Thoughts from a queer COVID bride

I’ve recently come to the realization that I am a COVID bride. My fiancée proposed to me during a hike on the Na Pali Coast on March 14, 2020; that same day was the first confirmed case of COVID-19 on the island of Kaua'i, where we were vacationing to celebrate our fifth anniversary. We went out to celebrate that night and ordered crab rangoons and cocktails, not knowing that was the last time we’d eat at a restaurant together for the rest of the year.

In the year since, I’ve felt both lucky and stupid by the timing of that trip - had our departure been just a couple days later, would we have enough knowledge about community spread to cancel? I spent the first two weeks after returning from our vacation convinced we had picked up COVID during that trip, fearful that I would die days after getting engaged. 

In March 2020, I believed COVID would be over in time for a fall engagement party. I told friends, family, coworkers, that I was going to let my 2020 bride friends pick their 2021 date and then we’d start planning. My 2020 wedding friends - 6 couples - are all legally married at this point, some with 2021 celebrations already postponed to 2022. Restaurants and bars on our venue list slowly shuttered their doors. My friend Maggie, who my fiancée consulted for ring advice, sent us a large bottle of champagne to celebrate our engagement. It sits on our counter - beautiful, personalized and unopened - because we haven’t had anyone over to celebrate and can’t drink a large bottle just the two of us before it goes flat.

Our wedding planning would have been complicated to begin with. I’m an introverted extrovert, she’s an extroverted introvert and we have different ideas of what constitutes a reasonably sized wedding. The church I grew up in is in turmoil over our very right to get married. My Grandma is 90, and most venues we’re considering in the DC area aren’t accessible to someone with mobility issues. As a lesbian couple, not subscribing to gender roles is a huge gift in our relationship, and it also means there’s no template. Common wisdom about weddings tells us it’s the bride’s day, and any desire of the groom falls to the wayside to the wants of the woman - after all, she’s been dreaming about this day her whole life - but what about a wedding with two brides?

And then, the biggest thing, the thing most difficult to write about: as an interracial lesbian couple, not everyone in our lives is happy with our relationship to begin with.

While I’m an open book, she’s a private person. I respect that privacy and I’m trying to navigate how to share my experiences without sharing her or her loved ones’ business (I had her read this letter before sending it out). I’ve struggled for many years with how to write about this or even discuss it with friends. It’s been lonely. Sitting in bakeries over too-strong coffee as friends tell me they’re worried about me. A peer coach at an LGBTQ health center who, when I asked for advice on how to support my partner, told me: “you will have to decide how much you can take,” before telling me she was “85% straight” and “looking for her husband.” People in my life, many of whom are white and/or straight, who want the best for me but end up judging both me and my partner for deeply painful, personal situations beyond her control. I’ve worked every day for the past 6 years to not take personally what’s not about me, while also acknowledging the validity of my emotions. As a couple, we’ve finally reached a place where we can both express our individual pain and struggles without the other taking it personally (most of the time), and we work to tackle challenges as a team. I’m proud of us.

I believe strongly in the power of celebration for every phase of life, no matter how big or small. I love gathering my friends from various corners of my life and introducing them. It’s been a slow process moving from the sorrow of not celebrating our engagement in person to accepting that I will likely get married without all my friends present. Another hard to acknowledge truth: Despite my best feminist intentions, I still view being married as a personal accomplishment. The thought of not having all my closest friends and family there to witness my wedding day is sad. The alternate scenario, the thought of my fiancee feeling like a stranger at her own wedding, surrounded by my people - who, for many valid reasons, are not quite “her” people - is also not something I want. I know multiple truths can exist at once - but what does that look like logistically?

In some ways, COVID has given us a gift of time. I’ve finally come around to having a small wedding - what form that takes, time will tell. If we have a small ceremony, if we finally get legally married, will that give time for everyone who matters to come to our 5 year vow renewal, or whatever form our celebration takes when it’s safe?

As I close out, I have a boundary for my readers. I try not to think about my “audience” with this newsletter. My intention in writing this is to build accountability to write regularly and grow my craft. While I’ll admit to checking my subscriber numbers and open rates, I aim to focus on writing for me without thinking about the reader. I love reading your responses and always appreciate engaging. I’m setting a boundary here to be explicit that this email is not an ask for advice. I don’t want to hear about your cousin’s COVID-friendly wedding, or how you got your family to come around to your sexuality. I’m asking you to witness my emotions - without questioning or offering to fix my pain. Thank you.

I’m closing out with Chen Chen’s poem “I Invite My Parents to a Dinner Party.”