Reflections from the Recovery Room - Part 1: Till Death

No one prepares you for what it feels like when your husband looks you in the eye and confirms what you’ve been worried about for over six months, what you’ve lost sleep about for over six months, what you’ve felt shameful and guilty about for over six months – that he doesn’t- no, sorry – that he can’t convince himself to love you anymore, at least not how he used to. What’s worse – no one prepares you for what it feels like when the source of the falling out of love is tied to you finally living life as yourself, the thing that’s made you the happiest you’ve been in your entire life.

Hold up. Getting ahead of myself. Let me catch you up to speed.

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Kullen and I celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary last October. We had reservations at one of our favorite restaurants, we were dressed to the nines, and we pregamed the event with a prosecco toast, which had made its way into our bloodstreams by the time we arrived at the restaurant. At that time, work was going well for both of us, I was finally feeling like my physical transition had hit its stride, and we were in the middle of packing up our entire, former life into neatly organized boxes, as we were just one week out from our anticipated move to our favorite city. In so many ways, life was good.

But no matter how hard we tried – seated across the table from each other at that cozy little restaurant – we just couldn’t shake the thick tension between us. Tension that had already been building for weeks, if not months. Tension that felt like a drastic departure from our usual relational energy. For our entire almost seven-year relationship, we just got each other. Things just clicked. Energy flowed. We were innately a team.

I first noticed the tension earlier in the summer but shrugged it off as residual stress from a recent busy period in my job. I noticed it again, later in the summer, after things with work had settled, which is the first time I attempted bringing it up with my husband.

“Babe, I feel like things are different”. I started in, in a light, loving, gentle tone.

If there was one thing I’d learned about being married, it was that I had a natural tendency to come in too hot during conversations like these, often in genuine attempts to just be straightforward, to limit confusion on what I was saying and where I was coming from, and Kullen had a tendency to read into that directness as an attack, causing him to immediately raising defenses. A lethal combo that often led to the conversation backfiring altogether.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about this summer, and while I know it’s been so busy for both of us, and we haven’t had a ton of time together – I feel like when we are together, things have started to feel different.” I continued.

I waited for a response, but – nothing.

I finished my thought: “I know when I first came out as trans, we acknowledged that things may change over time, given that you’re gay, and I’m a woman, and I guess I’m worried that’s what’s happening.”

I looked up at him, and I saw the hurt begin to swell in his eyes.

“Margaux that’s not what’s happening here. We’re fine. I’m fine.” He said, in a more direct manner than I was used to getting from him.

I wanted to say more, but I could tell that was the end of the conversation.

So instead, true to anxious girly form, I just thought about it. With every passing day, with every passing week, for the rest of the summer and into the fall, I thought of one million other things I wanted to say. I wanted to tell him how confusing it all felt, that for the first time, ever, I truly looked and felt like myself, but that with those new changes – I also felt an increasingly growing distance from the life, and marriage, the former me had built. I wanted to explain that every time I’d get all dolled up – I’d look at him, hoping to see some glimmer of desire in his eyes, the same glimmer he looked at me with, just before tearing off my clothes and kissing me all over. And I wanted to make him feel the sting that I felt every time I’d been let down, seeing an unchanged face, no glimmer of any desire – in fact, no interest whatsoever – in my physical body.

I tried again, about a month later, to approach the conversation one more time, but the results were the same, and just like the first time – I thought of a million more things I wanted to say. I played them in my head, silently, over-and-over again.

I did my best to revel in the normalcy of our routine. We’d wake up, he’d make coffee, I’d get ready for work, and he’d send me on my way for the day. I’d return home in the afternoon, we’d go for a run – sometimes together, sometimes separately. We’d make dinner and watch a show or play a round of cards or meet up with friends, and we’d go to bed. And then we’d do it all again. But as October hit, as the moving boxes piled up, and as we prepared to depart that routine state of normalcy, the tension became unavoidable.

So, there we were, seated across from one another, on our wedding anniversary – candle flickering between us, cocktails in hand and entrée orders on their way to the kitchen – forced to sit in it the tension we’d been trying our best to ignore. I don’t remember what set it off, but I started to cry. Starting off as just one single tear, gently moving down my cheek, but, over the course of the cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, the tears started to stream. At the time, I hadn’t put together what it was, but having over eight months of distance from the situation, I now realize it was the first stage of grieving something that wasn’t there anymore.

He asked me what was wrong, and I assured him that I was fine – just thinking about our time in Madison together and how different (in mostly good ways) things would be once we moved. What I didn’t say was that I wasn’t even afraid anymore, I was bracing myself – for what felt like an inevitable. As soon as we upended our routine with the move to Chicago, I knew that meant we could no longer ignore the big pink, blue, and white striped elephant in the room: that my transness marked the end of our marriage as we knew it. And I felt totally isolated in dealing with it, all because he wouldn’t admit it to me, or to himself. We returned home after dinner, without any further acknowledgement of the tension or my tears. I could tell that, though he asked, he didn’t want to talk about it, and frankly, I was tired and needed to be up early for work the next morning anyway – so we let it lie. The next week was filled with routines and normalcy, coupled with bittersweet goodbyes to the life we’d built in Madison together, and the friends that made it such a beautiful six-year residency for us. The tension seemed to dissipate, if only briefly, in those bittersweet moments, which made it all feel even sweeter.

The day we moved to Chicago, I remember watching Kullen pull out of the driveway, in our massive U-Haul, and almost immediately, I picked up my phone to call my baby brother, while in my car, trailing behind. We talked for almost the entire two-and-a-half-hour drive, and after getting the general excitement statements of – Oh my god – bitchhhhh, you’re moving to Chicago! – out of the way, I decided to do something I hadn’t allowed myself to do before.

“Okay so, keep this to yourself, but once we move to Chicago, I’m going to officially talk to Kullen about opening our relationship.” I said, with genuine excitement.

This was something Kullen and I had talked about for years, even pre-transition, as a – we don’t feel like we need this now, but we’d like it on the table in case we ever do – fail-safe option. We discussed it after I came out, too, knowing this was a viable path that other couples in similar situations had taken – successfully – to navigate the new and uncharted waters of changing bodies, minds, and hearts. And despite our avoiding certain conversations throughout the summer, this was one we both entertained more willingly, so it started to feel like a realistic option for us.

My brother shared genuine excitement for us, and we then gushed about some of the recent attention I’d been getting, in general, from men – something I hate admitting was as validating as it was at that point in my transition. For so many months I’d felt stuck in an in-between state. Not quite man, not quite woman – people didn’t know where to place me. But by the fall, I was passing as cis-female in most spaces, and I felt at home in my body – especially when men took note of my looks (Yikes!!). We wrapped up the conversation as I was entering the Chicagoland suburbs, and after sitting in traffic for another hour, I arrived at my new home.

With this move, we’d also both set some specific intentions for ourselves – namely that we wanted to be less beholden to the day-to-day routines we’d become so reliant on. To help wean ourselves off those strict routines, we acknowledged that we’d have to be a bit selfish, for the first time in our relationship. With that came new friendships that were separate from our couple identity, new hobbies that felt fulfilling to us as individuals, and new experiences – some with, and some without one another.

Within days of unpacking, we had the opening of the marriage discussion, and there wasn’t even much back and forth about it all; we kind of just agreed it made sense for us. So, slightly nervously, slightly excitedly – we began talking to other people. I won’t bore you with the rules we established, the things that felt helpful vs harmful, etc. because, honestly, none of that feels super noteworthy, and we both led with respecting each other’s wishes. The important thing to know is that we were in our new home, exploring all the city had to offer – including its many offerings of men. He wanted to date men (period). I wanted to explore what it felt like dating men who saw me for the woman I had recently blossomed into. And where better to do that than Chicago, where, apparently, all midwestern heathen couples go to settle down.

Almost immediately, I started a dating profile for myself. I kept my bio simple:

Trans (flag) / Married – yes, he knows and is probably on here too / New to Chicago. Show me around! 

In no time at all, matches poured in. This was my first time on the girl side of dating apps, and I quickly learned that men use a tactic that I call the numbers game. Essentially, swipe right on anyone you think is hot, don’t worry about reading their profile, and reel in as many women as you can. This tactic, while likely successful for their endeavors in getting laid, often led to one of two annoying conversations. Either a.) they’d realize I was married, and that would lead to a million questions, stipulations, and concerns – which ultimately meant no luck for me finding a suitor, or worse, b.) they’d swipe right without realizing I was trans and eventually, either by going back and reading my bio/seeing the trans woman gender tag on the top of my profile, or through me outing myself, they’d immediately react, scorned and emasculated at realization that they could have possibly found me, a TRANSGENDER WOMAN, attractive and worthy of his attention. Neither situation was ideal. However, I quickly realized that the numbers game also gave me a consistent pool of men to choose from because – no matter the man – they all play the game. Within the first week on the app, I had literally thousands of likes from men. I also quickly learned that with a premium subscription, I could just game the system myself and sift thru just the men that had already swiped right on me – doing my best to parse out the trans-inclusive, secure straight and bi men, from the insecure ones (something I’ve since become a pro at).

After a couple weeks of navigating the game, I met someone I’d grown a genuine interest in. He was only the second person I’d been on a date with, as a newly non-monogamous woman, and he was also in a seemingly successful marriage. He and his wife had previously been open but closed their marriage when she got pregnant, and now that the kid was a few years old, they felt like they could open things up again, while still dedicating adequate time to each other and their shared offspring. I found his situation comforting – because it felt like I was looking at what a successful ethically non-monogamous relationship could be. I also found it all slightly hot – because, well, hot dad.

He and I dated casually, off-and-on for about two months, while still talking to, and dating, other people. As a Chicago native, he showed me around the city, and as a life-long Sex and the City fan, I got to have my own Chicago- fantasy version of the show, where I – trans Carrie Bradshaw, would take the El train south, to the loop, to meet him after work. We walked around the river walk, went for dinner and drinks, attended concerts, and I began to fall in love with the city. What’s more – I fell in love with the way that he looked at me, touched me, treated me. For the first time, in a romantic setting, I felt like someone appreciated, no – desired me for my feminine qualities, not for the few masculine ones that only surgical intervention could take away.

It was during that two-month period, I realized, with full certainty this time – that things were different between Kullen and me. The non-monogamy had been objectively, mostly good for us. It clearly allowed us to remain partners, best friends, co-pet-parents, and roommates, while also alleviating some of the pressure we put on ourselves – and each other – to remain physically intimate. We felt like we were in a good place, and we’d both settled into our new dynamic. Heck, we even started getting more comfortable sharing stories with each other about our respective dates and escapades, which was uncomfortable at first but eventually became fun dinner table talk.

And with our new normal finally feeling normal, I once again tried to approach the conversation. It was early December now, and my quick-lived fling with hot, married Chicago dad had already ended.

“Kullen – I know we’ve had this conversation a few times at this point, but I really feel like I need us to try to have it again.” I started, with as sweet of a tone as I could muster.

“Okay, let’s talk.” He said, a knowing look forming on his face.

“Well, I’ve come to realize, that with dating other men, I feel this validation. It’s not even anything they say or do, it’s like…how they look at me? How they make me feel, I guess.” I rambled.

“Okay…?” He replied, his look of certainty started to fall.

“Yeah, and I guess,” I continued, “it’s really hard to not compare that to how you look at me, how you make me feel.”

“Oh.” He said, almost under his breath, with a slightly defeated tone.

“I just mean – you know when you know someone is just inherently attracted to you? When there’s just that palpable thing between them and you. It’s like a combination of primal desire and pheromones, or something.”

I didn’t wait for a response.

“I feel like there isn’t any of that when you look at me, when we go out together.” I continued. “And don’t get me wrong, I know you love me, and we have an incredible partnership, but I’m worried that this is becoming less and less of a romantic relationship, and more of a familial friendship.”

Now, I waited for a response, as tears spilled down my face. And through choking back his own tears, he responded.

“Well – honestly, that stings, a lot…” He started.

“And that’s totally fair!” I interjected.

He continued. “I really don’t feel like that’s a thing, Margaux, and to be honest with you, this was my one fear I had about us opening up our marriage – that you’d find someone, or several someone’s, who you feel can love you better than me.”

“Kullen – that’s not what this is about at all. This has nothing to do with anyone else. I only bring other people up to try to explain what I’ve been feeling since the last several times we’ve tried to have this conversation. I just don’t feel loved by you, romantically!” I interrupted, again, and I felt my tone start to shift before continuing. “I feel so let down every time I hope you’re going to look at me in that way, and frankly, I feel like we continue ignoring what’s actually happening here. We’re delaying the inevitable.”

“And what’s the inevitable?” He asked, knowing exactly what I was saying.

“That you are gay, and I am a woman, and that no matter how hard we both try to push these feelings down and ignore them, we can’t change those facts.” I snapped back, now at full volume.

“Kullen – I’m going to continually change, become more and more myself, physically and emotionally and spiritually, and I want someone who can love me for those things I’m feeling so much self-love for.” I continued.

“And I want that person to be you. I genuinely do. I meant and still mean forever – till death do us part. But I can’t keep pretending this isn’t a thing!”

I was sobbing, shrieking, almost pleading at this point. I took a beat, and I let him respond.

Again, he kept it short, to the point, with certainty.

“Margaux, I love you. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. I also said forever, and I mean that. You’re my person. That hasn’t changed.”

I forced myself to calm down before finishing my somewhat flawed but honest argument. I looked him in the eyes, held his hand, and took a deep breath.

“If it’s not my womanhood, I need you to articulate what it is. You’re my person too. We know each other better than anyone else on this planet. So, for me, for us – I need you to examine what it is. Something has changed. Something is different. And if we keep ignoring it, not only will we crash and burn – we’ll resent each other for it, too. I meant what I said in my vows – I’m with you for life, but we have to figure this out.”

“Okay – I will start discussing it in therapy next week.” He assured me.

We simultaneously unclenched our jaws, hugged each other, and reminded one other again – that we loved each other, before letting ourselves cry some more.

Immediately following the conversation, Kullen made good on his promise and started discussions with his therapist. The rest of December flew by, and just a few weeks after ringing in the new year together, Kullen came out of a therapy session, asking if we could talk. I seated myself on the couch, and for the first time during one of these conversations, he took the lead.

“Margaux, I love you.” He started, already crying. “But I’ve gotta be honest. You were right. I am gay, and you are a woman, and this is starting to feel unavoidable. I love the woman you’re becoming, but I just can’t convince myself to be in love with you anymore, at least not like that.”

I was a bit stunned, and for the first time in our marriage, I struggled to find a response. As much as I usually loved hearing those words: you were right, I hated all the other words surrounding them. As much as I already knew that this exact thing, which I’d felt in my gut for months, was coming – I felt a sting worse than any insult or any criticism I’d had hurled at me before. And as much as I’d prepared myself for this day, it all felt like it came seemingly out of nowhere. After months of failed attempts to get him to have this exact conversation, after months of trying to course correct things, and after months of not feeling loved, he so suddenly seemed all too ready to have the discussion.

For all that, I felt resentment building. But I also know this man, and so I knew how impossible it must have felt to share even a fraction of what he was coming out of his mouth. He did exactly what I asked him to do: talk about it in therapy, process, and come back to me. So, instead of responding with hurt, I cried, thanked him for telling me, and told him I was proud of him – that I knew how hard that must have been for him to not only come to terms with, but also to share with me. We left the conversation at that.

And so, for the next few months, we took some intentional time apart. He needed to catch up in the grieving process (I was months ahead of him because, again, I knew), and I needed to work through some of the building anger and resentment I was feeling towards the situation because I knew it wasn’t totally fair to hold all of it against him. He picked up extra work trips, and I allowed myself to become fully enveloped in my then-new, now-former romance that came out of nowhere.

As I unpacked my resentment, I came to terms with several things. Firstly, I had to grapple with the fact that I’d spent the first year and some change of my transition really hyper focused on how to keep my marriage feeling exactly as it felt between Kullen and Sean. I became an expert at carefully ensuring nothing about my selfish choice to transition bled into the health, happiness, or success of the marital union that I felt incredible pride over. Similarly, I realized that I’d become accustomed to making sure to always overthink, overanalyze, and overcommunicate how I was showing up as Margaux, to ensure I didn’t impose upon Sean and Kullen’s relationship, which is why our Madison routines felt so comfortable, and why things changed more drastically the moment we abandoned those routines, in favor of the city.

I realized that, in being so strict with myself and how I was allowed to show up, I’d also been neglecting Margaux’s growth. So even while my physical body was changing (thank you, hormones!), I was stunting my emotional growth from happening – in favor of trying to hold onto something that was not mine to hold onto anymore. And it wasn’t until I allowed myself to be selfish, to explore myself, as myself – and not just as a fixture in Sean’s and Kullen’s marriage, that I really started to become Margaux. As I let up on the reigns, I found a new, deep level of self-love, self-confidence, and self-assurance. I began to learn not only what Margaux’s like in romantic settings: what she feels while getting ready for a first date, how she acts when flirting with strangers, etc., but I also learned what Margaux needs from herself and other people, and how radiantly she shines when those needs are met. There were small things, too – like a lighter, more emphasized sense of humor and a freer fun-loving sensibility about life – both things that my former self had placed limitations on because she had not yet come to terms with who she was as a person. And then there were bigger things – like healing from the years-long disordered eating habits I’d taken a concerning amount of comfort in (more on that in part two of this essay – so stick around!).

The more distance we took from our former relationship, the more things felt easier, and eventually, Kullen and I settled into our new normal. We stopped forcing things and just let them happen as they did, and eventually – we got back to the old us, sans pressured romance and sans tension. We started to enjoy our friendship again, and we recognized that the love was still there – very much so – but as a familial love. It took us some time, but as of the date I am writing this sentence (June 9, 2025 – Happy Pride!), we’re in a better spot than we’ve been in since before I transitioned, and for the first time – Margaux gets to take part in that, fully and wholly as herself. We love our new normal – still best friends, still co-pet parents, and still roommates, but we’re doing it more honestly. We stopped holding onto the things that aren’t physically there anymore. We’ve grieved things more fully, and any lingering resentment dissipated. We’ve learned that no matter how hard we try, no matter how many conversations, there’s no recreating what we had in our previous relationship, and we’re only hurting ourselves (and each other) in trying to do so.

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If someone were to have asked me to reflect back on the past seven years – even just a few months ago – I would have said that our relationship was a failure. I would have said that I felt guilty for my role in our marriage failing, that I felt resentment towards Kullen in not being able to process his emotions quicker, and that I felt shame in failing at marriage.

But now, when I think back on the past seven years, I feel immense pride for what we built as a couple. We’ve watched each other grow up in our own ways. We’ve co-parented two dogs, navigated adoption logistics, been there for each other in times of personal and professional strife. We got married in the backyard of the home we purchased together, and we hosted friends and family for holidays, birthdays, and other events – through global pandemics and all. We’ve loved each other – so deeply – that we tried everything to make the changing landscape of our relationship work. I no longer feel guilty that the upheaval of our relationship was all somehow rooted in my selfish need for self-discovery and exploration, I no longer feel resentment about the difference in time it took us to process where things were in our relationship, and I no longer feel shame that we somehow failed in marriage because we didn’t. If anything, we’ve succeeded in every way. We’ve chosen to celebrate who we are, and where we are – today – as individuals and as a dynamic fucking duo: comprised of one woman – always overly eager to talk about every feeling she’s ever had under the sun, and one gay man – who needs time to process before he’s ready to share.

I still love you, Kullen Jay (platonically), and sorry, but you’re still stuck with me, even after the death of our marriage – till death do us part, baby.