Relationships in Transition
Life looks a lot different now after the year and some change since my initial coming out. I mean, I did transition and all. Or rather, I am transitioning. That’s a big deal I suppose. Right? Um… but aren’t we all really? It’s just… in my case… in our case, we trans folk, there is no one single lever. I am so much in transition that it feels like I am jumping up and down on a giant reset button like a trampoline. Those springs are well tested these days! There is a sign on the wall that reads, “No acrobatics allowed. Limit yourself to 5 minutes on the trampoline.” There is a light on my forehead that blinks, “Warning, engine overheating!” There is an error log trailing somewhere that reads, “Exception, buffer overflow.” I am compelled to write.
APB! My wardrobe transitioned. But wait — don’t move along so quickly. Think this through. My wardrobe. Not a shirt. Not new shoes for work. My closets! All of them. Donated. Arc of Hennepin County / Value Village in Richfield, if you really want to know. Clothes and more. Several trunk loads full. Aside from some keepsakes, there is not much of the old still in rotation. And then I had the distinct pleasure of shopping for an entirely new wardrobe. Mind you, nearly every gem I found was on sale or clearance. A rare few can afford to shop choice brands just as they walk off the Parisian or New York runways. I am not among them. But I am okay with this. I am decidedly an overstock outlet last call basement rack thrift store kind of girl. And… OMG. I. Love. To. Shop!
Not an insignificant side note, my biology is also in transition. I see a doctor — a specialist — to discuss and customize my hormone replacement therapy cocktail about once a month. There are a lot of facets to an existential molecular-level overhaul, but overall we have achieved early moderate success. The experience is both fast and slow all at the same time. And as they say, your mileage may vary, in YMMV in trans-forum code speak. Most days I try not to think about it… I can’t not think about it. I’m obsessed. Every selfie. Every single day. I am happy so far, moving right along. Fast enough. But oh so slow.
My habits too. I am on a better sleep schedule. Sometimes. Sometimes I wish I could fall asleep early. Sometimes I wish I could sleep longer. Sleep is part of a renewed laser focus on my health. I quit drinking. I go out less. Evenings have become productive. I try to manage my time and my chores and bite off only what I can actually chew in a single earth rotation. Mornings aren’t my favorite, but at least my nearly daily team sport schedule requires far less recovery. I eat less, but I also get to eat what I want. Just with a little more self control. Less stress. Is it weird that I didn’t use to care? I care deeply now. I never didn’t I guess, just now I take it seriously.
And while we’re on the topic of caring, I also see a therapist once a week. She grounds me in ways I never thought possible. We discuss all of this change. We discuss my changing emotional makeup. We discuss that I both impact and am impacted by all of this change. I ramble. She listens. We manage all of this together. I could not do it alone.
Through life’s most challenging changes, family and friends make sure we are never alone. But this time, everyone is in transition. I don’t get to rewrite my story such that some fairy dust will suddenly make everyone in my own personal Disney movie forget it ever happened. No! They all get to transition too. Without volition. I have tested these bonds by flipping switches and turning dials that most assume can’t be flipped and shouldn’t be turned. I am still me, and also I am so very different in so many ways. I flipped the master switch, and then I turned that dial up to 11. And then I keep flipping and turning. Following my heart. And then I just expected everyone else to just hold on? Ha! Truly more than just my therapist ended up having to deal with this one — still has to deal with this one. And sadly, madly, or gladly —not everyone is holding on.
I don’t get to rewrite my story such that some fairy dust will suddenly make everyone in my own personal Disney movie forget it ever happened.
You really can’t adequately prepare for how everything else will also change. Everyone in your pond is affected. It’s one thing to labor over the transition itself. It’s quite another to prepare for latent effects. Surprisingly the ripples seem to reach the end of your pond, and then translate to shockwaves in the surrounding landscape as well. For some a transition is a choice, for me it was inevitable. I mean, one could say I chose me… but it would have been a pretty dark life if I didn’t. So I didn’t really have a choice. And suddenly there I was. Riding ripples and shockwaves. There is water splashing everywhere. Slowly finding my sea legs.
I’d like to tell you just a little bit about some of these experiences because it has had such a meaningful impact on me. I’m telling my story for all of you. The dreamers and hopefuls as well as the commiserators. To the third balcony and the front row. If you are innocently standing by, I invite you to find compassion for both you and me. Or, if by chance you are in a transition of sorts yourself — similar or not — you really should find yourself more prepared than I was. That is, if more prepared is a real thing. But first, let me ask you some questions:
How many people support you?
How many people are you surrounded with on a daily basis who make life better for you?
Primary support.
Secondary support?
Tertiary support?
Don’t count too quickly.
Breathe first. Close your eyes.
And then really think about it…
Of course there is family — chosen or not. How are they handling all of this?
Are your parents still walking the earth?
Aunts, uncles, or cousins?
Maybe a partner, or a lover? Ex-lovers?
Do you have children?
Are they of school age?
Are your children involved in sports, or music, or STEM or Scouts?
Maybe you have childhood friends, from these sorts of activities?
Do you have past and present neighborhood friends — young or old?
Do they have kids?
Maybe you even have virtual friends who haven’t yet crossed over to IRL status?
Are you religious?
Is there a temple or synagogue or church that you belong to?
Do you spend time there?
Do you have other regular haunts?
Are you a member of any clubs?
do you have a gym?
Do you work or volunteer your time anywhere?
Yes?
Ok, keep going…
…and if I may pile on, have you considered deeply how much you depend on each of these people in your life?
Have you considered how they might react to your change?
Might you cope if you lost some of them? Each of them? All of them?
Please don’t sit down and ponder all of these people in one sitting. It’s just too big to fathom. It’s way too much for anyone to withstand that much pressure all at once. Each group deserves their own narrative. They have their own story. Their own history. Their unique rules. Each has their own outward impacts if fundamentally changed, or worse — if lost entirely.
Trust me. If it feels like a lot, don’t try to handle it alone.
How many people are you surrounded with on a daily basis who make life better for you?
One’s closest ring almost always consists of immediate and sometimes close extended family. You know, these are the people who don’t get to choose you — they are related by blood or adoption. I do not have the courage to go to this place today. Or maybe at all. Or maybe another time? Maybe. No promises.
So let’s skip family. Skip the first track. Simply pick up the needle and move it. Track 2: friends. By choice or merely by association, often adults see their friends more often than they see their family. And unlike family, friends can come from just about anywhere! But first let’s start at home.
Couple-hood usually forges an important set. Yet, one of the sad realities of my crumbling relationship was that we had virtually no couple friends. In each of my past relationships we were coupled with other couples. We had dinners together. We traveled together. We bought tickets to concerts together. Had we had kids way back then, I am certain we would have had playdates together too. But not this time. We were loners. Each of us had friends. But, over time, spending time with these friends required an escape from the house. They were appointments that required a hall pass, as it were. And rarely the two did mix. She had hers, and I had mine. Sadly when we saw them, we found ourselves leaving each other behind. Left with the guilt in the back of the mind at the party, and the loneliness in the back of the mind on the couch back home. Left unsettled in either locale. Missing connections.
This is not to say that we didn’t try. We did. We invited people over for dinner — for a while anyway, until our decline. But a variety of problems always arose with connections we tried to forge. Some friends were not coupled, and their bachelor lifestyle didn’t quite fit our schedules. Some friends’ kids were much older, and their empty-nest lifestyle didn’t quite fit our schedules. Some just weren’t a good match. It was Seinfeldian in a way sometimes. They were too young or too old. She talked too much or he drank too much. Her laugh was uncomfortable or he didn’t help clean up. They didn’t reciprocate. Heh, neither did we.
Our kids brought community with them sometimes though. First preschool friends parents, or neighbors with similarly aged kids. Youth programs and youth sports created series of interactions that widened the circle that filled the void. Kids with common interests, even if not close. Of course, these groups tend to change every year along from graduations and new team rosters. Interestingly, the women sometimes maintain their friendships beyond seasons, but the men often do not.
Many of our friends were situational. Ephemeral. Ultimately we struggled to bridge the gap between circles and ended up leaving ourselves with little tangible couple-level support.
When everything came crashing down, the only people who were still around us as a couple seemed to find themselves trying really hard not to choose a side. When one chooses a side, even a slight favoring, they alienate the other even if that were not the intent. Who gets an invite to the normal gatherings? Who gets the few allocations of social time in an adult schedule? And for those who tried, inherently though not deliberately we couldn’t go deep enough. When we said our obligatory “hellos”, when forced to coexist in an more public social gathering, we didn’t truly connect. Trying to keep everyone happy caused everyone to suffer in the end.
One early glimmer of hope were neighbors. Everybody knows neighbors are a funny batch. Mine are. Yours are. Everyone else’s are. Usually you pick a neighborhood based on your gut feel. Maybe you even do some research. You ask your realtor or landlord. You stroll around and meet some people before getting serious about an offer on a house or signing a lease. But, then their kids get older and they move for more space, or maybe less space, and you really don’t get to pick their replacements. Most of the time it‘s at least okay because theoretically we all picked the same neighborhood based on some similar attributes — such as general socio-political taste for the area you live in, loosely your relative class status, proximity to schools, commerce, or workplaces. But, in the end, it’s a crap shoot. When you show up for the neighborhood block party in a dress for the first time, you have no idea what you’re going to get.
I have some pretty cool neighbors. We’re not best friends, but I think it’s fair to say we’re all friends. National Night Out always happens. Some of the parents vacation together. Or we used to. We talk across fences. We help each other out on vacations. On the surface, my neighborhood appears to be comprised of relatively diversity-accepting people. Every four years political signs are fairly congruent. Bonus — there are lots of kids around. Some of them my kids’ age, and also many younger. Some of the kids walk to school together. Many of the kids trick-or-treat together after a buffet-style dinner get together. The Halloween bonfire later that evening still happens annually. It’s a vibrant place to be in the summer or on a snow day (if that is still a thing.)
I was not really worried about the reception of my true identity at our block party. In fact, some of them had made proactive moves in the months prior to signify their support for me and my family. With utmost care and affection, they broached the subject, having seen a moving truck with some disconnected items leaving… and a visibly new me… not leaving. At first they were timid, simply showing their continued presence and letting me navigate. Occasionally I would complete these conversations without acknowledgment of my very obvious difference in appearance. I was looking for acceptance, not recognition. Later they were bold enough to ask if I had a new name, or they even cautiously used the new name the trusty rumor mill had provided them. I made sure I thanked all of them immediately for their grace and effort to properly address me. They always stopped to talk to me when they saw me in person and made sure I felt accepted. They always offered to help. They didn’t ask strange questions, but more so open ended questions allowing me to steer the conversation. I appreciated this approach a lot.
Even the newest neighbors that I meet walking their dogs or their kids around the block are friendly and say hi as they pass. They ask how my day is going and I reciprocate. I don’t have to discuss “passing” to tell you they are not unaware, for my giant blue, pink, and white trans pride flag gives me away as it flaps loudly in the wind. They don’t turn a cold shoulder, or spray-paint my house with epithets, or attack me emotionally or physically. I feel very lucky to live where I live, in part because I know for some these nonsensical hate-crime behaviors do in fact happen. For some their ventures in their own communities can be grave or even mortal. But what I find most remarkable about my neighbors is that conversations with them could have been terrifying, and instead I feel closer to them. I am their local trans girl, and they keep me safe. Like I said, I have a pretty great neighborhood. I always have. But I feel more actively supported than ever before. I am lucky to have the neighbors I have.
But, in the end, it’s a crap shoot. When you show up for the neighborhood block party in a dress for the first time, you have no idea what you’re going to get.
We spend about a third of our lives at work, and so a significant part of our support group can be found at work. Unfortunately, as my followers already know, my employment status was not stable during my transition, and they also know that the circumstances weren’t much fun. And so, yay, pile on more transition! More ripples and more water splashing. Rocked boats and jettisoned friendships. Yay me. But, you might have also realized somewhere along the way that I am a glass-is-half-full kind of girl. And so this too comes with a silver lining.
I have read about some trans people who found it easier to stow away their previous existence, perhaps in an effort to be stealth, or possibly in an effort to reduce the dysphoria and the stress associated with educating everyone they know. What if everyone I interact with had never met the “old me”? Hmm… While this sounds liberating on the surface, the thought never entered my mind. I never set out to blow up my life! I have too many people I care deeply about to even consider this option. There are also many things I love about my life that I have no intention of harming in any way. My children and my family are at the top of this list. My professional career has a notable position on the list as well. In my line of work, career progression is important. Networking is important. And I am quite proud of my resume.
The position I held prior to my public transition wasn’t a career highlight for me for a few different reasons. But notably I was both hired and fired from this job entirely during the pandemic. Except for a select few individuals, I didn’t share office space with anyone. I had fully remote experiences where my coworker relationships were shattered like the pane of glass they were forged through in the first place. And worse, they watched my transition at a point in time when I was not yet comfortable leaning in to it. To them I was never really Nicole. There are some meaningful exceptions including a few I had known for years prior, but mostly the rest understandably struggled to turn the corner.
On the other hand, my new employer only knows me as Nicole. She. Her. Please. I am not stealth, but there have never been any other names or pronouns. There are no bad habits refusing to die. No one has ever slipped and said it wrong. I did not ask to change jobs at this particular time in my life, but it is refreshing to have left behind the uncomfortable stumbles, no matter how valiant the individual efforts may have been. Several people have congratulated me, praised me for my courage, and even a few already have become new friends.
So, what started with a significant set-back in the loss of employment, became a triumphant rebirth. Yes, there was the sudden loss of community and income, and the emotional setback for me and my recently weathered family. But interviewing for and starting a new job can be a very powerful and propelling moment in one’s life. It requires a lot of energy and focus, but it also requires a lot of introspection and self awareness. And this gives rise to moments where you are faced with very real chances to re-brand. To reinvent. In my case, I was looking for a job as a woman for the first time in my life. At first I was shaky in my presentation (maybe I still am). At first I struggled with rapport with male interviewers. But eventually I became comfortable and more confident, interview by interview.
Finally, I had the distinct pleasure to be invited to an interview with a well known public figure which ultimately led to an offer of employment. With a fair bit of stage fright, I took the opportunity to buy a new interview outfit just for this conversation — complete with a new set of heels (not that I needed the excuse). I even prepared for the conversation by doing my research on him. It was November, but the nerves still created beads of sweat that dripped down the back of my blouse. But, I was immediately struck by his welcoming demeanor as he began the conversation: “Hi Nicole, Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” “How are you?” And then he asked how my family and I were holding up during such trying times in the world. My nervousness dissipated instantly — in that moment I was no longer a fledgling woman trying to land her first job. We were just two people talking about the art of possibility.
Even better, it turns out that my current employer vigorously celebrates diversity and inclusion. I have been universally welcomed as my proudly out self from day one. In fact recently I was highlighted as part of a social media series in celebration of Pride Month. In the interview, I was asked about why allyship is so important. This question was not included in the final publication, so I’ll share my answer with you here:
“I do have friends in the community, and our shared experiences are very much helpful to each other to learn and understand. But as a trans woman, I am simply trying to live my life as I believe myself to be in my heart — a woman. I’m not looking for an exclusive club where I may finally be accepted, but rather I’m hoping that society at large accepts me into their open arms as I embrace my authentic self. Breaking down the barriers and allowing LGBTQ+ people into society starts with allies breaking the barriers by joining us in celebrating Pride.”
I took the opportunity to buy a new interview outfit just for this conversation — complete with a new set of heels (not that I needed the excuse). I even prepared for the conversation by doing my research on him. It was November, but the nerves still created beads of sweat that dripped down the back of my blouse.
It’s small miracle I find time outside of kids and work and sleep to do anything else, but my coparent status does give me a few days to myself each week. These are the days I focus heavily on self-care. I protect the time I have with my kids fiercely because I love spending time with them, and so staying on top of the housework must happen on the days when they’re gone. Unless we are literally doing chores together, I refuse to do house work when they’re here. It takes away from quality time. Finally, with the hours or minutes I have left, dedication to fitness and hobbies goes the extra mile to fill my cup.
I’ve written before about the hockey community. In Minnesota hockey is like football in Texas or Florida (or so I’m told). Here in Minnesota, as the song goes…
“…The game’s in our blood
And our blood’s in the game
Lay us down under
A frozen pond…” — Minnesota Wild Anthem
…and so you might say we hockey players are related. Sisters and brothers no matter who our parents are. One of the things I love the most about team sports like hockey is the teamwork. Without this, it becomes just skating. When you throw in the shared bat shit crazy love of the game that manifests in a collective and repeated desire to drive all the way across town at weird nighttime hours to chase small disc-shaped vulcanized rubber objects around a sheet of glare ice for 90 minutes a pop, it becomes so much more.
I’m lucky to be a member of a few different groups of these adult rink rats. Sometimes I play for stats and standings and trophies sharing the ice with strict but valiant zebras, and sometimes I play in a much more self-governed format. Sometimes I play no matter who and how many show up. Sometimes each of us are known to play injured. I have the distinct honor of being the captain of one of these teams. We call ourselves the Grey Ducks (it’s a Minnesota thing.)
Despite the inherent dangers of this sport, I encouraged my kids to play. And so, I am also incredibly proud to be a hockey mom. Times 2! I spend my winters and summers carting both of my kids around the region to rink after rink chasing the moments. Hockey moms always volunteer and so I also serve on the board where I can help sv shape the values by which the organization is run.
Each of these groups know me by first name, and are happy to see me when I arrive. They notice when I can’t make it. They call out to me when they see me in public. They ask how I’m doing. They ask how my kid’s teams are doing. They ask how league team’s season went. They ask if I’ll be there Monday (or Tuesday or Wednesday or Friday or Sunday). I have the same awareness of them.
…while some reappear in my life in the times before doors and after the curtain drop, the rest simply share the space amidst the music with a smile.
Now, music is a bit more of a fickle joiner. Two people might share an interest in a particular style of music, but may differ in opinion on an artist. Hot debates spring up, and great divides exist between genres. Entire personas are built from the ethos of a band. And these cultures sometimes find themselves at odds. A great example is country music. Oh how many a soul have told me how they despise country music! Between you and me, they have no idea what they’re missing. But I digress. Recently my son and I went to an Eric Church concert — I am head over heels in love with Eric Church! His music hits me square in chest and reaches the deepest parts of my soul. I can play and sing dozens of his songs on the guitar. Given the odd yet virulent opinions by many about this genre, I don’t have many consistent people in my life who share my interest in country. I have a few family members who do, but of course we do not need country music to maintain our bonds.
While country music definitely has my heart, it shares space with many others. In rotation on vinyl (yes, vinyl) you will find a plethora of styles ranging from rock to metal to jazz to blues to pop. As influencers to my own music, it’s not uncommon for me to pick up my guitar and play The Cure amongst Mike Doughty, Sugarland, Phish, Eric Church, and Death Cab For Cutie, and Metallica all in one practice.
But one band that has woven it’s vines and it’s roses deep into my soul is the Grateful Dead. And her kin — the jambands — above all others, have given birth to more friendships than any other. And these friendships seem to last in ways yet unexplained. The spirit of this community shares a love of music all encompassing. And infinitely less fickle. With open arms and big hugs, the people I’ve met at a show by any musical act within this community have created a veritable nest for me. But the community I like best, spun off neatly from the rest are perhaps my longest musical friends, The Big Wu. Their lovely family-oriented fans have offered their support for me regardless of how long it’s been. Each of us have known each other for a majority of our lives. And while some reappear in my life in the times before doors and after the curtain drop, the rest simply share the space amidst the music with a smile.
As strange is it may feel,
These night’s events were real,
Just say when,
And we’ll do it again. — Oxygen, The Big Wu.
Sometimes these wonderful colorful musical people, sometimes neighbors or classmates, sometimes workmates or teammates, persist beyond the convenience of the temporal common bonds and become legacy friends too. Friends for life. They hold on to you and you hold on to them. Because there was something more. Something beyond the initial bonds. And of course sometimes they don’t. Nevertheless, they are all part of your story. They are all connected in some way, even if not currently.
I’ve received a call (or a text) or two out of the blue from these past lives. These bids for reconnection are always a day brightener. Not always do they rekindle what we once had in some long bygone shared chapter of our lives, but they always bring back fond memories olden times. They remind me of others too, whose friendships and moments we also shared. And the sentiment makes me smile that kind of smile your cheeks find hard to suppress. Oddly, these instances often happen at times when I most need it. It’s as if karma invokes the desire in others to reach out. Gee. I should really start to keep track every time my nose itches — could there be something to that old wives’ tale after all?!
When these efforts do rekindle — those that reach out stick around long past the initial words of congratulations — they make all the difference. The first rendezvous is often class reunion-like in a way for both of us, unsure of how life’s interim chapters on both sides of the table may have altered our common ground. I especially need a moment to acclimatize; I have new roles and new hormones, which bring about new feelings and new perspectives. It sometimes takes some time for both of us to find our footing, but eventually we do. We find our footing. And the best part is realizing that our connection meant something then and it means something now. The mutual interest in each other’s lives is still there. We share stories of the time in between, and we listen intently to all of the details we missed along the way. What are you doing now? Is there a special someone? Do you have kids? Whatever happened to so-and-so? Honestly, how are you doing? And then we make plans to get together again.
At the end of the evening, I ask if they would like me to walk them to their car. And they know that I’m not proposing a sleepover, I’m simply offering a safety net. A net they would offer in return.
It won’t likely be a shock to anyone that all but a few of these are women. Most often they are I-am-here-for-you-if-you-ever-need-it letters. They are genuinely supportive in a way that some previously closer have fallen short of. With one or two golden exceptions, few long time friends have actually been there in the way that a girl like me truly needs. And these ladies from my past who have taken the time to reach out from their own independent busy lives have recreated a safety net of sorts for me from scratch. They have rallied to surround me with love and support. Each of them in their own way. As if somehow they knew, or were always at the ready. I can only hope to someday be able to repay the debt I owe to them. And for them and also the rest of you, I will strive to be at the ready too.
In this way, I like to think that these new-old connections are also welcome-to-the-club letters. Women truly listen and ask the right questions. Women reach out exactly when each other need it most. It’s like we know. Most often we reach out in a way that shows that we care. We know when it matters. But we also reach out in small ways even when it doesn’t. It’s evident in the little things that we do on a day-to-day basis, like calling someone out for the way they’re dressed. Their cute new shoes. Their new hair style. The color of their toenails. It’s these little things that matter. It’s these little moments that make someone else smile.
We women are caregivers. Most of us anyway. As a woman I find myself needing the shoulder of a woman in a different way. A way I rarely did before. I find myself needing to surround myself with other females who go through the same or similar thing I do. Women are not scared to share their feelings. Women are not scared to ask the really deep questions. Women are not scared to hear my answers or real feelings. They challenge the really deep questions in me, and the stick around to listen, and will lend a hand to help you through.
Finally uninhibited, I feel this in me too. I find myself reaching out to ask how my girl friends are doing. I offer my help. If we are together I prefer to ask more questions than I answer. At the end of the evening, I might ask if they would like me to walk them to their car. And they know that I’m not proposing a sleepover, I’m simply offering a safety net. A net they would offer in return. Because we understand each other’s needs. As women. I’m part of a different community now. A new club. The women’s club. And it feels like home.
It seems reasonable that these experiences have come as a product of a membership in this new-to-me club. A more congruent club. And to achieve such, I had to cross the street, which inherently involved leaving the club I was in. I mean… I still have friends I made as a member of the men’s club. I am not categorically tossing them aside. But the dynamics have changed. Our interactions are different. And less frequent. Our common ground is shifting. In some cases, that ground has become palpably unstable.
…we didn’t write a story together where we allowed ourselves to talk about the really meaningful stuff.
But what exactly changed? Really? Because I can tell you it was not my wardrobe. Along with my wardrobe there was definitely something else. Something more.
I started noticing this unstable ground long before my transition, and increasingly throughout. I’ve long noticed that I had a really hard time being a guy. More accurately I have a hard time interacting with other guys. I‘m not on their wavelength, so-to-speak. And so, short of a few, many of my male connections remained platonic. I imagine that we missed an opportunity, or many opportunities, to forge a deeper relationship. One that was possible, but one that we didn’t allow ourselves to have (read: both of us were too guarded to let ourselves explore).
I say it this way because each of us need to be accountable for our actions. You don’t need a relationship counselor to tell you this: a true friendship is a two-way street. You have to give and you have to get, in order for it to work. In order for it to last. Or, as “they” say, you get out of it what you put into it. We didn’t ask how each other were doing in a way that invited the real answer. We got drunk or stoned and sat stupidly silent next to each other. We distracted ourselves with… distractions. Except distractions end. And we didn’t write a story together where we allowed ourselves to talk about the really meaningful stuff. We went no deeper than the pleasantries. And I know you know what I mean.
How are you?
I’m good. You?
Good. (I’m not all that great right now, thanks for asking. I’d love to talk about it, but that wouldn’t seem “cool”. And I’m sure you don’t want to hear it anyway. And I’m absolutely positive I wouldn’t get the support I need from you either. I mean, I never do. So… just accept my fake response as an out, and hurry up and drink or smoke or leave or something …and let’s maybe quickly tell some crass ass jokes, just so we can forget the awkward moment — and that look you and I both know you saw on my face.)
Right. There it went. Opportunity lost.
We stayed above the surface of the mutually ever murky waters for fear of showing too much attachment. Guys are taught this at a young age. Be strong! Don’t show too much emotion. Definitely don’t cry in front of people. Don’t ever get too attached. Whatever you do, never-ever on your life let anyone see your vulnerable side. That is so-not-cool. Man.
Ugh! As a woman, I am more clear within myself about what I need from these friendships. I allow myself to be vulnerable. I try to be less judgmental in return. Yet, I am also less willing to put up with less. The effort. Because it’s not just about men being manly men. That’s not fair. You can do better.
Sometimes you do see this level of grace from a man. Sometimes those capable are wise beyond their years. Or their wisdom comes from actual years. Sometimes they can be a little less inhibited to show emotion. Watch closely. They’re out there.
Recently I was at one of those Chinese restaurants walking between two rows of the buffet with a rare lunch dessert on a plate, when an older gentleman interrupted my walk back to my table: “Excuse me, miss? Would you accept a compliment from an old man?”
Startled and hackles on high, my eyes darted around the room. It was one of those grand buffets with everything you can think of and more than just Chinese food. My son often gets the mac and cheese. The place was about half full of lingerers and late lunchers, and scanning quickly I noticed a table of 3 watching me intently. I guessed that it was his wife and another older couple. There was nothing out of the ordinary with him or them. They looked like just about anyone in St. Louis Park. Good natured midwestern people. I nodded hesitantly and said “OK?”. With a hint of fear in my tone. He smiled gently, and then he said “I just wanted to stop and say you’re a very attractive woman.” “Aww, thank you.” I said sheepishly. “I hope you have a nice day,” he said, and then returned to his table walking as slowly as he came. His table mates were smiling.
At first I was taken aback by his approach. Naturally I was on guard for a moment. I was in a public space and very visible. The emergency alert light mounted on my frontal lobe was definitely on. I’ve developed a bit of a thicker skin this year, and so I was able to resist the urge to recoil. And then I realized this was no cat-call. Unfortunately I now have some to compare to. This was not that. Instead my face was set aglow. My cheeks raised to form a grin. And I can tell you that his comment made my day. I do not believe that I pass everyday. I do not believe I passed that day. Yet this gentleman was simply taking the time to reach out to say “I see you.” “I respect you.” “I validate you.” And suddenly it didn’t matter if I passed.
After this moment I also realized that these are the behaviors that might have forged deeper bonds had they been exhibited by some of my friends. They might have kept us close when our relationship was really tested in the end. We could have been stronger and we could have supported each other. And now it’s too late. It finally happened. We were tested. And the support wasn’t there. It’s not really okay. It’s going to be okay.
I can only speak to my feelings — yours are valid too. And there isn’t a single why for either of us. I just know that we aren’t all the friends we used to be. Each of us, each of our stories have their own unique plots. For a few of us it was too much. For a few of us it was easier to let our chapters come to a close. Maybe we were too afraid to ask the real questions. Maybe we didn’t know how to answer those questions. It will be ok, and, sincerely, thank you for what we had.
And if it was meant to survive, I trust it will. Sometimes those reaching out feel much bigger than just a you go, girl! Sometimes the deep and meaningful history between some of us is resurrected after our struggles. It’s then that a simple hello touches my soul.
One call from an old guy friend stands alone as example in my mind. It came completely out of the blue. From beyond the realm of imagination. So far beyond that I honestly never thought I’d hear from him ever again. So far… that the call made me forget all about what I was doing. Made me drop what I was doing. Made chills run up and down my spine. Just the ring tone. I hadn’t even answered yet. (Yes there is a story, but I will not tell it to you. For his sake and for mine, that story is not for you.)
His first words were slow. Deliberate. Calm. Apologetic without having to say it. We both knew there were no words needed. The call itself was enough to convey what he had to say. And we both knew this moment meant the world to both of us. I cried a little every time I opened my mouth to speak. I could barely form my words at times. And then he started to talk. And these words I will never ever forget.
“I know the last time we…
I’ve been through some shit.
Sounds like you’ve had yours.
But I want you to know…
…you have always been my homeboy…
er…
…you have always been my homegirl.
Sorry.
You are my person.
I love you.
I just know I want you in my life.”
A few minutes later, single mom responsibilities resumed abruptly as my daughter hopped in the car with her viola, just having finished her private lesson. With watery eyes I carefully drove the mile or so home as my friend and I talked some more. My daughter hopped out of the car again. My friend and I said our goodbyes on the phone, promising to talk again soon. And then I cried a river. Just me. Just sitting alone in the car still running in the alleyway.
Rekindling this one will take some effort. There had been another watery eyed drive home once upon a time. A long drive home. There was hope and there was struggle. And sadly there is still struggle. There are still chapters to write. There are still bonds to repair. But it was a start. A touch base. We may not be able to support each other with our best foot forward yet. But I know we want to. I know the desire is there. And that means the world to me.
I can only speak to my feelings — yours are valid too.
In the end, be it from beyond the fold or my daily show, I hope every one in my life knows — to my therapist and your therapist everyone in between, who have dealt and still deal. To the sadly, the madly, or the gladly — I am still following my heart.
But before I say good bye too quickly, I want to stress one thing all too familiar to an unfortunately large group of people. Albeit possibly, luckily, not for some of you. Except for a few minor dynamics, these friendship tests are endemic to your sorts and other’s sorts of life transitions too. Work layoffs, divorces, new towns and new houses, the death of a loved one… or worse, a child, all have similar impacts to the relationships of the affected. Some of the changes are welcome. Some of them are really quite sad and painful. Sometimes the fires are isolated and sometimes the blast radius is nearly too much to bear.
Despite any losses, I am still following my heart. And to this end I have so many gains. I am a happier person. I am not perfect, but I am happier. And I am rebuilding my support. No matter our specific alliance, most of you have embraced me into your circles. Like the friends with whom I share this love of sport and who never batted an eye when I transitioned.
Let’s build on common bonds. Not bother with trivialities. Not focus on differences. We must go deeper than skin. Deeper than the contemporary situational constructs, and create bonds that outlast seasons and clubs and genres and shows. Repeatable sustainable connections to people have the potential to forge new and wonderful friendships. To strengthen the weathered or damaged ones. But the effort lies within us. We have to first try. We have to show up.
And try and forge we will. You and yours. You and me.
And we will all be okay.
Love,
Nicole
