Before I could become the therapist I was meant to be—or the partner I would become with Lynn—I had to unlearn a great deal of what I thought I knew. Not about others. About myself.
By the mid-90s, I had built something beautiful with Lynn: a home, a deep bond, a shared life. But to understand how I got there, we need to rewind several years. Back to a version of myself…
This section begins at a moment of triumph—my graduation from the University of South Carolina’s School of Social Work. After twelve years of striving, struggling, and sacrificing, I had finally reached the threshold of my chosen profession. I was no longer just pursuing a dream—I was living it.
For as long as I could remember, I had wanted to help others. Not in a vague or…
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, “…
By 1996, I was thirty. And while Lynn and I lived with the rhythm and comfort of a shared life, I hadn’t lived with her illness since birth. I wasn’t raised in its shadow. She was. I was still learning. Still catching up. And in many ways, still trying to forget what we were up against.
Occasionally, she would use an inhaler, but that didn’t seem to happen very frequently…
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…
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…
After settling into our new home and rhythms of shared life, Lynn and I found another way to express our connection—through poetry.
We were both writers at heart. I had always identified as a poet, and Lynn had been sharing her work at open mics since before we met. Creating a project together felt like a natural extension of everything we were building—something creative,…
When Diane offered to buy us a house, everything changed. Not just practically—emotionally, spiritually. The moment she said it, without hesitation, it felt like the world had finally caught up to what we already knew: Lynn and I were a family.
Diane saw who we were to each other, and she honored it. With love. With trust. With a profound and silent blessing.
…
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…
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…