We met at church. It’s cliché, but it’s true. I noticed Matthew on my very first Sunday in that congregation. He stood out—not just for his height, but for his curly hair, infectious smile, and his pure, undeniable zest for life. For weeks, I spotted him across the chapel and deliberately avoided him. He looked like a player, and I wasn’t interested in unnecessary drama. But one day, as I was walking to my car, he came over to talk. I sighed inwardly, bracing myself for what I assumed would be a shallow conversation about hobbies, workouts, or other mind-numbing small talk. Somehow, though, we started talking about books. That brief exchange revealed that we both loved reading, cared deeply about gender and racial equity, and might actually enjoy getting to know each other. He asked for my phone number, I gave it, and we went our separate ways.
Our first “date” was a disaster. It was meant to be a casual group hangout, but due to miscommunication about time and place, it ended up being just me, Matthew, and one of his best friends—a girl who apparently had “dibs” on him. From the moment she got into the car, she monopolized the conversation, laughing over inside jokes only she and Matthew understood. At the movies, she insisted on sitting between us, only engaging with him, barely acknowledging my presence. Halfway through the film, she glanced at me once and said, “Wasn’t that so funny?” Clear message received: “Matthew is mine. Back off.” I dropped them both off, decided it wasn’t worth the drama, and told myself it was over.
A few days later, our shared love of Harry Potter led me to send him a joke my brother had forwarded to me. That little message opened the door for him to call and ask if I wanted to hang out—just the two of us. Our first proper date was at the Japanese Friendship Gardens, and it felt like magic. We talked for hours, wandered under the cherry blossoms, and he even wove delicate crowns from the pruned branches. Our next date was an impromptu nighttime stroll that turned into a five-mile hike through the pitch-dark trails of Papago Park. Halfway through, as I followed him blindly over rocks and past cactuses, I briefly imagined he could be a psycho. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. That night, back at my apartment, we talked on the couch, and he eventually shared something important: “I’m gay.” I wasn’t surprised—but it didn’t matter. If he wanted to spend time with me, why would his sexual orientation change anything?
Over the next few months, our connection intensified. Every moment felt heightened—the weather at the Friendship Gardens, what I wore to the movies, the taste of salsa we cooked together, evenings when he biked over after work. Then, suddenly, he broke up with me. I was devastated. No one had ever understood me the way Matthew did. In the months that followed, I briefly dated old flames, while Matthew dated a man, though disapproval from his family and friends shadowed his relationship. Even so, knowing he was living authentically brought me comfort. We stayed in touch, exchanged a few texts, and he even agreed to watch my cat while I traveled to Spain, but it seemed our paths had diverged.
Months later, the apartment I wanted became available, and I needed help moving fast. I texted Matthew and a few others for assistance. When I saw him again, sparks flew—instant, undeniable energy. Boxes and moving chaos melted away; I just wanted to spend time with him. Later, my boyfriend remarked how perfect Matthew and I seemed together, but I resisted the thought—Matthew had said no once, and I wasn’t ready to hope again.
After the move, Matthew hinted at rekindling our relationship, but I was cautious. Then came the night we cooked together, attempting a recipe that required caramelizing brown sugar and adding vinegar. It turned into a crystallized mess, prompting Matthew to call his mom for guidance. Over speakerphone, she asked, “So has Brynn broken up with her boyfriend yet?” That little question gave me the encouragement I needed to say yes—to be with Matthew again.
Soon after, we took a short drive to Rocky Point, Mexico, with a mutual friend. We got lost, ate string beans from a Tupperware, slept on the roof, and simply enjoyed each other’s company. Returning home, we went on our second “first date,” and that night felt cosmic. It was as if the universe aligned for us. Our love was tangible, undeniable.
In December, Matthew sent me a Facebook ad for cheap tickets to Sweden. We impulsively booked them and decided to elope—it would double as our honeymoon. A lost passport forced us to abandon the plan just hours before departure, but we made the best of it, spending our honeymoon playing cards, watching the scenery from the Starlight Rail, and talking for hours.
Our religious beliefs limited intimacy before marriage. Matthew openly admitted he wasn’t sure about his attraction to women, but we shared deep connections in other ways—books, travel, humor, and emotional intimacy. Almost four years in, we continue to navigate the complexities of a mixed-orientation marriage with therapists’ guidance. It’s not always easy, and we’ve shed our fair share of tears, but our bond endures.
Sometimes, I feel uncertain, insecure, or wonder if he imagines life with a man might be easier. But hearing Matthew say he never tires of me reminds me that true compatibility is rare and precious. Together, we’ve embraced openness about his sexuality. I even created an Instagram account to celebrate him, which eventually became a way for us to publicly share our lives. Over time, Matthew has identified as gay, bi, and pansexual, while I embrace a heterosexual identity—but sexuality isn’t always binary. Our hope is that openness can spark dialogue, reduce stigma, and support LGBTQIA+ youth struggling in silence.
The response from friends, family, and strangers has been overwhelmingly positive. Messages poured in: “Thank you,” “I needed to hear this,” and even, “I’m in a mixed-orientation marriage too!” A few were hurt or confused, but our focus remains on us—Matthew and me.
Now, we live in Michigan with our two daughters, Guinevere (1) and Amandine (2). Matthew is applying for professorships across the country, and we’ll be moving in six or seven months. I’m caring for the girls and planning my next career goals. Through it all, sharing our love openly continues to strengthen us, reminding us that authenticity, trust, and laughter are the heartbeats of our marriage.
