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.