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.

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.