it felt more like a beginning. The real transformation—becoming a therapist, becoming myself—was just taking shape.

I accepted a position as a therapist at Brynn Marr Psychiatric Hospital, a locked inpatient facility in Jacksonville, North Carolina, not far from Camp Lejeune. It felt like a natural next step after my internship at The Oaks. I was no longer an intern. I was the therapist—one of two on the adult unit, responsible for half the patients under my care.

Leading therapy groups was a routine part of the job, and I accepted that without hesitation during the interview. The person who NEVER spoke in small classrooms at Georgia Tech was now agreeing to fascilitate therapy groups. But now? It felt like a culmination. Beginning four years ago, I had stood at open mics reading poetry to strangers, declaring my love for Lynn. Now, I was standing in hospital rooms, holding space for pain, for hope, for change. All eyes were on me. Whether the patients thought the group therapy would help was less important than the importance I placed upon my role.

Group therapy sessions happened multiple times a week. Patients could also request individual sessions. And they did. Often. That meant the world to me—not because I had the answers, but because people felt safe with me. I was no longer the shy, unsure young man who avoided eye contact. I was a therapist, and I was showing up for people in ways I once thought impossible.

And I never forgot that I didn’t get here alone.

Lynn’s support wasn’t just moral—it was foundational. She had walked beside me through my transition from engineering to social work, believing in me before I fully believed in myself. Every step of my success was built on the foundation of her steady love.

Not everything about the job was ideal. Brynn Marr was a for-profit hospital, and it quickly became clear that treatment was often dictated by reimbursement policies. One patient, Victoria—a woman with anorexia and suspected Borderline Personality Disorder - quickly exhausted her covered Medicare days. My supervisor wanted to discharge her, but in the mean time, waiting for a new placement, she would continue to see me for therapy. Not the other therapist. Me.

I couldn’t turn her away. She needed care, not just a referral. And when it became clear that the unit was becoming a hostile environment for her, and when my supervisor asked me, I told him: “Yes, I think this is a hostile and non-therapeutic environment for her.”

When she was confronted by multiple staff, I made sure to be at her side. Not to rescue her, but to stand beside her. To be someone consistent. Someone who didn’t flinch.

That’s what therapy often is—just staying with someone in the hard moments.

She was volatile at times, and the term “borderline” was thrown around like an insult. But I never stopped seeing her as a full person. She might storm out one day and return the next like nothing happened. That was okay. I stayed steady. And when she was told she had to attend therapy groups which were conducted by either me or the other therapist on the unit, Victoria stated emphatically, “Fine, I’ll go to Bruce’s groups and that’s it.” The other therapist was a woman with maybe 2 or 3 year’s experience.

One afternoon, that trust was still unfolding—Victoria and I were in session when the phone rang at my desk. The storm outside had intensified. Hurricane Fran was aimed with the eye of the storm coming right up the Cape Fear river where we lived in Wilmington.

It was Lynn.

“What are you doing?” she asked—not panicked, not pleading, but with that firm, unmistakable tone she used when something mattered.

“I’m working,” I said, as if that explained everything.

“You need to come home now!” she said, emphatically “The roads are flooding.”

There wasn’t time for her to explain anything else about her worries about me arriving home safely or her being alone. I couldn’t believe that some aspect of the indifference I had known growing up from my parents had influenced this entirely different relationship. She might have been firm but it was out of love and not convenience for her.

Her voice carried what my parents never did. When I was 18, about to go to college, my father told me to get rid of the fort built when I was a younger kid. The only reason it was still there when I was older was as another place to hide or a temporary home for my friend Paul. I had the crazy idea that I could just burn it down. So, in the middle of the summer, in the evening as darkness arrived, my friend Ken and I decided to burn it down. Talk about reckless and crazy! There was a propane heater inside with tanks of propane in there. Two of them had shot up like rockets missing Ken who was on the top dropping water that I brought from the stream.

There was something different about this memory. I had lost hope that I could put the fire out. I ran up to tell my father to call the firestation. He said “no,” probaby thinking about how I could get in trouble. He didn’t confront me for having the irrational idea of burning it down. On the one hand he might have been concerned about me getting in trouble but I had only known indifference from my mother and father. Without taking time to explain more about how out of control the fire was, I rushed back into the woods behind our house to keep bringing water from the stream to put it out. It’s tragic that I had to wonder about all the tangled ideas that I had back then that came rushing back. Was he confident I could put out the fire? It’s amazing the neighbors didn’t pitch in. Was it just too much for a stoic and indifferent father to cause his son to get in trouble?

Why am I interveaving this memory into my narrative? This is one of those few times when I can only hope that the reader can infer some meaning to this.

Twelve years later with a hurricane coming at Wilmington, I realized that I mattered and I felt something entirely different when Lynn told me to come home now! My decisions and choices took on a different meaning with Lynn. There was love.

I told Lynn, “I am leaving now.” And I added, softly and with tenderness, “I’m sorry.” And I meant it.

I turned to Victoria and said in a hurried tone, “I have to go home.” She had put two and two together in this rare instance of a therapy session being interrupted.

I left the hospital and drove through streets that were fast becoming rivers. Water rose up to the hood of my car. It was pure luck that I made it back without getting stranded. But love—not luck—is what got me to leave.

That was the moment I saw something I hadn’t fully understood until then.

This wasn’t just a job I’d chosen. This wasn’t just a career I had trained for. It was a life I was building. And someone was waiting for me in that life—not out of obligation, but out of love.

She was home, alone, afraid. And she needed me. Not just safe. With her.

I’d never known that kind of need before - not from my parents, not from anyone. But I knew it now.

And I wasn’t going to take it for granted.

In an earlier chapter, I described the most meaningful accomplishment of my life: building a family with Lynn. As husband and wife, we were a family in every way that mattered.

But long before I could meet someone like Lynn—let alone be ready for the kind of connection we shared—I had to become someone else entirely. I had to grow.

During college, I spent five years trying to overcome what I once called “shyness,” but what I now recognize as social anxiety and a severe lack of interpersonal skills. The person I was at eighteen could barely hold a conversation, let alone navigate the emotional landscape of love, intimacy, and healing. To even meet Lynn, to express my interest in her, required a set of relational and emotional skills I hadn’t yet developed when I entered college.

Ironically, I was preparing to be a social worker even while studying engineering at a school that didn’t even offer a degree in social work. I just didn’t know it yet. It wasn’t until much later that I recognized those years as a time of transformation, not just academically but psychologically and spiritually.

As I mentioned earlier, engineering was never a good match for me. But in high school, no one gave us aptitude tests. No one sat down to ask what kind of life might suit us. So, I did what seemed practical. What was expected. What sounded respectable. It wasn’t until I was immersed in therapy and taking elective courses in psychology that I began to see another possibility.

Psychology changed my life. Therapy saved it. And somewhere along the way, I realized I wanted to offer that same possibility to others.

When I moved to Wilmington in 1992, I was still finding my way professionally. I had accepted a six-month contract at Corning as a technical writer, but I was actively looking for opportunities in the mental health field. That search led me to The Oaks, the psychiatric hospital affiliated with New Hanover Regional Medical Center.

It was there that I met Chris Hauge, DSW, LCSW—a social worker and mentor who would become instrumental in my development. Chris supervised me during my second internship, helped me get started in private practice, and remained a professional touchstone for years. His influence was profound, not only because of what he taught but because of how he modeled authenticity.

At The Oaks, I started as a volunteer, but the work was anything but superficial. Chris assigned me to help complete intake assessments—detailed interviews that formed the foundation for diagnosis and treatment. He asked me to make diagnostic impressions before reviewing the psychiatrist’s notes, encouraging me to trust my observations and clinical reasoning. This practice, rare for a volunteer, deepened my understanding of mental health and validated my ability to contribute meaningfully—even before I began formal graduate training.

What stood out to me most was how Chris created space for authenticity. In his groups, staff were encouraged to be genuine—to respond not just clinically, but humanly. If a patient expressed feelings of worthlessness, the expectation wasn’t to retreat behind neutrality. It was to meet them with presence. Even something as simple as noticing and naming a patient’s strength could be part of the work. That kind of honesty wasn’t just permitted—it was modeled.

It might sound obvious, but in many clinical environments, that kind of openness is rare. Years later, I would encounter professionals who treated empathy like a liability—who worried that affirming a client too directly might be crossing a line. But back then, with Chris, I learned that healing could happen through relationship. Through realness. That was the kind of therapist I wanted to become.

When I returned years later for my internship, I saw even more clearly how the information gathered by clinical social workers often surpassed what the attending psychiatrists had available. Yet, in some later settings, I would find that physicians didn’t always want to hear those insights. There’s a hierarchy in medicine that doesn’t always leave space for the voices of those outside it. Still, I held onto what I had learned: that deep listening, careful attention, and compassionate presence could offer more than a title ever could.

At The Oaks, I was invited into the work in a way that felt real and urgent. There was no busy work, no meaningless tasks to “keep the volunteer engaged.” I had a key to an office where I could meet with patients privately. I sat in on group sessions. I helped complete required documentation. I saw the systems, and I saw the people inside them.

And I saw myself, more clearly each day, becoming who I was meant to be.

It wasn’t just about knowledge or training. It was about alignment—about discovering a life where my values, my skills, and my sense of purpose finally lined up.

I had been through the fire. I had faced self-doubt, shame, and misdirection. But I had emerged with something unshakable: a sense of who I was, and what I was here to do.

Helping others wasn’t just something I wanted to do—it was something I needed to do. It made life meaningful. And it gave me the kind of satisfaction that no paycheck or title ever could.

And so, I moved forward—no longer doubting whether I belonged, but knowing that I did.

Looking back now, I can say with absolute clarity: I was on the right path. I hadn’t just found a career.

I had found my calling.

By the summer of our second year together, I can remember standing on a porch during one of Lynn’s pottery events. I didn’t know anyone else there. I felt a little out of place—but not alone. It was summer.

We walked in hand-in-hand.

Later, feeling a bit awkward I found a seat at a picnic table. Lynn right near me. I reached for her arm and whispered, “Sit on my lap,” guiding her gently as she sat my lap and turned to face a friend talking. There was a pause in her conversation as her acquaintance drifted away. My eyes were suddenly captivated by the shape of her leg revealed by her very short shorts - probably not even trying to be seductive… and her foot with a open sandle dangling there.

My thoughts were playful and seductive. My hand ran up her leg and kept moving, as if no one was watching. She just turned to grin at me. Not telling me to stop, just knowing we were in public and we understood that.

Her body against mine was familiar by now, and this was one of those moments when desire mingled seamlessly with peace. She turned to me and asked sweetly, “Are you doing okay, sweetie?”

My hand had stopped but still was on her leg. My answer was “Oh, yeah, I’m good.” She understood and smiled knowingly.

This wasn’t the only moment of sexual playfulness nor was I the one acting. Even while I was driving… well that’s a private matter… or was it? The memory. I was driving and whether or not a person higher up in a truck might see didn’t seem to change Lynn’s actions or desires to pleasure me… and not needing to ask permission. It would be like asking for consent to tickle a person - the non-predictable nature of the action makes it work.

Later, we visited my parents for Christmas. It seemed natual to do. I was clearly not comfortable with this despite choosing to visit. Part of me wanted to show them the beautiful and loving lady that I had, as if they cared. Another part of me wanted to show what love looked like.

It was about being close as a natural thing, not like newly we were newly weds but we were just close to one another. Being in their home made me nervous. I saw Lynn speaking to my mother and got up close… I wrapped my arms around Lynn. It said “I’m with her and not you.” It also said to Lynn, “I need you.”

Intimacy as Discovery, Not Performance

I had studied Masters and Johnson. I had worked with clients who described their sex lives in clinical detail. I knew the theories about compatibility, erogenous zones, dysfunction, technique. But nothing in those textbooks prepared me for what it meant to discover someone’s body through love—not judgment, not comparison.

Lynn and I weren’t performing for each other. We were exploring. We weren’t trying to “get it right.” We were figuring out what felt good—what was comfortable, what was sacred. There was no pressure to be experienced or skilled. There was only curiosity, trust, tenderness.

I never expected oral sex, and she didn’t either. Perhaps that was because of my queasiness about mucus, a recurring challenge due to her illness. I once admitted to her that I struggled with things like sputum samples. She understood. She never made me feel ashamed of that discomfort. And in return, we both created a space where no part of each other was taboo—even if there were boundaries.

We explored everything else. Joyfully. Lovingly. Respectfully.

And as time went on, we knew what we liked, what to ask for, and how to listen to each other’s bodies without shame.

The Sacredness of Sex

For me, sex with Lynn was never casual. It was sacramental. I was still a Christian at the time, and I believed deeply in the idea of two becoming one. Our bodies were our offerings. Our souls met in that intimacy—not in spite of her illness, but in full knowledge of it.

And yes, I was a romantic. But this wasn’t just romance. This was a spiritual union. And when we were wrapped together, as one body; I felt more connected to the divine than I ever had inside a church.

It’s true—some people confuse physical pleasure with love. But we weren’t confused. We were making love. And we did so not as an obligation, or a performance, but as a celebration of everything we were to each other.

If I’m honest, I was learning to be free in my body by loving hers. I wasn’t trying to impress her. I was just trying to love her as fully as I could. And she gave me the safety to do that.

That was the miracle.

Not the sex. Not the affection. But the safety. The shared knowing.

I had never known that before.

And I have never known it since.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from others—it comes from inside. It’s the silence born of shame, planted early, before you have the words to resist it. It tells you your body is something to hide. That pleasure is dangerous. That certain fluids—mucus, discharge, even tears—are “unclean.”

That silence shaped me long before I ever met Lynn.

It started in childhood. I had a single memory of something like anal continence when I was young perhaps in 2nd grade, and instead of comfort or understanding, what I felt was dread. Not just of the accidents themselves, but of discovery. Then later I discovered Freud’s pleasure principle and discovered what happened. It could not possible be discovered. But why? Because for a moment I embraced pleasure as a young child?

I lived in fear that my mother might find evidence of my body’s betrayal—and reject me for it. There were no open conversations. No space to ask questions or seek reassurance. Just shame. Shame for being seen.

Shame for being human.

So I learned to hide. To compartmentalize. To disconnect.

Then, as an adult, I met Lynn. And Lynn lived in her body with honesty. She didn’t apologize for it. She wasn’t provocative—she was present. When she undressed, it wasn’t for show. It was for trust. For closeness.

Her body was not a performance. It was an invitation: See me. Hold me. Love me. It was also something she knew I wanted.

But I was still unlearning.

Cystic Fibrosis is a disease of the lungs, but its calling card is mucus—thick, persistent, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t abstract. It was physical. It showed up on tissues, in coughing fits, in the way her breath caught just a second too late. It interrupted kisses. It was a signifier of something I wanted to deny.

And I HATED it… wanted to destroy it. It wasn’t just frustration—it became a fantasy of justice. A yearning for something I could see and fight.

More than once, I dreamed that CF was a demon. Not a metaphor. A literal monster. Like something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I pictured it stalking through hospital halls, feeding off the weak, coming for my beloved. In that daydream, it came for stalked Lynn and I wanted to kill it. Not for a second did I consider whether this monster could hurt me. I was eager and ready to kill it.

Because this thing—the mucus, the coughing, the breathlessness—it wasn’t just a symptom. It was a violation. A thing that didn’t belong in the sacred space that was Lynn’s body. And I couldn’t do anything in reality. I was powerless.

But the shame - the programming - still whispered. It got mixed into a combination of secret discoveries of pleasure and signs of a disease that interfered with the normal life that we were building.

Lynn never kept me at a distance from her illness. When we met with the respiratory therapy team or sat through hospital consults, no one asked if I had the right to be there. They didn’t question whether I was her husband. They didn’t blink when I was invited into the examination rooms or into conversations that would typically remain private. They knew. Everyone knew.

I wasn’t just a visitor. I was her partner. And I needed to understand everything—how Cystic Fibrosis worked, what it did to her lungs, what we could do to fight it. I needed to know the terrain of the body we were both trying to protect.

I wasn’t just the person giving her a ride from Wilmington to Chapel Hill. I suppose Lynn conveyed something profound in calling me her fiancé.

The respiratory team showed me how to help. How to tap her chest and sides to loosen the mucus. There was no awkwardness. No question of whether it was appropriate for me to touch her there—across her chest, her ribs, even over her breasts. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t foreign. It was sacred. It was care. It was love.

It was our life that I tried to normalize - we were just two poets, two creative types who fell in love.

And what’s more: Lynn never flinched. Never acted like there was anything I shouldn’t see. Her body was never a battleground between intimacy and decency. It was our terrain—hers, yes, but shared in trust. I knew how to soothe it. How to support it. And how to mourn it, quietly, when she needed more than I could offer.

There was no shame there. No performance. No false modesty. Just the raw, necessary truth of what it meant to love someone whose body was fighting a battle it never chose.

Her body—beautiful, fragile, strong—was the first place I ever felt truly wanted.

And it was also the battleground.

I never saw her as broken. But I sometimes feared I was. That the silence I’d learned in childhood had cost me something sacred. That my uncertainty, my hesitation, my effort to unlearn shame was something she had to bear with me.

Years later, with someone else—Codi Renee—I found myself embracing physical pleasure more freely. I offered the kind of tenderness and desire that, in truth, was always meant for Lynn—the one I had truly been in love with.

But in my confusion, I mistook that willingness—my openness, my eagerness to give—for something deeper. I thought it meant I loved Codi Renee. I wanted to believe it. She even insisted it must be true because I said so.

But it wasn’t love. It was never love.

It was physical attraction wrapped in the illusion of connection. Desire masquerading as devotion. I see that now. And it feels tragic—not because I gave myself too freely to someone else, but because Lynn, the one who had loved me fully, the one who had taught me how to open, didn’t get to receive the fullness of what she awakened in me.

She deserved that depth. That freedom. That joy.

What I gave Codi Renee was shaped by what Lynn helped me discover. But the motivation with Codi Renee wasn’t love—it was the desperate hope of being good enough for someone who kept me at a distance. The desire to be chosen. To prove I could be desirable.

Lynn never made me prove anything. With her, I was already enough.

This isn’t a chapter of regret. It’s a chapter of recognition.

I recognize now that Lynn didn’t just teach me how to love—she taught me how to stay. To sit with what’s hard. To touch what’s vulnerable. To stop pretending that we need to be “clean” (whatever that means) and whole to be worthy of love.

CF never gave me the fight I wanted. No monster in the hallway. No thing to destroy. But Lynn gave me the chance to fight in smaller, truer ways. To stand beside her. To learn that sacredness isn’t found in perfection—but in discovery of each other with no expectations.

In every tear, in every kiss, in every quiet act of care—we were writing a new language. A new covenant.

One that said:

You are not disgusting. You are not broken. You are not alone.

You are loved.

The life I had with Lynn felt like the culmination of a lifelong dream. I had a career that was beginning to take shape, but more than that—I had a partner. A family. Even though we couldn’t have children, we were a family. That truth carried weight and meaning.

From the outside, some might have seen our relationship through a distorted lens. But it was the ability to argue, to disagree—and to talk about anything—that made our connection so strong. I don’t remember my parents ever disagreeing about anything, which now seems bizarre to me. It was like they were afraid to have different opinions. That kind of silence doesn’t feel like peace; it feels like avoidance.

My friend Jean, years later, once remarked on how much Lynn and I argued. But he only ever saw the tension—not the tenderness that followed. He never saw the repair, the softness that always came after.

In fact, in one moment that I mentioned earlier, he missed the part where, after a disagreement, I’d handed Lynn a signed copy of his book and said, “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Her face softened, and that amused, radiant smile returned—because she couldn’t stay mad.

That was us. That’s what he missed.

We never let distance fester. If Lynn was upset or hurt, I couldn’t stand it—I had to make things right. Once, in a moment of frustration, she asked, “Then why are you with me?” and I blurted out, “I don’t know.” But I caught myself instantly. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice clear and without any uncertainty. There were some things I knew for certain and my love for Lynn was one such absolute truth. “I’m with you because I’m in love with you.” Spoken with the solemnity that was both profoundly passionate and yet simultaneously matter of fact - a truth so undeniable as it was almost a contradiction that passion could co-exist with simplistic truth.

Some of our arguments came from the tangled roots of my religious upbringing—beliefs I’d inherited but never questioned. Absolutes I mistook for truth. But Lynn was patient. We didn’t avoid hard conversations. We challenged each other, disagreed out loud, and always found our way back. Our arguments weren’t threats to our love; they were part of how we strengthened it.

Our Home

Our home was a space that reflected who we were. We adopted two cats—Tip and Boo—and Diane even installed a swinging door so they could reach the garage where their litter box was kept. We each had a car, though we parked them outside because we used the garage as a workspace. It had a treadmill, free weights, and even a punching bag that became my occasional outlet, inspired by Gestalt therapy.

We worked together to make the house our own. Diane helped us build bookshelves using stained ladders and a stud finder to anchor them into the wall. We set up a computer station and eventually had cable internet—cutting edge at the time. One room was turned into a cozy guest space for Lynn’s cousins, with a larger television. In the bedroom, we kept a smaller TV near Lynn’s nebulizer and medication equipment, often falling asleep to Star Trek.

We took turns cooking, cleaning, and organizing. Lynn, ever practical, often directed how things should be cleaned, and I was happy to follow. We both handled litter box duties when possible, though I now regret letting Lynn do it at all—it wasn’t healthy for her to be near the dust. At times, I denied the seriousness of her condition. That was something I had to grow through.

I obviously had to mow the lawn and while I didn’t see the same urgency to do this as Lynn did, I respected her desire that it be done - by me.

Serenity and Intimacy

Growing up starved for nurturance, I often craved closeness in ways I couldn’t explain. With Lynn, I found peace in the smallest gestures—resting my head in her lap, letting her caress my forehead, feeling my body finally exhale into someone else’s care.

We hadn’t had sex before we moved in together, but that changed as our life together deepened. I remember asking Lynn, somewhat shyly, to pick out something sexy for Valentine’s Day. She did, and it meant everything. Not just because it aroused me—though it did—but because it showed how deeply she saw me. It wasn’t performative. It was for us.

That’s the thing about our intimacy—it was always new, always unfolding. There was a mystery to it. We weren’t just reenacting some cultural script. We were exploring. Learning. Responding. Lynn didn’t wait for me to initiate every time. And when we didn’t know what the other wanted, we asked, or listened to each other’s bodies.

Our connection was unusually in sync. We rarely faced the awkward imbalance of one person being “in the mood” while the other wasn’t. We just responded—open, mutual, unguarded. Even a glance, a smile, could spark something between us. And it always felt right.

I’d grown up with the idea that men had to lead, that sex was a duty or an obligation. But Lynn and I had none of that. We moved together in rhythm, equal, attuned. We honored each other’s cues, joys, hesitations. And that felt like a kind of healing, too.

She sometimes slept nude, a quiet gesture of closeness and trust. Sometimes I’d hold her breast gently as we fell asleep, feeling peace and desire mix in a quiet kind of bliss. Even then, I’d check to see if she was in the mood and respect her response that might be something like “I need to sleep now, sweetie.”

She wasn’t fragile. But I needed to know I was giving her pleasure, not pain. That mattered more than anything else.

This, I think, is what love should look like. Passion and tenderness. Respect and desire. A home built not just with furniture, but with trust. And each night, a little miracle in the ordinary: we turned toward each other, and found the same warmth waiting there.

After we got engaged, life didn’t transform overnight—but the horizon began to shift. Our conversations became more grounded, our hopes more tangible. I had moved out of the place I shared with Donna and Terri, and sometimes Lynn stayed the night with me, or I with her. We were growing closer in every way.

Even then, we weren’t “sleeping together” in the way most people would define it—not yet. That final boundary remained unspoken, uncrossed. But something had changed between us. Lynn, always attuned to me, may have sensed that I was becoming more at ease, less tangled in the old religious shame I’d carried for so long. When she removed her shirt—no longer stopping at just dropping her bra—it felt natural. Not bold, not calculated, just... right. She was honoring the space I’d opened. And in truth, the hesitation had always come from me. My toxic beliefs.

It wasn’t about a lack of desire. We had that, abundantly. It was the religious programming—those lingering voices whispering rules I no longer fully believed. And still, they haunted me.

And yet—our bodies were already speaking the truth. We held each other longer, touched with deeper intention. Every brush of skin seemed to say: this is good. This is safe. This is love. Nothing in me felt confused about those moments. I wasn’t struggling to reconcile them with morality or scripture. Instead, I found myself quietly letting go of what no longer made sense. The unspoken language between us—how far we’d go, how much we’d share—was shaped by mutual respect and gentle restraint. She knew where I stood, without my needing to say a word.

And then came Diane’s offer.

Diane—Lynn’s mother—offered us a home to rent after our engagement. That gesture was more than generous—it was symbolic. It meant we were stepping fully into a shared life, one defined by commitment and love, not by paperwork or permission. The decision to move in together wasn’t taken lightly. It was the turning point where I had to reconcile what I’d been taught with what I knew in my heart to be true. And Diane didn’t need a marriage certificate to take this step.

Until then, even during our most passionate moments, Lynn and I had kept our clothes on. I had still been holding onto the last fragments of the religious ideas I was raised with—teachings about what sex was supposed to mean. And even though Lynn never pressured me, I think we both knew those barriers weren’t really about her. They were about what still lived inside me.

But once we accepted the house—once we knew we were going to share a home—everything settled. The clarity came.

We were no longer visiting each other’s spaces or planning around separate routines. We were going to sleep in the same bed. Wake up under the same roof. Share meals, memories, bills—and a life.

And with that new home came a new level of intimacy. Not forced. Not rushed. Just… natural.

We undressed without shame. We touched without hesitation. We slept skin to skin. We made love—not because it was overdue or expected, but because it was an extension of everything we were already giving each other.

There is something sacred about being fully wanted. Not just emotionally, but physically. There is something healing in knowing that another human being longs to be close to you—not just out of desire, but from love, from a hunger to belong.

I think of newborns placed on a parent’s bare chest. That skin-to-skin contact, that grounding, that wordless affirmation: You’re here. You’re safe. You’re mine.

That’s what it felt like. That’s how natural it became. Not performance. Not shame. Just presence.

And I knew I had made peace with it. Not gradually—decisively.

I didn’t see it as “living in sin.” I saw it as something sacred. We weren’t hiding from God—we were honoring what He had given us. I believed then that if marriage was meant to be a covenant of love, fidelity, and mutual care, then we had already entered into it. The legal part had been denied to us, but the spiritual part was already real.

But not everyone saw it that way.

The Church didn’t.

When we approached the priest, hoping for a religious ceremony, he refused. Without a legal marriage license, he said, he couldn’t perform the sacrament. He knew what a legal marriage would mean—that Lynn could lose her health insurance and risk her life. And still, the answer was no.

Lynn wasn’t religious, but she was spiritual. She respected my beliefs. But I’m still stunned that I wasn’t driven away from the Church right then—by its coldness, its rigidity, its failure to act with compassion or common sense.

A sacrament, denied. Not because we lacked love. But because we wouldn’t risk her health.

And strangely, the greatest tension didn’t come from within us—it came from outside.

Especially when we visited my family.

On one trip, Lynn suggested we sleep in separate beds. I remember being shocked. Hurt, even. But she was trying to show respect for my parents. And I went along with it.

Looking back, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had said, No. We’re a couple. If that’s not accepted, we’ll get a hotel. Or we won’t come.

It wasn’t about shame. It was about honoring the truth of our relationship.

I could have told our friends: “We’re more than engaged. We’re already married—in every way that matters.” They would have understood. No one would’ve alerted the state. There was nothing to hide.

We weren’t pretending.

We were living it. With tenderness. With intention. With love.

Even without a wedding, we were a family.

It’s amazing how much the silhouette in the photo that I found to include with this chapter of the book looks just like Lynn.

But before I share the story of our engagement, I want to go back to a moment that perfectly captures the spirit of who we were—a couple rooted in poetry, playfulness, and a love so deep it sometimes caught us both by surprise.

I had written a poem for her. That wasn’t unusual—I often wrote love poems—but this one was different. It had a dreamlike quality, inspired by both the Song of Songs from the Old Testament and a psychedelic 60s song by The Electric Prunes called “I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night).”

We were at one of our usual Sunday night poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. It was late May 1994, nearly two years since we started seeing each other. The sun had sunk low, casting the room in golden dimness. Dusty, our beloved emcee, had turned on the soft lamp at the podium. It felt intimate, almost sacred.

I got up to read, not telling Lynn in advance what I was about to share. I wanted it to be a surprise. A public declaration of love.

Here’s what I read:

Dreamlike Visions

In this dreamlike vision
I lay in her lap,
while her golden hair
flows in the gentle wind,
on the beach.

Is this real?
I reach up to touch her
but she is gone... gone... gone
and I am laying on the sand.

Looking skyward I see her
in a vision.
She searches for me,
calling my name, saying,
"I am his and he is mine."

I try to get back
to find her
and that infinite beach
where we would walk hand-in-hand
or lay on the sand
holding each other
together
forever.

The vision –
the dream –
(incomplete)
the love
never ends...

the dream never
ends.

Even now, those words move something in me. At the time, I was still a Christian. Lynn was agnostic but open to the supernatural. I, on the other hand, have since become an atheist—one who still aches to believe. Back then, I wrote from that place of yearning and wonder, of faith intermingled with desire.

The song that partly inspired the poem had lyrics full of longing, of presence that slips away with the dawn. Though it was featured in a horror film, I was drawn to its haunting beauty—the way it captured the way love can feel like a dream, so vivid and intense, you ache when it's over.

At the end of my reading, the applause washed over me like a wave. People smiled and stopped me as I walked back to my seat. It was obvious what and who the poem was about.

But then came one of the most human, hilarious moments of that night.

I sat down next to Lynn, proud and quietly emotional. One of our mutual friends leaned over to compliment the poem. I turned to Lynn and whispered, “Well? What did you think?”

She looked at me, a bit startled. “What?”

“I mean... the poem.”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks beginning to flush. “I wasn’t listening. I thought you were just reading something I’d already heard.”

There was a pause. I just smiled, shook my head.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she added quickly, clearly embarrassed. “Let me read it now.”

I handed it to her. As she looked down, I leaned in, gently placing my hands on either side of her face, our lips meeting in a quiet kiss—slow, affectionate, full of amusement and intimacy. There were others around, so we kept it brief. But it said everything.

“It’s okay,” I said softly. “You know I really love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” she replied, eyes still smiling.

She read the poem then. Really read it.

And from that moment forward, it became a kind of inside joke between us. I’d tease her, saying things like, “If I ever pour my heart into a love poem, I hope Lynn’s listening.”

She’d laugh. And in time, she made it more than right. On nights when she hadn’t brought something of her own to read, she would ask me if I had that poem. And then she would read my poem—our poem—at the mic. I lost track of how many times that happened.

There was something magical in that gesture. She made my words her own. She carried them, shared them, honored them.

Just like she did with my love.

We didn’t plan a wedding at the same time we planned to get engaged—though of course, it was implied. Those details could wait. For now, it was about the promise. The meaning. The declaration that we were choosing each other, not just in feeling, but in the form of a ring.

We talked about what it meant to be engaged. For us, it wasn’t a performance. It was a lifetime commitment to live as husband and wife. It felt natural. It felt right. And yet, it also felt astonishing.

Words like amazing and wonderful get used so much they almost lose their meaning. But not here. Let me tell you what actually happened.

We went to the mall to look for a ring. Lynn was practical, as always. She reminded me we didn’t need anything flashy. We weren’t rich. A big diamond didn’t matter. “About two hundred dollars,” she said, matter-of-factly - it was her practicality that mattered. Since this was about us, we were going to be dealing with shared finances. So, I had to do what she knew to be what we could afford.

Still, I was nervous. Butterflies-in-my-stomach nervous. My heart was racing. I kept thinking, This is real. This is happening. I’m not dreaming.

They measured her finger. She chose the ring.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice catching a bit.

“Yes,” she said, turning to the salesperson with a smile. “Let’s get this one.”

The woman nodded. “Your fiancé can pick it up on Monday.”

Your fiancé. That was the first time I heard it out loud.

Monday came, and it felt strangely ordinary.

I arrived at her place on Wrightsville Beach with the small bag in hand. Lynn was upstairs.

She entered the room just as I was reaching into the bag.

“I want to…” I began, lifting the box, ready to open it. But I froze at what I was seeing.

Her eyes welled up with tears before I could finish the sentence.

She knew I was bringing the ring—she’d heard the woman at the store say, “your fiancé can pick it up on Monday.” But the emotion on her face—it wasn’t expected. It wasn’t rehearsed. It stopped me cold.

I didn’t finish the sentence. I couldn’t. I just looked at her. I held the box in one hand and reached toward her with the other.

We moved together like magnets. Her arms wrapped around my neck, her cheek pressed to mine, her whole body trembling slightly as her tears touched my skin.

I whispered, “Do you want to put it on?”

She nodded, still speechless.

I slipped the ring onto her finger. And for a second, we just stood there.

Then she kissed me—deeply, hungrily. Her hands cupped my face. Mine moved around her waist. We didn’t speak—not right away.

There was only the heat of her body pressed against mine, her tears mingling with our breath, her legs wrapping around me as I lowered us gently onto the bed.

My arm slid under her shoulders. Her heart was racing. So was mine.

“I’m in love,” I whispered.

“I love you so much,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

It was—without question—the most joy I have ever felt. Not because she said yes. But because she showed me something deeper: that I could bring her such joy.

My legs went weak.

I lifted her slightly, cradled her, and let us both fall back onto the bed. Her body melted into mine. My arm slipped around her shoulders, hers wrapped tight around my back.

Her heartbeat was loud against my chest. Her lips pressed harder to mine. I could feel the dampness of her tears on my cheek, her breath against my skin, the way our bodies moved together—like music, like ritual.

“I’m in love,” I said again, more to myself than to her.

“I love you so much,” she repeated, as if it needed no further explanation.

Nothing in my life has ever come close to the joy I felt in that moment. I had made someone that happy. Her. Lynn. The love of my life. And her joy was so pure and obvious.

She kissed me again—this time with hunger, with urgency. Like she had waited her whole life for this moment and didn’t want it to end. Her fingers gripped my back, my shoulders, my face, like she was trying to anchor herself to something solid, something real.

Later, we sat on the back porch above her kitchen—half a floor up from the surf and sand of Wrightsville Beach. She was on the phone with her mom, Diane.

I barely heard the conversation. My eyes were fixed on her, the light catching her hair, the ring glinting on her finger. And in that quiet, I just sat there, overflowing with awe.

That was the moment. Not the ring. Not the kiss. Not even the words.

I had not known that love could be so amazing and such a powerful experience.

It was the knowing. The knowing that we were building a life together—one full of creativity, practicality, tenderness, and shared dreams.

This wasn’t fantasy. This was commitment. Real. Mutual. And even now, all these years later, that moment still feels like the best single moment in my life.

This section of the book is about the life Lynn and I built together in Wilmington, North Carolina—not in some idealized, picture-perfect sense, but in the daily, soulful way that love takes root. We were a family. That’s what mattered most.

Lynn was a poet and a potter. I was on my way to becoming a psychotherapist. We met through poetry—through words that tried to make sense of the world—and found ourselves surrounded by a creative, passionate community. The artists she knew through pottery, the poets I met at the Coastline readings—they became our extended circle. But she was my home.

We dreamed out loud together. Lynn wanted to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in poetry. I was preparing for graduate school in the mental health field. We supported each other, not just practically, but with awe and belief in each other's potential.

And we got engaged—not to prove something, but to honor what already was. We were building a life together. Like any two people in love, we wanted a future shaped by shared joy, comfort, creativity, and care.  

During our first two years together, Lynn and I didn’t have “dates” in the traditional sense. There were no grand romantic gestures planned weeks in advance. We didn’t say, “let’s go on a date.” After the early weeks—when I sometimes wondered whether Lynn actually wanted to spend time with me—we simply fell into a rhythm. We did everything together. Naturally. Easily.

Without needing to define it.

She wasn’t working full-time then—I’ll explain more about that later—and I was putting in at least forty hours a week. We came to know each other's rhythms. Each day, we’d check in with a simple, “What do you want to do today?”

On Sundays, we went to poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. Sometimes we’d stop by on other days just to see Dusty, the emcee. We wandered through events downtown, walking beside the Cape Fear River, enjoying the simple comfort of being near each other.

Our social circles were nearly the same. I had gone to the poetry readings initially just to meet people—and that’s how I met Lynn. Many of our friends came from that world, including one of my closest—Thomas Childs. Like Lynn, he had a degree in English.

There were other poetry events we’d attend—like the big reading in Carolina Beach I mentioned earlier. And while I was still technically a paraprofessional, I was starting to form connections with people in the mental health and developmental disabilities field. Those connections would eventually open doors for me professionally, even if they weren’t friendships in the truest sense.

Lynn made acquaintances through her pottery—her creative outlet and her joy. She crafted colorful jewelry, plates, bowls, cups, and hanging planters. Pottery exhibits and seasonal events gave her chances to connect with others, though few of those relationships became close friendships.

Looking back, there’s one moment from those early months that stands out. A moment that revealed just how much I was still carrying—the fear, the insecurity, the quiet ache that had followed me from childhood.

It was April 1993, just shy of our one-year mark, at the Azalea Festival. Lynn was working the Art Center’s pottery booth, and I had come by hoping to spend time with her. But she was occupied—rightfully so—and I was left to wander the festival alone.

I remember walking past food trucks, craft stands, couples laughing and sharing ice cream. The day was warm, the park alive with spring. And yet, I felt strangely adrift. I hadn’t yet experienced what I now understand to be earned secure attachment—the kind that forms when a healthy, loving relationship helps heal the wounds of early neglect or abuse.

Lynn wasn’t rejecting me. She wasn’t ignoring me. She was just busy, doing something she loved. But the old story I carried—the one that said you’re always the extra person, the outsider—echoed loud in my mind. I wasn’t used to being claimed, to feeling fully wanted, and in that moment, surrounded by joyful couples and families, I felt like I was back in the shadows again.

That loneliness didn’t last, but it left an imprint. It reminded me that while I was healing, some pieces of my past still had a hold on me.

Later that year, around Halloween, we took a haunted tour of Wilmington. Just the two of us. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I loved the mystery of it—the way the historic town seemed to breathe in shadows and flickering lanterns. We walked side by side, her hand in mine. There was a quiet magic in it. That night, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I belonged.

We had our favorite restaurants. For casual nights, we’d go to P.T.’s for burgers and seasoned fries. For something special—like Valentine's Day—it was always our favorite sushi place. Our rituals became part of the rhythm of our relationship.

Each December, we went to a Christmas party hosted by someone from Lynn’s pottery class. I didn’t know the people there, and the first time I wasn’t sure how she’d introduce me. But by the second year, there was no doubt—I was her boyfriend. And that label, that place in her life, felt more than good. It felt earned.

That night, I remember wrapping my arms around her waist as she chatted with someone, feeling both proud and slightly out of place. She placed her hand over mine—grounding me, letting me know I wasn’t alone.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. Because she was with me.

Even then, even months into our relationship, I was still discovering what it meant to be loved without question, without having to prove anything. To be claimed—not just in private, but in public. To feel seen.

That Azalea Festival moment in April had shown me how far I still had to go. But moments like this—her hand over mine, her smile, the easy way she introduced me—showed me how far I’d already come.

There’s more to share, of course. But that early experience—the loneliness I carried into the sunshine of a crowded festival, and the quiet safety I would later feel beside her—reminds me how healing happens not all at once, but in gentle, repeated gestures.

In being chosen again and again, until you finally start to believe it.

Seeing Lynn’s Dreams – And Letting Go of Old Expectations

As I reflect on how deeply Lynn became the center of my world, it feels only right to turn toward hers—her aspirations, her values, her quiet defiance of the narratives so many of us are handed.

She never lacked ambition. But her ambition didn’t follow conventional rules. It wasn’t about money or titles or status. And I admired her all the more for that.

Many of our friends in the poetry scene had degrees in English. A few had studied other subjects, but most had pursued literature not because it guaranteed a high-paying job, but because they loved language. In America, where we’re taught to equate education with income, an English degree is often dismissed as impractical. Lynn didn’t care about that.

By the time I fell in love with her, I had grown deeply weary of that kind of judgment. If someone had questioned her path—or her poetry—I would have spoken up. Maybe in the past, I wouldn’t have. But things were different now.

Her confidence was infectious. She had a favorite phrase she used when something crossed a line: “That’s unacceptable.” I wish I could recall a specific moment she said it—maybe it was in response to something I said offhand. But what mattered was the clarity in her voice. She didn’t let things slide. And slowly, I began to do the same. I stopped absorbing criticism as if it were deserved. I stopped apologizing for who I was.

To be clear, neither of us was putting the other down. We had left that kind of treatment behind. I had known what it felt like to be belittled, to be criticized without compassion. But now, I was starting to embody the same firmness with my parents that I had first seen modeled in Lynn.

Before Lynn, I hadn’t always known how to speak up—even when someone hurt someone I loved. I remember holding back when it came to Celta. I hadn’t yet learned how to defend someone without fear. And while I was still living at home, I wasn’t in a position to reject insults or challenge my parents. But with Lynn, I found my voice. And I made it known—any insult toward her, her choices, or her creativity would be met with unwavering resolve.

We weren’t building a life like the one I grew up around. I had been raised to believe the man should lead, provide, and decide. That would never have worked with Lynn. And the truth is, I didn’t want it to.

There were also practical realities shaping her decisions. Lynn had Cystic Fibrosis, which meant ongoing treatments, daily medications, medical equipment, and the ever-present need for reliable health insurance. She qualified for a state insurance program designed for people with CF, but it came with strict income limits. Even if she had chosen a more "practical" degree or job, she couldn’t earn above a certain amount without losing the coverage that kept her alive. She worked part-time, not because she lacked motivation, but because she couldn’t afford to gamble with her health.

And yet, she dreamed. She talked about going back to school for a Master of Fine Arts in poetry, like our friend Jean Jones. Jean wasn’t using his degree to teach or publish in elite journals—but that wasn’t the point. He pursued his art because he loved it. That kind of integrity spoke to both of us.

Lynn didn’t write poetry to impress anyone. She wrote and shared because of the passion for poetry and the written word that she shared with me. When she stepped up to the mic at poetry readings, she wasn’t performing. She was sharing something personal, something sacred, in her own time, in her own way.

We honored each other’s dreams. We created space for one another’s creativity. For me, the dream of love and marriage had always burned quietly, sometimes with desperation. For her, the relationship blossomed more unexpectedly—but just as powerfully.

That’s not to say everything was perfect. We argued, of course. Sometimes about ideas, sometimes about nothing. The small things that didn’t matter. The big things that did. When I said something that hurt her—when I got careless with my words—I knew it. And I apologized. Quickly. Sincerely. I never wanted space to grow between us.

The truth is, I don’t remember what most of our arguments were about. And maybe that’s the point. What we had wasn’t fragile. We disagreed, but we came back together. We listened. We learned. We made amends.

From Shyness to Celebration: The Joy of Being Seen

Before Lynn, I had never really thought about giving gifts as an expression of love. But during our first year together—especially after the evening she asked if we were more than friends, and I responded with “I love you”—everything changed.

From that moment on, saying “I love you” became as natural as breathing. We said it often—sometimes multiple times a day.

Lynn might’ve joked that I was more impulsive in the romance department. I was usually the first to say it. She leaned more toward endearments—sweetie, honey—while I simply called her “Lynn,” which, in retrospect, feels like something I should’ve done differently. Still, I never held back how I felt.

We were affectionate in public, too—something I’d never imagined being comfortable with. But Lynn brought that out in me. She’d take my hand, sit on my lap, rest her head on my shoulder. Her touches were playful and intuitive, never showy or awkward. She knew what felt good to me, and I felt safe returning the gesture.

By Valentine’s Day, I wanted to give her something special. I walked into a grocery store to buy roses—the first time I had ever done that. It might seem like a small thing, but for me, it was monumental. I didn’t just want to pick out flowers. I wanted to be seen picking them out. I was the kind of person who used to shy away from attention, who kept emotions tucked away like secrets. But that day, I wanted the world to know.

I approached an employee and said—loud enough for others to hear—“Hi, I need roses for my girlfriend.” I wanted them to know. I wanted to say it out loud.

“For the card,” I added, “maybe something that says ‘I love you.’ I’ll sign it, ‘To Lynn. Love, Bruce.’”

And when she said I could pay at the register, I thought, Perfect. More people would see me walking through the store, roses in hand. More strangers would witness that I had someone. That I was loved, and that I loved someone fiercely in return.

That day, I felt like I was ten feet tall.

Later, I went to a jewelry store, not sure what to buy, but sure of one thing: I wanted to say it out loud again.

“I need a gift for someone I love—my girlfriend.” That declaration, made to a total stranger behind the counter, was thrilling.

She asked if Lynn preferred silver or gold. “Silver,” I answered. I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to find something she’d like.

Another clerk joined in to help, and we finally found a piece that felt just right. My face must’ve given everything away. I wasn’t hiding anything anymore.

Before Lynn, I would’ve kept that kind of thing quiet. I would’ve bought a gift silently, tucked it away in a bag, and slipped it to someone in private. But now, I wanted the world to know. My love had changed me. I didn’t want to be invisible anymore.

Being a couple wasn’t just a milestone. It wasn’t just a stage of life I stumbled into. It felt sacred. Miraculous. Surprising.

What we had wasn’t routine. It didn’t look like the marriages I’d seen growing up. It didn’t follow the patterns I’d always heard it should follow.

Have you ever heard Carly Simon’s song “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be”? It’s peaceful, even haunting, with lines like:

“My friends from college they’re all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
…Tearful nights, angry dawns
…They drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar.”

That wasn’t us.

We didn’t come together because it was expected, or because we were supposed to. We came together because we fit. Because we felt something that was spiritual in nature and necessary.

A touch. A look. A shared glance across the room. These weren’t just gestures. They were declarations. Our kisses weren’t hurried or hidden—they were slow, intentional, often preceded by a smile or a glance. Public, but gentle. Expressive. Poetic.

We were two poets writing our love in the way we touched, the way we walked, the way we looked at each other.

Even now, it still takes my breath away.

And when we fought—and yes, we did—it never meant we loved each other any less.

I don’t remember the substance of most of our arguments. Maybe that’s because they didn’t leave lasting wounds. Or maybe it’s because what came afterward—the repair—meant more than the disagreement itself.

If I had said something that hurt Lynn or pushed too hard in a debate, I felt it immediately. And I didn’t let the silence linger. I’d walk over, look her in the eyes, and say, “I really love you. And I’m really sorry.”

She would smile, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with a laugh she tried to suppress. She didn’t want to stay mad - but she also wanted me to see her frustration. And I did.

We ALWAYS worked through our issues and problems. That was our rhythmif there was a fight(argument): connection, rupture, repair. Again and again.

Let me take you to one moment that still lingers in my mind.

We’d had a disagreement—something sharp enough to leave a chill between us, though not sharp enough to change our plans. That night, we were headed to a book signing downtown for our friend Jean Jones, who was releasing a chapbook at a cozy coffee shop.

Lynn and I sat upstairs, stiffly, saying nothing. My brother and his girlfriend were with us, but the tension between Lynn and me filled the space. It wasn’t loud. It was just... there.

After a while, I quietly stood up and said, “I’m going downstairs. I’ll be back.”

Downstairs, I approached Jean. “Let me get two copies,” I said. “Can you sign one for Lynn?”

Then I went to the counter and ordered an iced tea—exactly the way Lynn liked it, with lemon - and carried it upstairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Anger and not speaking was something to be fixed.

She noticed me carrying the glass of tea and the two signed chapbooks, and I caught the first flicker of a smile.

Standing beside her, I handed her one. “This one’s for you. Jean signed it.”

Her expression changed instantly. She couldn’t contain her happiness—or the amusement.

She glanced over at our guests, then back at me, eyes gleaming. “How can I stay mad at you when you do stuff like this?” she said, practically laughing. Then she took the tea, still smiling.

Still standing, I offered what I needed her to hear. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” The fact of my love was simple and straightforward.

That was always the truth I needed her to know. And she did.

That night, my brother left not long after—maybe because he was bored, maybe because he sensed that Lynn and I needed time alone. (Though to be fair, I’m not sure how tuned in he really was.)

But we were back. The wall had crumbled. And in the quiet that followed, we reclaimed the comfort we always returned to.

Fights didn’t scare me—not with Lynn. Because I knew, deep down, that nothing we said in frustration could ever outweigh what we had.

The love wasn’t in question. It never was.

What Drew Us Closer

One of the things I’ve mentioned—earlier in this chapter and throughout this book—is how Lynn had dreams of her own. She talked about maybe getting a Master of Fine Arts degree one day, like our friend Jean Jones. She also dreamed of having her own kiln so she could fire pottery at home. She was endlessly creative, and she loved working with her hands—sculpting, shaping, turning earth into art.

I shared my own ambitions with her not just to inform—but to feel validated. Lynn was practical and grounded in a way I admired deeply. When I talked about graduate school, or trying to find the right path in the mental health field, she didn’t just listen—she helped me think it through. She asked thoughtful questions. Let me bounce ideas off her. She challenged me when I needed it. Encouraged me when I doubted myself.

I told her about the federal loans I’d learned were available to graduate students, and how I was planning to finance school. I wasn’t just thinking aloud—I was hoping to see a spark of belief in her eyes. And I did. She didn’t just approve—she believed in what I wanted for myself.

After years of second-guessing my value, it was healing to have someone hold my dreams with the same care I gave hers. She didn’t care whether my plans would make me wealthy or impressive—only that they would make me fulfilled.

That kind of support… I had known it before, briefly—but not like this. Not with this kind of steady presence. Not with someone who stayed.

A Love That Deepened Naturally

As we moved toward our second year together, the topic of marriage and engagement came up. It wasn’t about changing anything—it was about offering more of ourselves. About asking: What else can I give you? What else could we share?

The idea of getting engaged wasn’t about proving something. It was about honoring what we already had. A way to deepen the relationship in a symbolic and meaningful way. It came from passion.

We already belonged to each other. The engagement would simply give that belonging a shape—something tangible we could hold.