It’s been nearly one year since my spouse told me she's a woman.
Nearly a full rotation around the sun since that
heartbreaking conversation in the car.
Nearly 365 days since we both sat in silence, the rain hitting
the windshield, both of us worried this latest revelation would be the final
etching on our relationship’s gravestone.
But today, 11 months later, I reached over and grabbed my
wife’s hand. I felt its smoothness – estrogen does wonderful things to the skin
– and interlaced my fingers in hers. I noticed with amusement how we inadvertently chose nearly the same shade of nail polish this week. I looked up and
our eyes met. We both smiled contentedly.
This is me, falling in love all over again.
I recall waking up in bed the day after she told me. For a
brief second, I felt okay; I was too groggy to remember the night before. But
then anxiety took hold, gripping me by the shoulders and pulling me out of the
bomb shelter my brain had constructed to shield me from the blast. Now I could survey
the wreckage of our life.
22 years together, a lifetime of love and memories, lying in
a pile of rubble at my feet.
But what I didn’t know at the time is that, while Zoe and I were
great at building a life together, we’re even better at restoration. That
rubble didn’t stand a chance. No, sir. It was about to become something truly beautiful.
Because, if I’m completely honest with myself these many
months later, I love her more than I ever loved “him.” That’s because she is genuine, while he never existed. He was a façade, created out of necessity and fear. He was an angry, sorrowful mask, while she is the beautiful face behind it.
“Mama laughs so much more now that she’s mama. Have you
noticed that?” Jackson recently remarked.
Oh, I’ve noticed. And that’s why I no longer grieve the
person who was. I don’t miss my old life – not even a little bit. We merely
existed back then – our entire family – and now we’re really living.
How do you enjoy life when you’re married to someone who can’t
enjoy their own? Spoiler alert: You actually can’t. You can try. Ever-positive
me did just that for years. But that chronic misery was wearing me down
in a way I never realized until it was no longer there. A huge weight is off my
shoulders. I feel like I can breathe now.
What I thought was a catastrophe
was, in fact, an opportunity. She’s my second chance at love. The person I
can say I truly want to spend the rest of my life with; not out of responsibility,
but because I can’t imagine spending it with anyone else. No one gets me like
she does. No one makes me laugh like her. When someone’s kiss can still give
you butterflies after two decades and three kids together, never ever let that person go.
I wish I could go back to 11 months ago and hug shell-shocked
me. I wish I tell her the wreckage she’s seeing right now is actually the best
thing that’s ever happened to her. That she will love her life – and her wife –
in a way she never has.
I wish I could go back and hug terrified Zoe, too. To let
her know she’s going to be so happy and totally
beautiful. To tell her she’ll be glad she said what she had been holding in for
all those years. That her life isn’t over – it’s just beginning. That her wife
is going to stay by her side, heal with her, and fall deeply and madly in love
with her in a way neither of them ever thought possible.
But I can’t do any of those things, and maybe that’s for the
best. Because if there’s anything I’ve learned in my life so far, it’s that, while journeys through big change are
painful, they’re necessary for growth. We don’t grow in the happy times, we
grow in times of struggle. And if neither of us had grown through that pain, we
might not be sitting side-by-side, holding hands and admiring each other’s
great taste in nail polish.
Yep. Falling in love all over again. That’s what I’m doing right
now.
I hope to circle the sun many, many more times with you, my
sweet Zoe.
