To the one who mourns

I know weddings are supposed to be joyous occasions, but the truth is I've got mixed feelings about them. On one hand I do share in the joy of the beginning of a new chapter in life for all involved, but I also know that in weddings there is loss. No more midnight runs to taco bell, or staying up until two in the morning and sleeping over on the couch just for fun. There's a reason for bachelor and bachelorette parties - these are the last "hurrahs" as one transitions, quite significantly I might add, from single life to marriage.

Every time I've sat in attendance at a wedding I've noted this same mix of emotions in those around me too. The mix of sorrow of loss, and joy of new beginnings. The loss of a son or daughter, of a best friend, sister or brother. Of things that can never again be how they were before. There are happy tears, but it's not that simple.

Come to think of it I feel the same way about graduations too; oh, and pregnancies, job promotions, and moves. There is beauty, opportunity, and humanity in these things that we celebrate raucously - but there's loss mixed in too. Leaving behind a college life and friends, reprioritizing everything to include an unexpected child, moving up on the job ladder while others stay behind, and closing the door on a home filled with memories to start anew in a new city. When anyone goes through these significant life transitions, all around them are forced - somewhat unfairly even - to make adjustments to accommodate the change. For a time it may even seem that the relationship rules have changed so much that green becomes red, red becomes blue, and the friendship requires remapping from the ground up.

I know that it is in this same spirit of mixed emotions that you reached out to me about my transition.

But I know it went beyond mixed emotions for you. There was confusion in what you shared with me, and frustration. The fear of what this would mean for us, yes, but also fear of what it might mean for me. Not just in this life, but beyond it. You were afraid I was lost, and I believe that came from a genuine place of love. But I'd be dishonest if I said it didn't cut deep - to hear the person who knows me best question the very thing that was finally allowing me to live.

And yet I think you're partly right. My transition is unfair to you. It requires adjustment on the part of not just you, but most everyone involved; even a renegotiation of relationship expectations that we built over years. I want you to know that I am aware of this, and that I've suffered with great guilt over the selfishness of allowing myself this path.

I know that it feels like everything is changing, so much so that even our past memories together might seem a fraud. But I truly don't feel this way. It probably seems like this thing I kept from you was so fundamental that it's difficult to even know if you truly have known me. But please don't let your mind get carried away.

Those nights we spent pondering the meaning of life under the stars, I wasn't faking my sense of wonder. When we dreamed together about what our futures might hold, that was all me. When we studied together, flew together, exercised together, played together, ate together, camped together, skipped class together...

These and a thousand other memories we share together were and are part of who I am. I don't renounce these, nor do I forget them. Every single one I would repeat again; except one.

Giving you the impression that I had it all figured out. I didn't. That's it.

I'm sorry.

Apart from this one thing you do know me, and you have known me. Nothing changes with this. Okay, everything changes, but nothing truly changes.

In transition there is loss, I know that. Some of it is real, and some of it is probably hyped up by nostalgia and imagination. But friendships like ours are built to survive. Neither graduation, nor marriage, nor kids, nor job promotions, nor changes in religious affiliation, nor distance, nor divorce, nor gender truly threatens it. Yes, each of these requires a significant effort on the part of all involved to keep the friendship alive - but is this not the very nature of what friendship is? To selflessly stand by one another as we each embrace the life we believe we were meant to live. To creatively and courageously learn the new dance step required when your partner wears heels for the first time. I believe this is exactly what real friendship is.

When you left after graduation to make a life for yourself it wasn't easy, but I adjusted. It was with mixed emotions that I later stood by your side when you were given away to the person you love; but I did not object. I rejoiced with you at the birth of your first child after knowing how hard you had wanted this; but I did not call you selfish. I may have felt each time that everything was changing, and perhaps everything did, but nothing really did. After all, here we are. You are you, and I am me.

I know this is different, I know it's not common. I know you have your concerns, and I don't disrespect them. But one thing you shouldn't worry about is whether you know me. You do. You shouldn't think you can't make this adjustment - you can - if not, this thing we have would have died long before today. I truly hope one day you'll be able to look on this and not only see loss, but see beauty too.

We've done this before, we'll do it again. This is exactly what this friendship was made for.

I wrote this letter in the summer of 2011, about ten days after I came out publicly. When I published it that August I changed the "you" to "a good friend of mine", hid the details that would have identified who I was writing to, and cut the parts that felt too raw. I called it "Loss in Transition." It made for a nicer essay. But it wasn't what I had actually written, and it wasn't what I actually felt.

This is what I actually wrote, more or less. And I want to say this: he did make the adjustment. We are still friends. The loss was real, but so was everything else.