By Melissa Jane

I met my wife in graduate school. We've been together for five years, which somehow feels like it happened yesterday and, simultaneously, as though I've known her my whole life. 

Since our wedding this past fall, people keep asking us, “What's changed since getting married?” Sometimes it's hard to come up with an answer because we had both expressed a sense of being each other's life partners for at least a year or two before we tied the knot. I think the clearest answer is that getting married has increased my awareness of the things that were already present in our relationship. The subtle little things that it's hard to explain to other people. I'm going to try anyway.

We were friends first, but somewhere in the back of my mind, in the pit of my stomach, I knew there was more there. I was falling in love with her every time we spoke and forcing myself to ignore it because I wasn't looking for a relationship. But the thing about that is that gravity doesn't care if you're paying attention. The moon still orbits the Earth, the tides respond in harmony like a heartbeat, and I was falling in love. 

I think it was how genuine she was in our interactions. When we go to social gatherings, she always ends up making a new friend, starting conversations which always have substance to them, despite being extremely introverted. Looking back, I can see that she just did the same with me: she was genuinely interested in getting to know me, and I felt seen.

Early in our relationship, she had a bad cold. It was mid-January, and the snow from the storm that had snowed us in on our first date was still lining the streets. We'd been friends for a few months, but only dating a few weeks. She texted me she had woken up sick and hadn't been to the store yet. I offered to go for her, which she initially declined but didn't refuse. I insisted, saying, “I have to go anyway, I don't mind picking up a few things, what do you need?” She replied, “Okay, fine, thanks, that would actually be wonderful.” 

I wish I could tell my younger self that, once I figured myself out, the rest would take care of itself—that she would find me and love me more than I ever anticipated anyone could love anyone. 

I dropped off the canned soup and seltzer a little while later. She told me I could stay for a bit but warned she wouldn't be great company due to feeling so crummy. I stayed. She lay on the sofa, head in my lap, while I ran my hands through her hair as we watched television. A couple weeks later, I accidentally told her I loved her when saying goodnight under a streetlight. I was nervous it was too much too soon, but she said it back, exhaling a breath that she had been holding for weeks. 

I wouldn't realize until later what a big deal it was that she let me take care of her that day when she was sick. That kind of vulnerability doesn't come naturally, but for some reason, she has had less trouble letting me in. Over the years, we have both required caretaking from each other (something, something, in sickness and in health?) and I have come to understand and appreciate what a rare privilege it is that I am allowed to care for her—that she trusts me to see her when she's not feeling her best. 

Spend enough time with someone, and you'll eventually have a disagreement or say something hurtful without intending to. It's how we resolve these things that matters, and I am consistently in awe at the gentleness we are able to practice in these moments. I always tell her, there's no one else I'd rather problem solve with—our hardest conversations just a testament to the gut feeling I had five years ago, our successful resolutions just another opportunity to show love, devotion, and care. 

We never know what life has in store for us. When I was coming to terms with the fact that I needed to transition, I navigated a lot of the fears and self-deprecating thoughts that many of us in the community do. I knew that some family relationships would suffer, and I knew not everyone would understand. But we do what we have to do. Coming to terms with who I am helped me be a more genuine person. 

The world can be a cruel place, and in the current political climate, a lot of that cruelty is on display right now. There is also love and joy and kindness and devotion and care. I wish I could tell my younger self that, once I figured myself out, the rest would take care of itself—that she would find me and love me more than I ever anticipated anyone could love anyone.

I'm the first woman she's ever dated or pursued, and she now understands why none of her relationships with men ever really worked out. Getting to know ourselves as we have gotten to know each other is one of the most beautiful things I have ever experienced. It is a love as intangible as the stars, as reliable as the Earth's gravitational pull, and even on our bad days, I am full of gratitude. Q