• I had a crush on my coworker and decided to tell him when my contract was up.
• He told me he was flattered but that he had a girlfriend.
• I wonder if the timing was off, but I'm glad I put myself out there.

I remember noticing him early on at my former job. He was funny and had a sunny smile, but he also struck me as confident and competent. A wave of excitement filled my heart every time he was around me, and I felt like a teenager with her first crush — even though I was in my mid-20s.

Maybe you don't like spoilers, but I do, so I will tell the truth right now. This is not a love story. This is a story of rejection after declaring my feelings to my former coworker when my contract ended.

I waited until my last day of work to finally confess my feelings for him, but I'm not sure it was the best decision.

I finally asked my coworker out

I didn't take the decision to tell him lightly. I debated with myself for a long time if I should tell him while we still worked together.

On one hand, I thought it would be heartbreaking for me if he politely declined and I had to see him every day. On the other hand, if he accepted my invitations and we began going out together, an awkward situation would arise. Even if we were working in different departments, being in a small company where we met every day surely didn't help my dilemma.

So, ultimately, I decided to come clean when my contract was finally up. When my six months ran out, I said goodbye to all my coworkers and devised a plan. I decided to finally confess my feelings as he stepped out of the office. Unfortunately, he didn't leave the office alone, so my plan was foiled. But I couldn't keep my romantic feelings to myself anymore.

When I got home, I wrote him a message, finally revealing that I had a crush on him and wanted to tell him in person, but there hadn't been an appropriate occasion. A few minutes afterward, I added that we could have a coffee together one day — if he wanted to.

My hands were sweating as I stared at the three dreaded bubbles showing he was typing. A long text message appeared; he was incredibly kind, even when rejecting me.

He said that he knows how difficult it is to declare your feelings, so he thanked me. Still, he was already seeing another girl.

Being rejected is painful. It can easily affect our self-worth and make us feel like failures. Even though I expected this rejection, I wasn't prepared for that intrusive emptiness that left me feeling lost and thinking that no one would ever want me.

Telling my friend what happened made things slightly more tolerable, but I needed a way to cleanse this intoxicating mixture of emotions from my body and mind.

Summer meant a lot of exercise classes in parks and on the beach. I decided to trade emotional pain for physical strain, and I went to a total-body class in July's heat. Moving my body and sweating felt amazing. It made me temporarily forget this situation.

I'm ultimately proud of myself

One question kept nagging me: Was it even worth telling him the truth?

But now that some months have passed, I don't have any regrets about how things went. Sometimes, I think if I had told him earlier, things could have gone differently, but anguishing over how something could have been is never sensible.

Regardless of the timing, I am proud of stepping out of my comfort zone and declaring my feelings. As an introvert, this can be incredibly challenging.

Even if it was painful at the moment, being rejected was better than remaining in doubt about his feelings.

Rejection is like a period at the end of a sentence. It can feel like an abrupt close, but endings often turn into new beginnings.

• Early on in our marriage, my husband and I decided to split the house chores evenly.
• He takes care of all the outdoor chores while I focus on the inside ones.
• We are more than happy to help each other out, but we have the final say over our domains.

Very early on in our marriage, my spouse coined the phrase "Outside mine, inside yours."

It has been our guiding principle. The saying meant he took care of all the outdoor work, and I handled all the indoor chores.

In other words, I could decorate however I wanted, and he didn't want any gruff about how short he was cutting the grass.

This mantra has worked for us for 10 years, and I think it's the key to happiness in marriage.

We separate our chores evenly

My husband tills the garden, plants, and schedules watering. He also cleans the chicken coop and fills their food and water containers. He chops wood, mows, mulches leaves, and does anything else that needs to be done. In winter, that includes salting and shoveling snow.

The "outside" part of our mantra also includes vehicle and camper maintenance.

We were gifted an antique metal set of monkey bars that he'll soon install in the backyard. Between that and his garage projects, it's more than enough to keep him busy. Our two young boys also enjoy helping with the outdoor chores.

As the trio tromps happily outside, I fold laundry and scrub dishes in peace — usually with an audiobook playing in my ear.

It helps us take ownership of our domains

We will ask for the other's opinion about a planned project, but ultimately, we have the final say in our own areas.

For example, we had a small rustic fence that my husband wanted to remove. I wanted to paint it and decorate it with antiques, but because the task was technically in his domain, he ultimately decided to remove it. I stepped back and let him handle it.

Indoors, I have often rearranged and ordered rugs, chair covers, etc., and he lets me without comment.

But we also help each other out when needed

Just because the indoors is my lane doesn't mean he's immune to inside tasks — or vice versa. I'm regularly asked to feed pets or help with the birds. Meanwhile, my husband helps with laundry and often cleans the bathroom.

Our arrangement is less about "I'm only doing this" and more about "You are the manager of this area." It removes the mental workload from the other's list and allows us to focus on one area. While I don't mind helping in the duck pond, it's nice that I don't have to remember when it needs to be done. In the same way, I'll often ask if he can clean the counters or fold the towels because it's on my list of what needs to be completed and not his.

My more flexible work schedule also affects what chores I complete and when. As I'm home more, it's simply easier for me to run laundry. However, he folds and puts his own away.

Winter also means fewer outside chores that need to be completed. Meanwhile, with four of us helping inside, the indoor workload is lowered for all.

This division helps us stay united

We end up with a fairly even set of tasks that also highlight our individual skills. By dividing and conquering the mental load of outdoor vs. indoor chores, we're able to get everything done with less stress and planning in advance.

It also shows our sons that gender-specific chores don't exist; it's about working as a team and putting your abilities where you're most talented. To really send this home, we rotate the chores that they are in charge of completing, whether it be putting dishes away, vacuuming, stacking wood, sorting laundry, or cleaning the garage. We focus on the fact that we all live under one roof, and a part of that is helping take care of the space, whether it's inside or out.

This setup helps my husband and I avoid arguments about one doing more work than the other. In this way, we are a team and happier for it.

• I was dating a guy I met on Hinge for two months before we had a fight.
• After the fight, he sent me a voice note, telling me he wanted to end our relationship.
• I felt hurt because I deserved better, but I'm proud of how I handled the situation.

At the start of this year, I dated a guy for two months.

We met on Hinge. I loved spending time with him because he never made me question whether he was into me. He was always attentive and validated my feelings. He'd bring me flowers and ask me about my day.

We got into the habit of sending each other voice notes and keeping each other updated on our daily lives. Sometimes, I would rant to him if I had a bad day at work, and he was always there to listen and validate my emotions. He'd tell me about his family, his dog, and his friends.

But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine he would break up with me via voice note while I was on a work trip abroad.

We had gotten into a fight right before my trip

I expressed that I didn't like it when he had no plan for our dates in advance. We started bickering about gender roles in relationships, and then our fight escalated.

I felt angry that we were bickering over something in texts that was supposed to be an in-person conversation and was only getting worse. But at no point did I think something so silly could lead us to call things off.

I thought it would be good to spend 10 days apart. I traveled to Tbilisi, Georgia, for work, which was a seven-hour flight away from him.

But five days later, during my trip, I decided to send a voice note, apologizing. I'm an only child, and as a kid, whenever my needs were unmet by my emotionally unavailable parents, my coping mechanism was to throw a tantrum to get them to notice my needs. Hence, when I felt like he wasn't meeting my needs, I bull-dozed into complaining rather than healthily addressing it. He sent a voice note back, breaking up with me.

Of course, it was confusing and painful. I couldn't believe it was real. I cried for two weeks straight after the breakup.

The pain still haunts me

Finding out I was single again via a voice note was hard. I understand that no one really owes anyone anything for just two months of dating, but I still feel like I deserved a face-to-face conversation. It felt like my feelings didn't matter in this scenario.

But I'm proud of myself because I was vulnerable for the first time in a relationship, especially during those breakup voice note exchanges. Before that, I was always playing the chill, cool girl who just didn't care because I wanted to hold the power. I am also proud that I didn't try to get him to change his mind once he said that he wanted to break up. A previous version of me would have done that.

Plus, I definitely won't be sending constant voice notes in the future when I have just started dating someone. I realized it builds a false sense of intimacy. We got into a pattern of constant voice notes because I was anxious that he would be dating other people, so I wanted to know what he was doing throughout the day. I can see that now — now that I've had some space from this experience.

Thankfully, I've learned to be more secure in my relationships. Moving forward, I plan to move important conversations about relationships out of the phone and prioritize connection via in-person experiences.

• I'm a bisexual woman who just got engaged to a man.
• I haven't officially dated women because I was afraid to come out to my family.
• Now, I'm worried I'll never get the chance and that I'm cutting off my queerness.

When my boyfriend proposed, my younger sister was surprised; she was convinced that I hated men.

This joke started in my teenage years because I was a naive but outspoken feminist, which caused some stir in my traditional Protestant family. My beliefs never really meshed well with my religious family.

Though I was a proud bisexual woman, I kept my queerness a secret from them. It helped that my romantic history only involved men.

Now I'm engaged to a man and thrilled. But I'm worried I've put up a permanent wall between two parts of my sexuality — and I'll lose access to my queer self entirely.

Bisexual women often deal with stereotypes

Many people have certain beliefs about queer women: Bisexual women sleep with women but only date men, or they only sleep with men because they find women so intimidating, or they like women but are happily settled with their "golden retriever boyfriend."

If you go on social media, where these jokes are recycled for content and solidified in cultural canon, you'd think a bisexual woman had never successfully dated another woman before.

It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I worried for years that I wasn't being true to my sexuality. Sometimes, I'd wonder if I was straight and somehow duping myself. With an impending marriage, the anxiety returns.

Julia Shaw says in her 2022 book "Bi: The Hidden Culture, History and Science of Bisexuality" that there's a "sense that, once people are married, the gender of their partner is indicative of their 'real' sexuality."

It's taken years to admit that my hesitation to pursue women came from the restrictive, internalized ideas of my Christian youth. I believed in the church, and only after discovering my sexual interests in my late teens did I question my faith.

I spent the better part of a decade agnostic and happily bisexual, in theory, but struggling in practice. I kept thinking I would eventually date a woman. After all, I found women attractive and daydreamed about them plenty.

But dating a woman meant coming out at home. I convinced myself that I'd come out to everyone if I fell in love with a woman. I didn't recognize how much that would subconsciously dissuade me from pursuing them. So, not coincidentally, I kept dating men.

Fetishizing versus respecting bisexuality

Many men fetishize queer women, and this provided an outlet for me in past relationships. I could flirt or be intimate with women without jeopardizing my relationship with a man because my sapphism wasn't viewed as "real" or "valuable" the way heterosexuality is.

My sexuality was finally viewed as something other than a sin: It was hot. I felt bad for furthering this horrible dynamic, but I was suffocated no matter what I chose.

When I met my current partner, I nearly avoided dating him. I'd repressed my sexuality for too long, I told him, and I wanted to explore it.

In the end, though, I wouldn't sacrifice my time with him for the theoretical pursuit of queer romance with women I didn't yet know. Discussions abounded in the first months of the relationship, and I felt a grief I'd never encountered before.

It took a while to recognize it was because he fully respected my sexuality, thus removing my toxic outlet. It felt ironic. He saw physicality or romance with women as equally valuable, so it could have no space in our monogamous relationship.

I'm now mourning missed opportunities

I mourned this loss, which may be confusing to someone heterosexual. I don't want to cheat or be non-monogamous. I'm happy with one person and feel no need to experiment with that.

My relationships with women — romantic, platonic, or familial — have simply been different from those with men. It's something integral and hard to articulate. They each bring something unique to my life.

Nothing is scarier than the unknown, except maybe missed opportunities, and I felt I'd spend the rest of my life not knowing what I missed. Ultimately, though, we lose something no matter what we choose.

After much discussion, my partner and I know maintaining my connection to queer people and events is integral. I may be in a heterosexual relationship, but I don't have to bar myself from all the beautiful cultural aspects of the LGBT+ community.

Beyond that, my partner and I acknowledged that things change. My decisions aren't all made now. Our sexuality and our needs can develop as we age, and we may have to return to and approach the issue differently throughout our marriage.

Honesty and understanding are the best features of our relationship, and they make my bisexuality feel cherished instead of stifled.

• When I was 19, I started dating a girl who felt too perfect for me.
• Every time I broke up with someone, I would return to that woman, using her to avoid loneliness.
• She's now engaged, and I've learned how awful and toxic I was to her.

There are many ways to describe that relationship we always run back to — the fallback option, the backburner relationship, or the Plan B.

As insulting as that sounds, I am guilty of using a woman as my backup option. Every time I ended a relationship, I would return to her, hoping this time would be different. Frankly, I used her as I waited for something better to come along. Nothing ever did because she was great, and I was the toxic one.

I knew the day would come when she would finally see me for who I really was — the guy who played games. That's why I wasn't too surprised when I recently learned she is now engaged, and she's had enough of me and my toxic traits.

As much as it hurts, I'm happy for her and glad I learned my lesson.

She was perfect, and I panicked

We'd been playing this game since 2011. I still remember our first kiss, to the sounds of a young Avicii playing "Levels." I was 19, and she was 17.

She was too sweet. She loved me too much. She was too available. Everything was too perfect, and that always left me wondering if something was wrong or missing. I had idealized love to an unrealistic and absurd level, so I found countless reasons not to pursue anything serious with her.

While dating her, I used my lawyer skills to walk the fine line of what was "allowed" so I wouldn't be liable for my actions. But there are no legalities when it comes to love and relationships. The truth is, I was spending time with her, creating a special kind of bond — one that, even to this day, would never be topped. But it was also a textbook example of a toxic relationship.

The real problems began when I left her and jumped into a relationship with someone else. But I still found a way to remain "friends," knowing she would wait for me. When I broke off my other relationship, I went back to her arms — just to jump into another relationship, leaving her behind again.

This happened four times. I never took her seriously. I was selfish and blinded by my idealization of love. But ultimately, the joke would be on me.

She's now engaged

Understandably, after every episode of our toxic love story, she grew further away from me. Each time I missed the chance to make things official, she slowly distanced herself from me. But the opposite happened to me: I grew closer to her and the idea of being with her — finally, and ideally, forever.

Life had other plans. She started dating someone else, and we stopped talking. After the last episode of my narcissistic game, she'd had enough and cut me off for good. Losing contact with her gave me the space I needed to reflect on my love life and the true meaning of loneliness. For the first time in my life, I felt alone. I didn't have my Plan B anymore. It was scary.

But it also helped me realize I wasn't OK with being alone. I realized I had convinced myself it was OK to use her.

I tried reaching out to test the waters, but she didn't want to talk. A couple of months later, I discovered her boyfriend had proposed. It wasn't easy. Even though I knew it was coming, I was devastated. Not because she was marrying another guy but because she seemed to be truly happy with him.

I've learned my lesson

I missed my chance with her. It breaks my heart to lose one of the best human beings I've ever met, but I guess that's the price I need to pay for playing games. All this time, I thought she wasn't good enough for me when, in reality, I didn't deserve her.

I've learned a valuable lesson that I've been implementing in all aspects of my life ever since: appreciate opportunities and don't miss chances. It's better to regret taking a chance than to wonder, "What if?"

Thanks to my ex, I now value prospects, possibilities, and opportunities.

• I met my partner when I was seven years sober.
• Although I was far into my sobriety journey, some of his drinking habits triggered me.
• I told him my concerns, and we built a relationship on open communication.

I met my husband a few days after my seventh sobriety anniversary. I don't even remember when I first told him that I no longer drank because it simply wasn't a big deal for me by that point.

I'd lost any lingering embarrassment over being someone in recovery. My now-husband must've taken the news in stride; otherwise, I'm sure I would recall that first sobriety conversation better.

But as we got more serious, I realized we needed to have harder discussions. Some of those are more memorable because I had to be more vulnerable, and his response, if negative, could have ended our relationship.

My then-boyfriend started to trigger my addiction

Because of my history with addiction, I am aware of my boundaries to avoid relapse. For example, in the first year of sobriety, I couldn't live in a home with alcohol. It was too early for me and too scary to have temptation that close.

With time, things got easier. A year into sobriety, I was less easily triggered and moved in with a friend who kept bottles of wine in the house. I didn't ask her to remove them; I had enough discipline and trust in myself at that point.

When I met my husband, I could handle most bars and parties without being tempted. Having a partner who drank wasn't a dealbreaker for me, but I still needed boundaries within the relationship to protect my sobriety.

I realized some situations were triggering me as our relationship developed. It wasn't easy to share that a situation tempted me after all that time without drinking. But my sobriety had been too hard-won to risk skating over the issue.

I shared how going out to dinner was difficult because he ordered cocktails every time, and the frequency was too much for me. I also let him know I was uncomfortable seeing him tipsy and that it made me feel unsafe even though I knew he was safe. And later, when we bought our home, we went shopping for a liquor cabinet for him. It's not hard to have alcohol in the house, but bottles visible on the counter for long periods are more difficult for me.

In some cases, we struggled through these conversations. I couldn't even tell him why some things were more triggering than others. It took some back-and-forth to get to a place of understanding. He asked questions and did his best to listen and take action. This new territory was uncomfortable for both of us. But with every hard talk, we got a little better at it. And we always reached an agreement that felt like a step forward.

We now have a relationship built on open communication

Looking back, I can honestly see how helpful my sobriety has been in fostering our communication, forcing us to have some serious conversations early on. I had to be shamelessly vulnerable. My partner had to respond with empathy and action. I'm grateful he took me seriously.

We were also forced to dig deep and state our feelings clearly, including why some things rubbed me the wrong way. It was one of the best things that happened in building our relationship.

Here we are, four years later, married, and my 11th year of sobriety just celebrated.

No one should risk their sobriety for a relationship

I don't share my boundaries for anyone to compare their own. Everyone in sobriety has their personal level of need when it comes to distance or safety from substances. I've had weaker and stronger seasons, and my boundaries are mine. There's no shame in requiring an alcohol-free home.

If you've worked hard to get sober, don't risk something so precious to meet anyone else's standard. Ask for what you need to be healthy in your relationships.

My husband and I have discussed that if I go through a season of feeling more triggered, we would remove any alcohol from our home, and he would abstain completely. The level of support is there, no matter if the needle on the gauge changes. Some hard things can surprise you and turn into an advantage. It worked that way for us.

• When I married, changing my last name to my husband's felt like too much work.
• Three years later, I still haven't changed my name and realize I don't want to.
• The tradition feels antiquated, and I don't want to erase who I am.

Before our wedding, my husband asked me if I would change my last name to his, and I said I would. I wasn't lying. I had every intention to do so.

But before I walked down the aisle, I began to think about the hassle of going down to the Social Security office, changing my name at the bank, and updating my ID on every credit card. It seemed like a lot of work I didn't want to deal with — especially after planning a wedding.

At my bachelorette lunch, I discussed with my closest girlfriends — who all happened to be married — their decisions to change their names. All but one had put no thought into their name change, saying that it was something they had looked forward to or hadn't questioned.

I felt like the outlier, and I'm still learning to be OK with that.

Changing my name for my husband feels antiquated

After the wedding, I simply viewed my name change as another to-do on my list and kept putting it off. But as time went by, I began to question why I had to change my name in the first place.

Growing up, I had never fully understood the tradition of changing your name to your husband's. In my gut, it felt more antiquated than romantic.

I decided to consider my husband's opinion and ask him how he felt about me not changing my name yet. I had no idea until I asked him that he had been wondering why I hadn't done so. When I asked him how he felt about the tradition growing up, he explained that it was something he had always imagined his wife doing. He liked the idea of his wife taking his last name.

The whole conversation made me feel like I was disappointing him by dragging my feet, which made me lean toward just going through with the name change.

I got increasingly annoyed at the idea of changing my name

Most people assumed I had changed my last name already. When they realized I hadn't, they wanted to know why. Their questions made me uncomfortable.

While most women seemed not to question the tradition, others felt free to question my decision. One person even blatantly said they could see how it would be easier for me not to change my name "if anything were to happen." I didn't like the implication that my marriage was viewed as temporary or less than because of simply not changing my last name.

The more I thought about how I felt, the more I began to view the adoption of my husband's name as removing my identity beyond my marriage. I thought taking my husband's name would negate the accomplishments I had made independently. Since I'm a teacher, my students address me by my last name, and as a writer, I have been published under that name.

Becoming someone else on paper felt like having to become someone else entirely. It also felt like I had to forget who I was before I was someone's wife.

Once I considered my feelings without considering everyone else's, I stood by my choice.

Changing my name just for other people doesn't feel right

I've considered surprising him with a name change when I feel terribly in love and want to make my husband happy. But the main problem with this is that he would know it was something I did for him and not something I really wanted to do.

While I know he'd prefer me just to change my name, I think my independence and strong will are qualities he finds attractive. Changing my name wouldn't represent my own values and, therefore, wouldn't yield the romantic result I've envisioned at times.

The pressure and judgment I feel from others reinforces that it should be my decision. Appeasing other people is not a good enough reason to do something I'm not sure I even believe in.

• I was used to casual touch and missed it when my 19-year relationship ended, and we divorced.
• Platonic touch between my friends and me became important when I was touch-starved.
• My dogs also help me feel less physically alone.

I was in a relationship and married for 19 years. During that time, I got very used to having someone physically around.

Something that surprised me when we unexpectedly divorced this year was how much I missed being touched. Humans need physical touch, and the sudden loss of it can be jarring, as I have recently experienced.

Many of us started thinking about touch starvation during the pandemic lockdown, which mandated social distancing. But this year has been especially difficult for me, and now I'm craving physical touch.

Almost nobody touched me after my partner left

As an adult, I hadn't considered myself to be an especially touchy person, but in the early days of my divorce, I felt a skin-crawling desperation for touch. I missed hugs, cuddles, and casually leaning against someone while talking or walking.

Shortly after I found out I was getting divorced, two acquaintances gave me casual side hugs. Then, I had my six-month dental cleaning. The hygienist took one look at me, realized something was wrong, and gave me a hug. Then, the next week, an old friend came over to my house and hung out for hours just talking. That was the first real hug I'd had in weeks. I sank into his arms for a long time.

It was terrifying to wake up every day and realize I had no idea when I might be touched again by another person.

I've remembered how much I love touching my friends

When I was a homeless queer teenager, I spent a lot of time in cuddle puddles with my friends. We would pile onto old couches in punk houses. We watched movies or curled up in bed together to talk for hours. This close platonic touch was a big part of how we bonded and survived.

Over the years, those friendships drifted away, and my new friends all touched less. We might exchange a hug when greeting, but we didn't exist with the level of platonic physical intimacy that seemed so natural in my late teens and early 20s.

Since my divorce, I've remembered how healing a platonic touch between friends can be. I find myself now seeking connections and deepening friendships with people who want to build platonically intimate friendships.

The people in my life now don't think twice about cuddling with me while we watch movies or just sit and talk. We never pass up the opportunity to hug each other close.

Most days, I don't touch anyone, but at least a few days a week, I know I'll see some close friends and get much-needed platonic physical contact.

It has been fun to rediscover myself as a sexual person

Sex was never the glue that kept my ex-partner and me together. Our lack of sexual compatibility was no secret and was something I was at peace with. However, with my marriage over, I felt ready and excited to pursue the kind of sexual compatibility I had been missing.

Since separating, it has been nice to discover that other people find me as attractive as I find them. Sometimes, that attraction manifests in physical touch, and sometimes, it's just the warm glow of connection with long-distance friends.

Recognizing that touch could exist if we were in the same physical location is surprisingly satisfying. I'm often still touch-starved, especially with intimate touch, but I've found the mutual desire for touch to satiate that hunger most days.

My dogs are always ready to cuddle

When I learned I was getting divorced, my top priority was getting custody of my dog Sirius. After my ex-partner moved out, Sirius became significantly cuddlier. Now, it's rare for me to wake up without her sleeping on my bed. I think she knew I was touch-starved and needed the extra physical interaction I wasn't getting anywhere else.

This summer, after my divorce was finalized, I brought a new puppy home to join Sirius and me, making us a little household of three. This puppy would literally crawl into my skin if she could. While not the same as a hug from a friend, this level of enthusiastic, consistent physical interaction has been a game changer. Having dogs that are always cuddling up against me as I work or read has helped me feel less physically isolated day-to-day.

• After my divorce, I fell for a man quickly, and the word "boyfriend" didn't fit.
• When we went to Europe, everyone was referring to their significant others as their "partner."
• I decided to use that term, too, but people in the US often get confused.

I ended my nearly 13-year marriage in January 2020 without any interest in dating. But I met someone new in September, and we started seeing each other two months later.

Before things got serious, I wasn't sure how to describe our relationship. My ex-husband was also my first long-term relationship. We "dated" for three months, and I moved into his home three days after we met. We then quickly got married. In many ways, I had always been a wife who had a husband.

So, with my new situationship, I had no idea how to label it. While we were only in the early stages of seeing one another, I was already deeply committed. We even signed a lease together a few months later, in March. But I didn't know what to call the man in my life, who I considered the man in my life.

Ultimately, we decided to call each other "partners," but not everyone liked that term.

The word 'partner' felt right for us

When he suggested "partner," I liked how it felt. A partner is someone who walks through life side-by-side with you and who has your back in your highest and lowest moments. A partner is your rock. The word "partner" feels adult and right to me.

I stumbled over the word at times, especially early on, because up to that point, I had associated it with LGBTQ+ relationships and didn't want to appropriate a word that wasn't mine to use.

A trip to Europe late in the summer of 2021 changed everything. Nearly everyone described their other half (a phrase I don't like at all) as their partner — whether they were married or not, in straight or gay relationships.

The word was interchangeable with husband, wife, spouse, boyfriend, and girlfriend — especially among people in their 30s and older.

At that point, I enthusiastically adopted it. Since we spend half the year in France, it didn't seem odd to adopt the term, but alas, back in the US, that hasn't always been true.

Reactions to us using 'partner' have been mixed

I have found that older couples (typically ages 40 and up) in the US have had the strongest reactions to one of us introducing the other as a partner.

I can only assume this is because, for a long time, the term was primarily associated with LGBTQ+ couples who couldn't legally marry. Therefore, many people have to reconcile an older idea being applied to something they've understood in another way.

No one has ever been rude about it, but we've caught some raised eyebrows and a few "whats" or "whys" in response to the word choice. I've been asked, "Boyfriend or husband?" in response to using the word "partner," and huffed at when I repeated it instead of swapping the word for something more palatable.

But younger people seem like they couldn't care less.

My partner is my partner because, at this stage, he's my person. And that's just what works for us.