I saw an old picture of you today, and I hardly recognized you.
There you were, building a deck with two of our kids.
Smiling, but not really smiling. Trying to play a role that wasn’t meant for
you.
I surprised myself with how little I connected with the
memory of that person. The picture didn’t stir up any nostalgia. It
didn’t make me sad. It didn’t make me wish we could go back in time, before you
told me, before I knew.
If anything, it hurt to think it had to be like that for so
long, and reminded me that this life – the life where both of us are living
authentically – is so much easier.
“Do you miss having a husband?” one of my friends asked me
not too long ago.
“I never had a husband,” I replied matter-of-factly. Because
you were always a woman, even when I didn’t know you were.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
I do. She meant the simplicity of before.
Life is easier for
heterosexual couples. It’s easier for cisgender (non-trans) folk, too. The
world is built for people who fit into neat little normative boxes. People not
like us. You can move into any neighbourhood and visit any restaurant. You can
get a job without worrying about someone’s bias. Your kids are just like every
other kid on the street and accepted as such. Your family can travel anywhere
in the world and not worry about laws prohibiting its very existence.
Not too long ago, that was what I thought we were. And yes, in
those ways, I guess life before was
easier.
But it wasn’t really easier.
It was emotionally taxing. And no, I don’t miss it.
You were unhappy, and that unhappiness spilled into our
everyday lives. It saturated everything we did, all our relationships, how we
interacted as a couple and how we parented.
So I don’t care if we need to think twice before moving or
check a country’s LGBT laws when planning a trip. I wouldn’t go back to the before,
not even for a second.
I don’t miss who you
used to be. It took some time to let the idea of “him” go, but I have. Completely. Because the woman who
emerged from the ashes is my perfect fit. She was worth waiting for. My wife
rocks.
Society likes to talk
a lot about what a “sacrifice” it is for people to stay with a partner who’s
transitioning. If we’re not immediately judged by those who would “never stay”, we’re lauded and applauded
for going above and beyond in the name of love and family.
But the thing is, my love, it’s not a sacrifice for me to
love you. Not even a little bit.
Do we have hard days? Of course. Welcome to marriage. Long-term love is not an easy thing for anyone.
It requires work.
In some relationships, one partner supports another through
a chronic illness or affliction. That’s their story. In ours, I support you
through some days when you’re deep in the trenches of gender dysphoria, that intense discomfort that happens to many trans people. I hold you and remind you
how lovely you are and hope it helps.
And some days you support me through a major bout of
anxiety, or those moments when I feel like I haven’t achieved enough, or that I suck as a mom. You hold me and tell me I’m enough, just as I am. You do it with
a depth you were never able to reach in the before.
If you dug too deep back then, you would uncover what you were trying to keep
buried. But now? Now you can meet me where I’m at.
I am your rock. You
are mine. And being with you is not a sacrifice.
When you wrap your arms around me I feel safe and whole. My
heart skips a beat when you wear a beautiful dress. My eyes take in your smile;
my ears take in your laughter. My fingers still wrap around yours effortlessly.
If I had known that, beyond the initial minefields of fear
and worry, I would arrive at this place of deep love and connection, I would
have shed far fewer tears and eaten far less coping chocolate.
You are the before,
but better. So much better. It’s an honour and a privilege to love you and be
loved by you. Oh, if everyone could be this lucky.
And it is anything
but a sacrifice.