I wasn’t planning on falling in love. I believed in love, soulmates, and all of that hopeful stuff, but I had always been the person cheering from the sidelines—supporting other people’s relationships, giving advice, helping them romance their partners. Me? I had never actually been in love. Just a string of abusive relationships that always ended painfully and left me a little more guarded each time.
When I first met him, I was cleaning tables at McDonald’s. Honestly, I preferred that over the drama in the back. I was only working three days a week anyway so I could make time for appointments and therapies with my special-needs three-year-old (GDD, sensory processing disorder, and OCD). I noticed his daughter first—she was five, and absolutely beautiful.
I made small talk like I always did and told him as much. We talked about our kids, and I almost regretted bringing it up. There I was, in my ugly blue uniform, working an entry-level job despite having years of management experience. And then there was him—so incredibly handsome, with the most striking blue eyes I had ever seen. And somehow, he just kept holding mine.
I’m pretty sure my mind and body got pulled straight into those eyes as I struggled to carry on a normal conversation without staring. He mentioned he used to work there and would be coming back in a few weeks. I gave the classic, “Maybe I’ll see you then,” and half-ran back to the kitchen as if I had anything important to do. Of course, I asked around about him. Not a single person had a bad thing to say.
Eventually, we found each other on Facebook (he claims he texted me first). He texted me back every five to ten minutes for an entire week—yet never asked me out. I couldn’t tell if he actually liked me or if he was just a prolific texter.
Half-hour drives started taking three hours because I’d pull over to text every couple of minutes. We’d both been through a lot of bad relationships, and neither of us was really looking. So I drove halfway across the state to meet a guy I’d casually talked to on a dating site. There wasn’t much attraction, but I hadn’t been on a date in months, so I figured why not? He was moving 3,000 miles away to Albuquerque within a year anyway—no pressure.
The date was awful. He had zero filter, was still sleeping with someone else, and had visible hickeys to prove it. I got out of there as fast as I could and messaged my future love. It was late, but he offered to let me come hang out. I replied, “Really? Can I? It’ll be like three hours, but I’ll be there around 2:30 a.m.” He seemed surprised I actually followed through—something he hadn’t expected me to say yes to.
He waited up half the night for me. We talked for hours, like we always did. I nervously cuddled up against him, completely in awe. He felt like a celebrity crush—how was I touching him? How did he have his arm around me? I’m awkward, weird, and have a million health issues. Me?! I kept inching closer to his face for at least an hour before finally getting my kiss.
He was the most respectful man I had ever met. He wouldn’t do anything without my full consent—every single time. I told him it was always a yes, that if he wanted physical contact, he could just go for it. I still wasn’t sure he felt the same intensity I did. He didn’t accept that answer. For at least the first month, he continued to make sure every choice was mine and that I always had the option to say no. I basically moved in that first night—or at least, I never really moved out.
We both had full custody of our kids, and we knew what was at stake. Neither of us took that lightly. Still, he never hesitated to be there for my special-needs son, learning him and involving him. We went on dates with his daughter—movie nights where she laid in my lap while I brushed her hair. One night, he seemed hesitant and told me the kids were getting attached, and that if this was going to continue, I had to be serious. I cried in his arms and told him that while watching Toy Story 4, I knew his daughter was meant to be in my life just as much as he was—and that I would never hurt either of them.
The kids learned to share a bedroom. With plenty of guidance about personal space (my son went from avoiding other kids to constantly hugging and kissing them after she grabbed his hand and picked him up everywhere), they became best friends. They still shriek and hug each other every day getting off their school buses. They ask about one another when one is visiting their non-custodial parent. My son, Ash—the same child who once showed no attachment to other kids—often demands to sleep in her bed when she’s not home.
Moving so quickly came with ups and downs. We had to learn how to balance work and family so no one burned out. But we knew our family was worth it. Our love was worth it. We talked about marriage and babies just two months in. We later found out we grew up less than five miles apart and would have attended the same school. We shared the same terrible sense of humor, the same relentless work ethic, and the same belief in treating everyone with respect, whether we agree with them or not. We both have hearts for helping others, which is why we want to foster at-risk kids and teens once we have a house.
I still worried about his career drive and what that meant for our family. I admired it—but I struggled with the idea of giving up my own career so the kids would never have to be in daycare. My son never was, and I wasn’t about to do that to my future stepdaughter. I love adventure. I love travel. I want to change the world. I’m a go-getter. How could I work overnights with no room for growth and still find fulfillment in days revolving around the kids and my son’s ever-changing needs?
Then life answered for us.
My son had GI testing. Justin came with us, holding Ash’s legs while I held his hands. Ash wanted both Mommy and Daddy there—and Justin stayed. A little over a month later, I developed a severe kidney infection that wouldn’t go away, even after multiple antibiotics. I was out of work for two weeks and barely functional. Like any UTI, it took a toll on my mental and emotional health. He held me, listened to me, and reassured me every time that he wasn’t going anywhere.
I finally opened up about my fears—about the days I can’t care for myself or even change my clothes because of rheumatoid arthritis and fibromyalgia. I admitted that despite always trying to make peace, I was angry. Childhood physical trauma had left me with chronic UTIs, fibromyalgia with stress-induced symptoms, anxiety, IBS, and nearly a hundred other sub-conditions. Anything—even a small trigger—can leave my nerves and muscles useless, unable to move. Cold feels like my bones are breaking. Sometimes it happens without warning. I have a higher risk of heart attack and cancer. Fibromyalgia has no treatment. And for the first time, I wanted to blame someone for permanently changing my life and affecting not just me, but my partner and my kids too.
He held me through all of it. He got angry with me. He listened. He believed in me anyway.
While I was sick, he got the kids ready every morning and on the bus. He went to class, then to work. When he got home at five, he took over again. He cleaned—floors, laundry, dishes. When he said he brought something home from the store, I expected another heating pad or drinks. Instead, he walked in with a bouquet of bright, colorful flowers—even though he’s the one who deserved them most.
He never hesitates to do what needs to be done. He steps into every role with grace. He’s always smiling, always reminding me we’ll get through anything. And I believe him. I found the partnership I had always craved. I found a love I never knew existed. He heals my past and quiets my doubts. Being with him feels like waking up in Wonderland every day—like life is too good to be true. And yet, his smile and his adorable sleeping face remind me that it’s real.
He gives me love, freedom, and space to be fully myself. I belong with him—this life and the next. Forever and one day more. I don’t know where our life will take us, but I’m ready for it.
