Twenty years, two proposals, a few plot twists, and a love story that chose me back.
Some love stories begin with fireworks. Ours started with a church youth camp, a borrowed car, and a painfully awkward “wait, you’re how old?” moment. I was 18. She was 14. And while I was innocently playing with her hair, thinking we were just vibing around the campgrounds, she casually (but wisely) dropped the bomb: “You know I’m 14, right?”
That was the moment I mentally yeeted myself off a cliff and immediately backed off — because no, thank you, I was not trying to make any headlines. She loved her hair being played with (and still does), but she gave me the age warning like the responsible queen she’s always been. That was our first real interaction. Nothing happened then. It shouldn’t have. It wasn’t our time. But something started. A spark. A thread. A footnote in the love story that would take years to write.
Over the years, our paths kept crossing — through broken engagements (mine, not hers… though she did help plan one of my honeymoons… to someone else… I know, I KNOW), long stretches of silence, and moments where we were just almost. I was navigating heartbreaks and detours, and somewhere along the way, I realized the one who always showed up, who always cheered me on, was her.
I was about to give up. I told my coworkers, “I can’t keep doing this — she doesn’t want to date me, and I can’t keep hoping.” That very day, she called my job and said she’d give me a chance. It was ridiculous timing. But maybe that’s just who we are — cosmic chaos with good timing.
We started dating. I was smitten. And insecure. She was radiant and somehow interested in me, and I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I wrote her good morning emails every day — she wrote back. We tried to beat each other to the inbox. It was nerdy and sweet and deeply us. We were engaged within a month. Proposed on Hallelujah Boulevard at the camp where we met — while she was pushing a baby stroller, because yes, even our proposal had childcare energy.
When I got down on one knee, her first words weren’t “yes” or “no.” They were, “I’ve gotta tell my mom we’re dating.” That’s how it started. And somehow, that moment — messy, funny, and completely unplanned — set the tone for everything to come.
We’ve now been married for over twenty years. That number alone feels sacred. And our life today looks nothing like it did when we started — it looks better.
We’ve moved across state lines for jobs, for safety, for the next chapter of “us.” We’ve experienced joy and chaos, and yes, even a literal nightmare: hitting a pedestrian. They survived, thank God. It wasn’t my fault — they walked straight into the highway — but the sound, the feeling, the aftermath… I still carry it. She carried me through it.
We’ve weathered church trauma — the kind that tries to make you believe God’s love is conditional and your worth is tied to your weight. I’ve had pastors laugh in my face and mock me when I said I wanted to pursue ministry. She never laughed. She never minimized. She stood taller than any pulpit and reminded me I had worth, I had calling, and I had her.
And then came the deepest truth — the one that lived in me long before I had the words for it: that I’m a trans woman.
I won’t pretend it wasn’t complicated. She had questions. Some hesitations. But her love was bigger than fear. She chose to stay. She chose me. Again. And again. And again. That kind of love? It builds you. It becomes part of your bones.
She shows me in the most thoughtful, consistent ways that she sees me. She comes home with earrings, dresses, makeup, soft socks. She reminds me, over and over, that I’m Lexi. That I’m her wife. That even when the world doesn’t see me, she does.
There’s also… the number. One day, I misheard her — thought she said “I love you,” so I said it back. Turns out, she was just giving me a random number. For what? No clue. She probably remembers (because she remembers everything). But that number stuck. It became ours. And when we double it now, it’s our way of saying our love keeps growing. Quietly. Constantly. Exponentially.
There’s still so much we haven’t done — growing old together, embracing whatever weird and wonderful chapters life throws at us next. I’m not just excited for the good stuff. I’m ready for the hard stuff too, because I get to do it with her. And honestly, if life were only the fun parts, it wouldn’t feel like life — it’d feel like a highlight reel. And we? We’re writing a full story.
And if I could tell her one thing — really tell her — it’s this:
I do not take you for granted. Not for one second. I am so unbelievably thankful that I get to do this life with you. There’s no one else I’d want beside me. There never was.
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