Dear Cadence, Part Seventeen: Write This Down

This is the final installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, and Part Sixteen

I’ve been a writer my entire life. It’s almost as entwined with my being as music is. I love stories, and I love telling stories. The story you just read is my story, so far at least. God willing, I’ll have another 70 years on this giant rock we call home. I still want to see you grow up, make a living for yourself, perhaps even have children of your own, should that be in the cards for you.

Nothing lasts forever, which is a hard truth that I’m struggling with as I write these words. Buildings become decrepit, objects get lost, people change and evolve and eventually die, and there’s nothing you can do about it. We are as impermanent as the leaves of an autumn tree. But the things we create outlive us.

I started this project as a way to document my time here. I may be just another woman amongst billions of other people with their own interesting lives, but there will never, ever be another me. And there will never be another you, either.

Isn’t it fascinating to realize that every single person ever has their own story? There are eight billion intersecting storylines happening as I write this, eight billion unique lives that will never happen again. And that’s not counting the billions upon billions of people who have already come and gone. Maybe they left a legacy, or perhaps they were forgotten to time. It’s the latter that fascinates me most, more than the famous folks who went on to become legends. It’s the people whose stories will never be known, whose names were lost to history. It makes me sad to think about too long, if I’m honest.

Cadence, if you do nothing else with your time here, I want you to write. All the time. About everything. It doesn’t have to be grammatically perfect or even presentable. Just write down your life and experiences, the same as I’ve written mine for you. Someday, if you have kids, they’ll want to know who you were and where they came from. And even if you don’t have kids, you’ll come back to your diary or journal someday and remember how beautiful life was. Moments are as fleeting as existence itself. One day, you’ll be old and gray, but the memories you’ve made will be forever preserved through your journals.

I want to leave you with this. Leave a legacy. Don’t be content to be forgotten to time. Live without abandon, and leave something to be remembered by. Do great things, and be exceptional to everyone you meet. And always, always lead with love. We will all die, but love lives on forever. I know I’ve loved you long before you were ever born, and I’ll love you long after I’m gone.

Wherever you go in this life, I’ll be with you always.

Cartwheeling Into the Wild Unknown

I begin this post with good news.

I got my dream internship.

Wait, I didn’t say that loud enough.

I got my dream internship!

I started my journey to find a decent internship despondent and forlorn that my original plan had failed. I bet all I had on the only internship that was a. local and b. not hospice, only to be let down in the end. It was back to the drawing board for me when my professor suggested a private practice in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It’s not in Michigan, she said, but it would be the perfect fit for me. And the more I researched the place, the more I realized she was right! It was almost exactly what I envisioned my own private practice would be like one day, with a diverse range of clientele with many different diagnoses and goals.

Still, it wouldn’t be easy uprooting my entire life. Hesitantly, I applied for the Indiana internship as well as a local hospice, the “safe” option, despite not being what I wanted to pursue in my career. After getting let down by the previous internship site, I figured I shouldn’t put all my eggs into one basket again. I got interviews with both — on the same day, no less — and then the waiting game began. I was beginning to wonder if either of the sites would accept me, or if I’d never get an internship and be doomed to be a pharmacy technician forever.

But then, within a day of each other, both sites got back to me — and this time, with good news! I’d been offered an internship by both the private practice and the hospice. Now I had a choice to make — do I do the hospice and stay in Metro Detroit, or do I take a risk and move to Indiana for six months?

I’ll admit it wasn’t an easy choice. I knew the internship director at the hospice — we’d worked together before. I know the area and all the people here. My wife and I would be able to hang onto our day jobs for extra support. And we wouldn’t have to offload most of our belongings and move into an extended-stay hotel or AirBnb. But something was pulling me toward the Indiana site, crazy as it seemed. It wasn’t the practical option, but perhaps it was a risk worth taking.

I accepted the Indiana internship.

So now we’re contemplating how to execute this move as smoothly as possible, looking into potential lodging and Uhauls and how the hell we’re going to get our medication through it all because God forbid I go through the internship process without my Adderall. It’s going to take hard work and sacrifice, but I’m willing to do everything I can to make this happen. I’ve never felt so strongly about anything. Maybe leaping into the great unknown is what I need to do in order to truly live out my passion and make a difference in people’s lives through music therapy. After all, no one’s ever changed the world by playing it safe.

I’m ready for whatever comes next, and I can’t wait to take you all along for the ride.

Dear Cadence, Part Sixteen: Love is Infinite

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, and Part Fifteen

When your mother and I officially got together, we came to an agreement — we’d be free to date other people as well. Part of it was due to your mother’s asexuality — there were certain things she couldn’t give me that I needed in a relationship, and I didn’t want to ever pressure her or make her feel uncomfortable by making her do physical things with me that she didn’t want to. But I never had any desire to date around or meet anyone else. I was content to be a one-woman woman.

That changed when I met Olivia.

When I first saw her at a Valentine’s Day art show, she was wearing a tight little skirt and a mess of short dark blonde curls. She was playing electronic music behind her then-friend’s poetry. She had this air about her, graceful and effortless, and I knew I had to get to know her. We ended up in the kissing booth that had been set up, trading life stories between smooches, and she told me about her life, how she was struggling with her gender identity and how to tell her parents, and how she’d been very ill until recently, putting a strain on her relationship with her ex. I listened as if she was telling me the secrets of the universe, enthralled at her every word. When we parted, we traded information, promising to meet somewhere between my home in Michigan and hers in Indiana someday.

About a month later, someday happened. I booked a hotel halfway between Ypsilanti and South Bend, in a town called Kalamazoo. It was reckless and unlike anything I’d ever done before, but something felt so right about this perfect stranger. I wanted to know more about her. I wanted to know everything about her. I kept trying to tell myself this was just a fling, just a way for me to blow off steam in a way I couldn’t with your mother, but I knew deep down in my heart that something else was happening.

Another month later, we met for a third time at an indie music festival in East Lansing. At some band’s show in some random person’s backyard, we drifted off together in a hammock, tangled up in each other’s arms. It was in that moment I think we both realized what this was.

It was love.

We continued to meet every month or so, sometimes in Michigan, sometimes in Indiana. I met her friends and family, and she met mine. She even met your mom, and while your mom was slightly overwhelmed by her exuberance, she gave us her blessing.

I still remember the afternoon we took a boat out on the lake together. We held each other close on the tiny inflatable vessel and daydreamed about the future, uncertain as it seemed at the time, and you came up! She mentioned that before she transitioned, she took steps to ensure she’d be able to have kids someday, and she said she wanted them with me. I told her about you, and how badly I wanted to have you one day. We promised each other that when the time was right, we’d bring you into this world together. It wouldn’t be easy, raising a child with this unique arrangement, but we’d be damned if we didn’t try.

I know this love is not conventional, but I’ve never been one for conventional things. I love your mother with all my heart, and I love Olivia with all my heart, and I wouldn’t trade either of them for the world. They’re my soulmates, my true loves. Love is not a finite resource, and I’ve got so much of it to give. Sometimes I fear we’ll receive pushback or discrimination for choosing to love the way we do, but it’s a chance I’m willing to take. The world may never understand, but so long as I’m alive, I’ll fight for this strange, beautiful thing we’ve built together.

I could write an entire book about all the memories I share with Olivia, and I just might eventually. But the story isn’t over yet, and I pray it never ends.

Music Reviews No One Asked For: Shadows Collide With People by John Frusciante

What’s your all-time favorite album?

Well, thanks for asking, daily writing prompt. I guess I can’t technically call this a music review no one asked for now.

I had a few albums in mind when I saw this particular prompt. Futures by Jimmy Eat World was my first instinct, being the album I cried to as a baby emo in high school while sneaking into the abandoned house down the road to hide from the world (I was dramatic as heck). folklore and evermore by Taylor Swift were contenders as well, being the answer to my prayers that she’d attempt a moody folk album. But I kept coming back to one particular album — Shadows Collide With People by John Frusciante.

Now it’s no secret I’m obsessed with John Frusciante, despite the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned him on this blog. It’s a shame, because there’s so much I could say about him. Like how we share a birthday. Who else can say they share a birthday with their favorite guitarist? Or how he talks to cats. Or how “Frusciante” because the new “f-word” in the newspaper office I worked in because I wouldn’t shut up about him. (The word “potato” was also banned in the office for unrelated reasons.)

I found Shadows Collide With People at a thrift shop or something back in 2015. It was around the time I’d just graduated from college, landed absolutely no job, witnessed my band implode in the most explosive way possible, was battling a burgeoning alcohol problem, and had my heart broken once again by the man I thought was the love of my life. All this to say I was in a pretty dark place. I remember driving around crying to this album, with its highs and lows reflecting my own turbulent life at the time. Even though John Frusciante’s struggles were not the same as mine (I never did heroin, for one), somehow I felt less alone knowing my hero had been to similar dark places. And wrote a pretty bitchin’ album about it.

The album itself opens with “Carvel,” a suitably weird rock song that uses ice cream cake as a metaphor for drugs. It’s probably one of my favorites by Frusciante in general, and sets the stage for all the angsty goodness that’s yet to come. The follow-up is the much more chill “Omission,” which features Frusciante’s protege and eventual Red Hot Chili Peppers guitarist Josh Klinghoffer’s soaring vocals. “Regret” comes next, repeating the simple yet somber line “I regret my past” over melancholic music.

“Ricky” and “Second Walk” are both fun uptempo bops, but the mood is jarringly brought back down by the eerie “Every Person.” The next portion of the album contains two electronic instrumentals, both sparse and unsettling, as well as the catchy “Wednesday’s Song” and “This Cold,” which could easily have been a RHCP song. “Song to Sing When I’m Lonely” is sure to get stuck in heads, and “Time Goes Back” feels oddly nostalgic in a way I can’t put into words.

The next three songs are fairly forgettable in my opinion, but fit in perfectly with the context of the album. “Chances” is another catchy one, although not my favorite on the album. What follows is yet another eerie instrumental, although this one feels more sad than startling. The closer, “The Slaughter,” is, in my opinion, a masterpiece, and the perfect way to close this absolute adventure of an album. “I know my pain is a life away,” Frusiciante croons wistfully, and as the final few chords ring out, you feel it.

I think what gets me about SCWP is the fact that it takes you to some deep, dark places, but it doesn’t leave you there. Instead, the album takes your hand and leads you back out into the light with the final song. I’ve always loved a good story, and this album feels like one. It has a way of meeting you where you’re at, in the midst of the pain, and reflecting your emotions like a musical mirror. I can honestly say it has helped me through some difficult spots.

I’m studying music therapy for a reason, and I think SCWP is a beautiful example of what music can do. It displays the entire range of human emotion in a very raw and unfiltered way. Even though I’m in a much better place now, this album will always hold a special place in my heart.

A Life in Song: Why I Owe Everything to the Art of Music

What would your life be like without music?

Sometimes I wonder this to myself. After all, I’ve built my entire life on this weird-ass human phenomena of taking noise and making it pretty.

Like, I don’t think music has ever not been a part of my life. I remember being a small child and spinning around humming little tunes I made up. I didn’t have any means of writing them down or recording them, but that was the beginning of what would become a lifelong love of songwriting.

When I was eight, my parents bought me a guitar. Two years later, I started lessons. I’d already been kicked out of ballet, tap, gymnastics, and swimming thanks to then-undiagnosed ADHD, but music lessons were different. Not only could I literally not get kicked out of one-on-one lessons, I actually enjoyed them enough to pay attention. I studied in a basement with this college kid named Eric, who my mom thought was hot. Over the next few years, I’d learn the basics of music theory, initially against my will.

“You’re going to need this stuff if you ever want to study music in college,” Eric told me.

“Nah, I want to be a doctor,” I probably said.

Sure enough, I went on to graduate high school, but not before selling my soul to the music department. I participated in nearly every ensemble — in fact, I was in almost all the acts in the annual dinner theatre (which involved a lot of costume changes). Outside of school, I volunteered to play in the church band, which gave me a sense of confidence I never had before. I was regularly performing with and learning from players who were far better than I could imagine being, and as I grew as a musician, I found myself as a person.

When it came time to register for classes, I went for pre-med, but upon arriving home after college orientation, my mom and dad overheard me practicing guitar.

“You’re wasting your talents,” they said, as they became the first parents in the history of human civilization to convince their child to pursue music instead of medicine.

So I immediately switched my major to music, and things just sort of fell into place.

I am where I am now, about to start an internship in music therapy and on the cusp of something great with my band, because of my relationship with music. It’s given me so much confidence with other people — growing up autistic, I had a hard time socializing and communicating. But music helped me to find my voice and make friends, some of whom I now consider family. It’s enriched my life in such a profound way, I’m struggling to think of how my life would be different without it. It’s difficult to even imagine. I’d likely be a lonely reluctant cardiologist with no passion for life.

Music is such a blessing. It connects us in ways nothing else can, and I’m so thankful I get to partake in it as a musician.

Dear Cadence, Part Fifteen: Find Your Chosen Family

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be in a band.

Sounds familiar, right?

After the disaster that was Dethklok, I wasn’t sure I even wanted a band ever again. It didn’t seem worth it to make music with other people if they were just going to hurt me. I was content to just do things alone from now on, if I was even going to keep making music for myself at all. I was back in the music therapy program, and that was enough, right? But deep down inside, I knew I needed more. I kept writing songs and still had that lifelong itch to be a performer. I loved being onstage, and a tiny part of me wished I could share that with someone else.

I met Wally through my new church, a rare queer-affirming church I found in my new old stomping grounds of Ann Arbor, the larger college town that neighbored my smaller college town of Ypsilanti. Wally was an older guy, a little younger than your grandpa was but definitely still old enough to be my dad. He was a quirky fellow with a wife and eight kids and even more keyboards. He was basically a straighter, slightly less flamboyant Elton John who played in a band called Unkle Laylee’s Moonshine All-Stars Band with an old stoner dude named Gray and his aptly named son, Grayson. And when I came to this new church, he took me under his wing and promptly added me to the lineup. I was now Wally’s unofficial bonus daughter/bandmate, but Wally had an official daughter who secretly wished she was in a band as well.

Enter Hailey.

Hailey was a tiny blonde cheerleader who hid a knack for songwriting that rivaled my own. During one practice, she came down and showed us one of her originals, which gave Wally an idea. Unkle Laylee wasn’t really his vibe, and it wasn’t mine either, so we started our own project right then and there. Our little trio would form the basis of a brand new creation. We couldn’t agree on a name, so we stole the name of my former solo project, Wake Up Jamie, which came from a misheard lyric from an old song no one remembers.

At first, we frequented local bars and coffee shops, playing to anyone who’d listen. Those were some of the most memorable shows I’d ever play, even if they seemed small and insignificant in the moment. Every weekend or so, we’d meet up and plan our next moves, the three of us. And as our repertoire grew, we realized the project was getting to be too big for only three of us. Wally moved to a position of manager and eventually phased himself out in preparation for a move out-of-state, while we brought on board three new members.

The first was Jerry, an old collaborator of mine I knew from my time in the local music scene. We’d played briefly together in a band called Fate’s Redemption, which I’d left in order to join Dethklok (bad idea). But despite my betrayal, we remained friends, and when I mentioned needing a drummer for the revised Wake Up Jamie, he jumped on the opportunity. The second was an old friend named Chris, a guitarist who I met in music school who could play circles around me. Originally, he was supposed to play bass, but we realized we were squandering his skills as a guitar player by keeping him on bass.

Now Pippa was a cute girl who was active in the music scene and had been following Wake Up Jamie for a minute. We met at a gig and drunkenly made out. Word got out that she was learning bass, so I swept her up and taught her the songs. Was it originally an attempt to get to know her better because I had a massive crush on her? Possibly. But even after our short-lived romantic relationship ended, I found I very much enjoyed her company as a friend, and now as a bandmate.

Wake Up Jamie had reached its final form — me, Hailey, Jerry, Chris, and Pippa.

The band itself went on to play some of the biggest shows in Michigan — Arts, Beats, and Eats, Detroit Pride, and even a radio show. As of writing, we haven’t “made it” in the sense that we can make a living off our music, but that doesn’t matter to me. Wake Up Jamie has never been about getting rich or famous. The band is my honorary family, the people I trust with my life.

I still remember when one of the members had an emotional breakdown at practice, and we all halted our activities to talk them down and make sure they were okay. We then sat outside during the reminder of practice just sharing our mental health struggles. It was a difficult conversation, but I felt so comfortable sharing my heart with these people, and it was such a warm feeling to know they trusted me enough to share their hearts as well. It was like night and day compared to Dethklok, who was just as mentally ill as a group but chose to address their problems with vitriol and drama. Wake Up Jamie all legitimately care for one another, and I feel like that comes through in our music.

Blood family is important, but your found family is just as sacred. I hope and pray you find your people someday.

When You Can No Longer Turn a Blind Eye to Hate

Sometimes, I get the no-reason sads. Usually, the logical side of me (the part I’d like to imagine is bigger) will chalk it up to a chemical imbalance., just some muddled up brain slush not doing its job. This most recent sad, I could have easily brushed off as me not having my Wellbutrin for the last few weeks. But there was something more to this particular sad, and I could feel it.

The sad was not a typical no-reason sad. It was a scared sad, and it came with a realization.

I’m going to be living my entire life in fear for the women I love more than anything in this world.

I fear for my wife, who is black in a world that turns a blind eye toward violence against people of color. I fear for my girlfriend, who is transgender in a world that tells trans women to kill themselves, if the world doesn’t murder them first. I have so many fears about my future family and whether or not we’ll be safe in this country I love, the country I’ve called home my entire life.

I want to start a family with my two favorite people so badly, but I can’t shake this fear that something will go horribly wrong. Growing up, I never felt that kind of existential fear. I was a white, straight-and-cisgender-passing Christian. I never had to worry about systemic oppression or the ignorant prejudices of other people. I was able to exist peacefully and apolitically. But you can’t exist apolitically in a society that vilifies your loved ones and actively seeks to harm them. I used to be able to overlook oppression, but now I see racism and homophobia and transphobia in the world and it’s fucking personal.

My mom once told me that my writing has the power to change the world, and I hope it does. This was a hard post to write, but it’s so important to put out there. I want to live in a world that allows my future daughter to grow up without fear, without the nagging feeling that someone’s going to hurt her moms. No one should have to bear this kind of anxiety, ever, and I pray someday we’ll live in a society that lets us simply exist.

I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I’m Not Ready

Earlier this week, I made a pilgrimage to Fort Wayne, Indiana for my internship interview, and who would I be if I visited my girlfriend’s home state if I didn’t visit my girlfriend at some point?

I’m the “long distance lesbians” stereotype meets the “four hours is nothing to Midwesterners” stereotype.

The drive from Fort Wayne to South Bend isn’t too bad, mostly passing through the endless open fields the Midwest is known for and a few odd cities. But one thing I noticed fairly often while traversing Indiana (aside from corn) was the presence of billboards like these:

I’ve been a Christian most of my life, and although I’m not much in the way of a traditional one, I believe the core tenets, including the whole “forgiveness” thing. I know the ubiquitous verse — “So God so loved the world” and all that. I know everything I could possibly ever do wrong in this lifetime has already been forgiven. I’ve never been afraid of Judgment Day, whatever that will look like.

So why am I still scared of dying?

I think about it more than I’d like to admit. It’s a dark cloud looming over my brightest days, a little nagging fear surrounding the fact that my days are numbered. I can’t wrap my mind around the fact that one day, I’ll just cease to exist, and I’ll never have the chance to do anything else. All my dreams will have remained just that — dreams. All unfulfilled, all forgotten.

There’s so much left I want to do in this life, so much so that it’s overwhelming at times. I want to be a music therapist. I want to be a songwriter. I want to be a mom. I want to be a professor. I want to publish my stories. I want to live in a little house by a lake. And it sucks to think I might not be able to get to do everything I want to do. I only have, what, 80 years or so if I’m lucky? And I’ve spent 30 of them being too mentally ill to do much of anything. Logically I know I’ve accomplished a lot in the past three decades, but I’m always scared I’m running out of time to finish everything I want to do.

So no, I’m not ready to meet Jesus.

Maybe it is a sign I need to lean more into my faith, I don’t know. God knows everything that’s ever happened and ever will happen, and His plans are greater than my own. But as much as this should be a comfort to me, it’s almost worse to acknowledge that everything is ultimately out of my hands. My future is already decided for me, and what if it’s not a future I’d want for myself? What if I’m doomed to be a pharmacy technician for the rest of my life?

I guess I need to accept that I don’t have all the answers, and I never will this side of Heaven. I just wish I could live in the moment and not worry about these things so much.

On Taking Chances: A Brief Life Update

Let’s start this post with a prompt:

What are you doing this evening?

I know, I know. It’s rare that I publish two blog posts within the same day, but I just so happened to receive this writing prompt on the eve of what is hopefully the start of something grand.

This evening, I’ll be packing my things for a adventure, and — God willing — will soon be packing my things for an even bigger adventure.

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you’ll know I’ve been struggling with finding a music therapy internship. I’d made the mistake of betting all I had on an internship with an organization in a neighboring town. It wasn’t exactly my dream internship, but it was a. local and b. not hospice. Unfortunately, I was passed over, which put a massive damper on my dreams of ever becoming a music therapist. Desperate, I applied to a few more internships, mostly nearby hospices. But I secretly wanted something closer to what I imagine doing for a living, something with diverse clientele with many different needs.

A professor recommended a place in Fort Wayne, Indiana, which is not where I wanted to end up, but the internship itself was exactly what I was looking for. The clients are incredibly varied, the practice uses a wide array of methods, and it’s a private practice, meaning I’ll hopefully get to about how to start and manage my own someday. Although the location was less than ideal, I applied and scored a virtual interview. To my surprise, I received an invite for an in-person interview and observation. The owner of the practice even said because I’d been invited, I was in high consideration for the position.

Which leaves me where I am now, doing cartwheels in my head.

Mostly because I can’t do cartwheels in real life.

I leave for the in-person interview tomorrow. I plan to scope out the area while I’m there, since I’ll be relocating for the duration of the internship. My wife is hesitant but supportive, and she’s willing to make the move with me should I get this opportunity. We’ll likely be staying in an extended-stay hotel for the extent of the internship, and we won’t be able to work steady jobs, so we’ll have to rely on savings and my stipend to live. I’ll have to find another doctor and pharmacy for my Adderall as well, which will be a challenge in and of itself. It’ll be hard work, making this happen, but I’m willing to jump in and take this risk.

As tempted as I was to be bitter about not getting my first choice of internship, I have a gut feeling this one will be even better. I needed a push out of the nest of my own contentment, even I’m kicking and screaming the entire way down. Life is about being uncomfortable sometimes — no true adventure comes without discomfort. I could sit idly by in my cozy little corner of The Mitten waiting for opportunity to find me, or I can run out into the world (well, into Indiana) and take a chance for once in my life.

I’m ready to take that leap.

Dear Cadence, Part Fourteen: Marry Your Best Friend

Fun fact! When your Mama Crass first met me, she hated me. Like, a lot.

We met because she was dating another girl in the program. I latched onto them while they were walking to grab some books, since I too needed books and had no sense of self-awareness. I figured it was college, I was hot now and everyone wanted to hang out with me anyways, and they could use the company, right? Had I been more self-aware, I would have noticed how your mother’s eyes were daggers the entire walk there and back.

I didn’t see her much freshman year, after I had invited myself on her and her girlfriend’s excursion to the bookstore. The next time we actually talked was the Best Day Ever.

I was outside in the quaint courtyard between our two dorms, playing harp like a little angel, when Mama Crass passed me on the way to her room. She was having a terrible day, probably the worst day ever. But I recognized her from the bookstore trip and knew she worked at the newspaper as well, so I interrupted my playing to yell out a “hi!” And to my surprise, she came over and talked to me. I guess she figured her day couldn’t get any worse, so might as well see what the weirdo with the harp had to say.

“There’s a festival thing over at the Student Center,” I said. “Wanna check it out?”

And her saying yes to my spontaneous adventure was the catalyst for many, many years of friendship. We were inseparable from that evening forward. I’d never had a best friend I clicked with like her. She was my other half, to the point where people became concerned if one of us was somewhere without the other. Me, her, and eventually your aunt Mel (who was a nerdy meerkat of a human and not the badass confident woman you know now) became something of a power trio. We went on vacations together, stayed up late studying (and smoking a certain herb) together, we even ran the newspaper together. We had our inside jokes and knowing glances and for the first time ever, I felt completely, wholeheartedly loved by someone who wasn’t my parents.

One night, Mel was asleep next to us. I felt your mom brush her hand against my thigh. Normally, I wouldn’t do this kind of thing, not the good little Christian girl who’d had the whole “homosexuality is evil” thing hammered into her brain from a young age. But something came over me that night. I figured girls experiment in college all the time. When in Rome, do gay shit, right? I’ll spare you the details, but everything changed from then on. In all but name, Mama Crass was my girlfriend. I’d just never admit it.

(And yes, that happened next to Aunt Mel. No, she hasn’t let us live it down.)

I had my boyfriends, but none of them stuck, and she was there the whole time, trying to figure out what my confused bisexual ass was thinking. I even got married, and she was the maid of honor, naturally. She didn’t look all that maidenly at the wedding — she was really leaning into the more butch look at the time, with her cropped hair and suit and tie. There exist pictures of us at this wedding, and you’ll probably flip if I ever show them to you. I probably won’t, because I looked equally awful at the time, having cut all my hair off in an attempt to pull off a flapper bob. But I digress. This was a bad time for both of us, as evidenced by the questionable haircuts.

At some point when I was married to Josh, I came to this striking realization — whenever I was hanging out with him, why did I wish I was hanging out with her instead? And that was the moment I knew this marriage wasn’t going to work. I mentioned earlier that I moved out to Ypsilanti to be closer to my school and job, but I didn’t mention all the BS that came with that.

At the time, all I could afford was a room in these shitty apartments where someone got murdered almost yearly. The apartment complex operated similarly to a dorm, where tenants were matched with each other based on interests and roomed together. Unfortunately, the system was not foolproof, and I got stuck with a pair of evil lesbians (pro tip: not all queer folks are cool, sadly). They didn’t like me or my cat, Krubby, so they tried to get rid of us the only way they knew how — by calling animal control.

On Christmas Eve.

To get Krubby taken away.

(I told you they were evil.)

Needless to say, the animal control worker came in, inspected the apartment, and saw no reason to take Krubby. But I was furious. In fact, I’d never been more furious. And so was your mom. So much so that she left the safety of her parents’ house, where she’d taken refuge after graduation, and came to stay with me and Krubby until we could break the lease and leave.

And only then did I realize what I was missing. Why I didn’t want a family with Josh. It was your mother all along. I saw how loving and maternal and warm and protective she was with Krubby, and I knew she was the one I wanted to mother my children someday.

It wasn’t easy — despite having come out as pansexual, I’d never actually dated a woman before, so the social transition to outwardly queer was uncomfortable at times. Some members of my own family have distanced themselves from me. But the ones who matter have stuck around. My dad called me up in this serious tone shortly after getting together with your mother officially, saying he needed to talk to us about something important. So he took us to a Coney Island and sat us down and basically said “Fuck what the rest of the family says, I love and support you no matter what.” And my mom, after years of denying the fact that I was probably some kind of gay, came to terms with it. “Now I get two daughters,” she said.

We married in a tiny ceremony with both my parents present by the Detroit River on Valentine’s Day. I was never really a romantic, at least not until I met your other mom, but standing there in our casual but pretty dresses on that windy winter’s day, I felt like I finally believed in true love. I felt like happy ever afters not only really existed, but I could have one. I had a love story, a truly marvelous, one-of-a-kind love story, and it was hers and mine.

Marriage is a beautiful thing, and it’s even more beautiful when the person you marry is your best friend. It’s not all rainbows and roses, but when you’re fighting side-by-side with your favorite person, everything seems to come together. I pray you find someone (or multiple someones) who make you feel the way your Mama Crass makes me feel, because the people you spend your life with make everything worth it.