Out of nowhere, my former niece—who, for all intents and purposes, has become my unofficially adopted daughter—reached out and asked if I could pick her up. The timing was uncanny. She called while I was out with Amelia, and the moment I learned she needed a ride as soon as possible, I wasted no time. Amelia and I jumped into her Ford Bronco Sport, and with the kind of urgency reserved for house fires and last-minute rescues, we raced home.

What followed was an unexpected ten-day stay together at my mother’s house—a reunion neither of us had planned but both of us clearly needed.

I can’t help but marvel at the bizarre synchronicity of it all. Just as Amelia was setting off for Erie, Pennsylvania, and at the same time, my niece called. It was as if the universe had orchestrated the timing with some cosmic precision, aligning our paths in a way that made no logical sense, yet felt inevitable.

Then, as if the situation wasn’t chaotic enough, another twist arrived in the form of a misplaced set of car keys. That first night, I stayed over at my niece’s apartment, only to be woken up very early the next morning by Amelia’s phone call. She had lost her car keys. And, of course, I had the spare set.

Without hesitation, I threw on my shoes, started up my truck, and hit the road back to Vermont. Half an hour into the drive, just as I was settling into the rhythm of the highway, my phone rang again. It was Amelia.

She found her keys. They were in her bed.

Society hands us a script before we even know how to read it. The sequence is familiar, predictable—like the assembly instructions for a life we never agreed to build.

Family → Acquaintances → Friends → Best Friend → Spouse → (Often) Children.

It’s presented as a roadmap, a clear-cut path we’re supposed to follow without question. But who decided this was the only way?

The truth is, relationships rarely fit into the tidy little boxes we’ve been given, at least mine never did. Life doesn’t operate in straight lines or predetermined sequences. Some people drift into our lives and settle somewhere between friendship and family, defying labels, existing in the in-between spaces. Some relationships blur the edges between love and loss, connection and departure, arrival and absence.

We like to believe that every relationship has a definition, a category, a purpose—but sometimes, the most meaningful bonds don’t belong to any one classification, or other times, they belong to multiple classifications simultaneously. Sometimes, relationships exist simply because they matter. My relationship with Amelia helped shaped me in ways I never expected.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s the point.

I always knew I was different in every way; I was born intersex, raised as a girl, and lived a life where my romantic partners were all female. From a very young age, I knew I was a lesbian; that part was never in question. But knowing something and accepting it are two very different things. There’s a strange limbo that exists between recognition and full acknowledgment, between understanding and truly owning who you are. And for me, that space stretched across decades.

Why did it take so long?

That’s the question that lingers, the one I keep coming back to. The answer isn’t simple. It’s tangled up in years of societal conditioning, unspoken expectations, and the quiet, suffocating pressure to fit neatly into a world that never quite made space for me.

I wasn’t ashamed of being queer. That was never the issue. But there’s a difference between knowing who you are in the privacy of your own mind and standing in that truth with unapologetic certainty. Between acknowledging something internally and declaring it outwardly, as if to say, Yes, this is who I am, and I’m done shrinking to make other people comfortable.

For years, I carried the weight of an invisible hesitation. It wasn’t denial—not exactly. More like a slow-burning realization that never quite reached the surface. I let myself exist in a way that was technically honest but not entirely free. And that’s the thing about freedom—it’s not just about being true to yourself; it’s about owning that truth without hesitation, without qualification, without feeling like you owe anyone an explanation.

Although I had come out to my friends and family at age sixteen, now at forty-five years old, I finally stopped holding back. Not because I had some grand epiphany, but because I got tired of carrying the extra weight. There is an incredible lightness in full acceptance, in stepping fully into yourself with no apologies, no disclaimers, no lingering doubts.

Now when I meet someone, I make it a point to let them know up front that I’m a lesbian. And that freedom? It was always mine for the taking. I just needed to be ready to claim it.

Over the course of my life, I’ve had many relationships—lesbian relationships that, by all outward appearances, fit the traditional mold of romance. They were sexual in the way society expects, in the way relationships are often measured. But physicality is just one layer, and I’ve always been the kind of person who looks far beyond the surface, always searching for something deeper.

Out of all those relationships, only two ever truly meant something. Two women, in a sea of many, who reached into my soul and settled there. Not because of passion or attraction—though those things existed—but because they understood me in a way no one else ever had. They weren’t just lovers. They were something else entirely, something I still struggle to define.

I called them my crows.

Crows are intelligent, fiercely loyal, and impossibly free. They don’t belong to anyone, but they choose their connections with careful intent. They remember kindness. They recognize, and fiercely defend their own.

That’s what those two relationships felt like—rare, dark-winged things that defied categorization. These weren’t just people I loved; they were people who saw me, in all my complexity, and never flinched. They weren’t just fleeting chapters in the story of my life. They were permanent ink.

Not every relationship is meant to be forever. Some exist only for a season, leaving behind feathers and echoes and memories that never quite fade. But the crows? They stay with you, even in spirit form, no matter how far they fly.

Her name was Allegra, and she was my first love, and my first crow.

We met when we were both sixteen—two fire-hearted girls standing at the edge of adulthood, reckless in the way that only teenagers can be. I was working my first job in the kitchen at the same summer camp where I’d once been a wide-eyed kid, and she was the kind of person who carried the weight of the future like it was already hers to command.

Allegra was fiercely independent—beautiful in a way that wasn’t just physical but magnetic, undeniable. There was an intensity in her, a certainty that burned in her eyes whenever she spoke about her dreams. She knew what she wanted out of life, and she had no intention of waiting for permission to take it. Every move she made was deliberate, every step part of a larger plan that only she could see.

I recognized something familiar in her—an almost defiant passion, an unrelenting drive. She was the only person I had ever met who matched my level of determination, who understood what it felt like to want something so badly that failure wasn’t even a consideration. We were mirrors of each other, reflections cast in different shades of the same relentless ambition.

I fell in love with her in the summer of 1996.

It wasn’t the kind of love you question or analyze. It was immediate, like lightning striking dry earth, setting everything ablaze before you even have time to be afraid. She became my first crow—the first person who ever made me feel like love wasn’t just something to be found, but something to be fought for.

And if I had to relive that summer a thousand times over, I wouldn’t change a single moment.

We kept in touch, but only in the way that restless souls do—sporadic, unpredictable, always on her terms. Allegra traveled the world for a time, never staying in one place long enough to leave roots. She sent me letters with no return address, words scrawled on paper like whispers carried by the wind. I never knew where she was, never knew if or when she would return home to Boston.

I wrote back anyway. I sent my letters to the only fixed point I knew—her childhood home—never certain if they would reach her, never expecting a reply. Then, out of nowhere, my phone rang. Her voice was on the other end, steady and familiar, as if no time had passed at all.

“I read your letters this afternoon,” she said. “I want to see you. As soon as possible.”

And just like that, we found ourselves in Buffalo, New York, in a small pocket of time that belonged to no one but us. I was on a break from my basic fire department training, caught between the grueling drills of becoming someone people would call in their worst moments. She was just passing through—because that’s what she did. Allegra never stayed anywhere for too long.

We met. We talked. We existed in the same space for what felt like mere seconds. Then she was off again, heading to the airport, boarding a plane back to Boston.

Silence followed.

I didn’t hear from her again for decades—not until word got out that I was attending a camp reunion. And just like before, she reappeared like a specter from my past, stepping back into my life as effortlessly as she had left it.

We caught up. We filled in the gaps where we could. And then—just as quickly—she was gone again. A ghost in the wind. A crow taking flight.

I wasn’t looking for a new relationship when I met Amelia. In fact, I was trying to get out of the one I was already in—a relationship that had stretched on for nearly twenty years with a woman named Angie, long past the point where love had faded into routine, and routine had hardened into quiet resentment.

And yet, life has a way of upending itself when you least expect it.

Amelia and I met on Twitter, of all places. It started with casual interactions, nothing particularly significant, just the digital equivalent of passing glances in a crowded room. But then the messages became more frequent, moving from public replies to private conversations. We switched to Instagram video chat, and eventually, our voices replaced the typed words—long phone calls that stretched for hours, our conversations winding through the night like two people who had known each other in another life and were simply picking up where they left off.

At some point, we decided we needed to meet. That was when she told me—hesitant, unsure—I’m transgender.

I had been in lesbian relationships my entire life, but this was different. Or at least, I thought it would be. But the second she said it, I knew it didn’t matter. Okay, I told her. That’s fine. I’m fine with this. More than fine. Because love—real, soul-deep connection—has never been about gender for me. It’s always been about the person, the fire in their eyes, the way they fit into my life like they were always meant to be there. And the fact that Amelia identified as female, and was able to seamlessly live as such, I fully accepted her as such.

So, I got in my car and drove. Hours on the road, the hum of the highway beneath me, the sky stretched wide and endless as I made my way to meet her at her parents’ house—ironically, just outside of Boston.

That afternoon in August of 2020, I met my second crow.

Some people come into your life like a slow, steady burn. Others arrive like a storm, changing everything in an instant. Amelia was neither. She was something different altogether—like a rare bird landing unexpectedly on your outstretched hand, looking at you with knowing eyes, as if to say, I was always meant to find you.

I told my ex-girlfriend that I was going to Boston to meet a woman named Amelia. That was the truth, or at least part of it. What I didn’t tell her—what I couldn’t tell her—was that this meeting was more than just a casual introduction. It was the beginning of something neither of us could fully explain at the time, but both of us felt deep in our bones.

For Amelia’s safety and mine, we left immediately. No lingering goodbyes, no drawn-out explanations—just a quiet, mutual understanding that staying put wasn’t an option. Instead, we got in the car and drove north, crossing state lines like fugitives escaping a life that had never quite fit. Two weeks in Maine, just the two of us. No real plan, no fixed destination—just time and space to exist outside the weight of our pasts.

And then Vermont.

An hour after I signed the closing papers on my forever home—a retired Vermont dairy farm, tucked away in a place where the sky stretched wide and the air smelled of pine and damp earth—we moved in together. No hesitation, no second-guessing. It just was. The way certain things in life feel inevitable, like they were always meant to happen, whether you planned them or not.

We weren’t lovers in the traditional sense, but we were something just as rare, just as powerful. Best friends, bound together not by passion but by survival. Two lost souls who had been gutted by the world, by the rigid expectations of a society that never made space for people like us.

She had been rejected for being transgender. I had been rejected for being a lesbian. Different stories, same pain. We carried the scars of abandonment, the weight of knowing that family is supposed to be unconditional—but sometimes, it isn’t.

But in each other, we found what we had lost.

Ours was a relationship of absolute friendship, the kind that doesn’t need labels or explanations. We were inseparable, not because we had to be, but because we had finally found someone who understood—really understood—what it was like to be cast out and left to build a life from the wreckage.

And together, we did.

I helped Amelia transition—not just in the medical sense, but in every way a person can help another step fully into themselves. I stood beside her, unwavering, as she became the woman she had always been. It wasn’t just about hormones, or legal documents or the slow unraveling of the past—it was about claiming a life that had been denied to her for too long. And I was there, through every moment of it, because that’s what you do for the people you love, and if you truly love someone, they deserve nothing less.

In 2021, we got married. Two best friends making a vow that went beyond romance, beyond convention, beyond anything the world might expect from a marriage. We swore that no matter what happened, we would always be together. That the farm, our farm, would be our forever home. That no matter where life took us, this land, this place, would remain the anchor that held us steady.

And for a while, it was bliss.

Not the fragile, fleeting kind, but the kind that settles into your bones—the kind that makes you believe, for once, that maybe you’ve outrun the ghosts of your past. We spent every moment together, not just surviving, but living. We built a life that was ours in every sense of the word.

We bought cars, put both of our names on the titles—shared everything, down to the last detail. I added her name to the deed to the farm, and I finally bought my dream tractor, a John Deere 3 Series—the kind of machine that isn’t just a tool, but a statement. A declaration of permanence.

For the first time in my life, I had everything I had ever wished for. A forever home. A dream car. A dream tractor. And, at long last, my beautiful crow. The one I thought would never leave.

In the spring of 2025, Amelia told me she was leaving.

There was no warning, no gentle build-up to soften the blow—just a statement, sharp and absolute. I’m moving to Erie, Pennsylvania. That’s my decision. I’m going, with or without you.

Just like that, the foundation of everything we had built together cracked beneath my feet.

It wasn’t a discussion. It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration. And for the first time since we had met, I realized that no matter how deep our friendship ran, no matter how much we had promised each other, some decisions aren’t made together. Some roads don’t fork—they split.

The timing was impossible to ignore. Only weeks before, I had done something I never thought I’d do—I had finally sold my childhood home in New York City. The last tether to the place where my story began, the last piece of my past that I had held onto, as if keeping it would somehow keep me grounded. It was gone. And before I even had the chance to let that reality settle, another piece of my life was slipping away.

Amelia had made up her mind. And there was nothing I could say—nothing I could do—to change it. All I could do was watch as the crow I once called mine prepared to take flight.

St. Patrick’s Day weekend came and went, leaving behind a blur of neon-lit streets, laughter spilling into the night air, and the kind of reckless, unfiltered energy that only comes from knowing everything is about to change.

It wasn’t just another weekend—it was the beginning of something new, the next chapter turning before I had even finished the last.

Bar hopping with my niece, the two of us weaving through crowds, the scent of whiskey, and cheap beer lingering in the air. The kind of night where conversations flowed as easily as the drinks, and for a little while, nothing else existed beyond the hum of the city around us.

Then, the rush of street racing—adrenaline surging as engines roared, the pavement blurring beneath tires, that familiar thrill of pushing limits just to see where they might break.

A house party followed, the kind that felt like stepping into a different world, where music vibrated through the walls and time became irrelevant. A collision of strangers and fast friendships, the kind of night where you’re never really alone, but somehow, always searching for something—or someone.

And then there was someone.

A fleeting moment, an unexpected connection, a possibility hanging in the air like an unanswered question. Someone who, for the first time in a long time, made me wonder if maybe—just maybe—I had found my next crow.

We met at a bar—one of those dimly lit places where the music hums low, the drinks flow a little too freely, and strangers become something more before the night is over.

She noticed me first. I felt her eyes on me before she even spoke, drawn in as if some invisible force had pulled her in my direction. I played it cool at first, leaning into the role of the untouchable, the one who doesn’t fall too easily. But she was persistent, her confidence unwavering, her energy impossible to ignore.

We talked—words turning over between us like cards in a slow game of chance. She edged closer with every sentence, the space between us shrinking, the air thick with the kind of tension you can’t fake.

“I’m a lesbian,” I told her. “Always have been, always will be.”

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t hesitate. Instead, she leaned in, her lips curving into something between a smirk and an unspoken challenge.

“So am I,” she confessed.

And then there was the touch—so casual it could have been played off as an accident, the kind of thing most people wouldn’t even acknowledge. But I knew better. A brief, deliberate brush against my breast, her fingers lingering just long enough to make it clear that she was testing the waters. And to be honest? I liked it.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it, we had slipped behind the bar, tucked away from the crowd, hidden in plain sight. In the secrecy of that stolen moment, our shirts lifted, fabric forgotten as hands explored the kind of intimacy that only happens when curiosity and chemistry collide.

A reckless, fleeting indulgence.

A moment that neither of us would regret.

I handed her my business card, a small piece of paper that held more significance than it ever should have. She took it with a quiet smile, and after an exhaustive rummage through her purse, she returned the gesture with a card of her own. The exchange felt almost ceremonial, as if we were acknowledging something we both knew, even if we couldn’t yet put it into words.

She begged me to text her. Please—her voice, a mix of desperation and hope, clinging to the moment as if she feared it would slip away too soon. I agreed, of course. I always do. Texting was easy—an invitation, a promise that something might come of it.

At first, there was the response. A few brief words, nothing more than a spark of interest, but enough to let me believe that maybe, just maybe, this one would stick. But then, when I reached out again to confirm plans, to make sure that what we had wasn’t just a fleeting encounter… nothing.

No response. Not a single word. Just silence. And just like that, she was gone.

Like Allegra. Like Amelia. She, too, was a crow. She came into my life, took what she wanted, and then disappeared into the dark, just like the others.

And as I stood there, watching the emptiness swallow the space where she had been, I felt it again—the ache of a promise broken. The way things always seem to end before they can truly begin. From the sky, it felt like black feathers falling from the stars, drifting down slowly, leaving nothing but the weight of their absence in their wake.

The pattern. I see it so clearly now, woven through the years like a thread I can never quite cut. These women—these crows—why do they keep finding me? Or is it me finding them? Do I chase the crows, or do they circle above, waiting for the right moment to land?

It’s always the same. The gravity, the pull, the intoxicating dance of it all. They arrive like omens—beautiful, wild, untamed. They linger just long enough to make me believe the promises, and the possibility of something lasting, perhaps maybe something real. And then, without fail, they slip through my fingers. Off into the night, their wings catching the wind, leaving me with nothing but the tattoos of memories on my heart and the faint traces of their presence.

The weight of it is suffocating. The knowing. The inevitable. I never want just a fleeting moment—I never have. I want something deep, something unshakable. I want permanence in a world that only ever offers me glimpses, echoes, shadows of what could be, leaving me with echoes of what could have been. But crows aren’t built for staying. They land when they choose, and when the moment is over, they go.

And yet, I keep hoping. I keep watching the sky, waiting, wondering if the next one might be different. But in the end, it’s always the same. For me, at least, time is always finite. Love is always fleeting. And the crows? They always fly away.

Love is a strange thing. It arrives unannounced, perches close enough to touch, and for a brief, shining moment, you believe—maybe this time, it will stay. But love, at least for me, has never been something permanent. It’s a crow landing nearby, tilting its head in quiet observation, watching, waiting. It lingers just long enough to make me feel its presence, to let me believe in its weight, its warmth. And then—without warning—it takes flight.

The initial excitement, the magnetic pull—the kind that keeps you awake at night, rerunning conversations, memorizing the smallest of details. The deep connection, so consuming it feels like time bends around it. And then, as if on cue, the inevitable departure. Always too soon. Always before I’m ready.

Love never truly disappears, though. It leaves behind black feathers—memories, remnants of what once was. Scattered fragments of laughter, of stolen moments, of whispered promises that were never meant to last.

I once wrote in my diary that it’s always raining in my head.

That line plays on a loop in my mind—a quiet truth I’ve carried for as long as I can remember. The knowing that love, no matter how fleeting, never fully fades. It lingers like a storm on the horizon, always present, always threatening to break.

And still, despite it all, I keep reaching out my hand, hoping—just once—the crow will choose to stay.

March 19, 2025