On a humid summer night in Boston 15 years ago, I found myself alone on a stranger’s porch and as close to a breakdown as a 30-year-old woman can be while still remaining upright.
In the span of one week, my entire world had crumbled from hopeful celebration into absolute disaster. I was certain I had dared to dream too big and was going to be left with absolutely nothing.
Specifically, I was homeless and carless, without a job and completely broke. To top it all off, my heart had been shattered.
It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. After being raised in an environment of grinding poverty, addiction and mental and physical illness in Texas, I dropped out of school at 13 to go into work to support my family. It took two decades of hard work, little sleep, a mountain of student loans and a lot of blind luck to get back into a classroom again. Against all odds, I managed to get accepted into an exclusive private university, with all the benefits – including falling impetuously in love while studying abroad.
Near the end of my year away in Brighton, England, I received a series of unexpected and shattering pieces of bad news from home. I spent the next month crying in my bed. Eventually, a concerned friend dragged me out of the room and insisted I go see her boyfriend’s band play.
Even before we made eye contact, I found myself drawn to Damian. He was playing djembe in the band, dapper in a hat and waistcoat, his dancing taking up all the space in the tiny pub.
Even sobbing into my pint, I noticed how he listened as others talked, showing kindness and generosity in small and countless ways. I watched as he packed up the band’s gear while others got drunk, hugged his male friends, made sure everyone got home safely, enjoyed the moment and smiled with his eyes. Eventually, he saw me hiding in the corner looking lost and sad. After asking if I was OK (I clearly was not), he bought me a drink and then held my hand for six hours straight while I poured my troubled heart out.
We only had two weeks together before I left to finish my degree. Being with Damian was completely unlike any other relationship I’d had. In my new grief, I didn’t have any emotional filter so if I felt or thought something, I just said it. In return, Damian was direct and open too. It was completely new for me – the first time I had ever felt emotionally safe with another human being. It was wonderful. All other plans were cancelled and we existed on new love and Indian takeaways in bed.
Leaving England, in the days before unlimited free video calling, was brutal. At best, we could only make promises to regularly email and see what would happen.
That year I worked three jobs and carried a full course load, my gaze firmly fixed on saving enough money to get back to Damian. Once we were together again in England, we could make a plan for what came next.
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Twenty four hours after graduating, I left student housing, tipped some clothes into a suitcase, sold my car, worked my final shifts, got on a flight and came face-to-face with UK border security. It was there, in that limbo land of interminable waiting, secret holding cells, body searches and hard faces, that everything fell apart.
Not realising my flight had been delayed, a worried Damian had called the airport. When they asked about our relationship, a naive and uninformed Damian gave an exaggerated answer, in the hopes it would protect me. With “she’s my fiance”, my fate was sealed before I even made it to the border queue. I was held and denied official entry for not disclosing my relationship status, despite my protests and clarifications. The following two days in a holding cell involved a tearful, angry call with Damian that ended our relationship, and spending all my savings on a ticket back to the United States. I boarded that flight unceremoniously, in a pair of plastic handcuffs.
When I landed, my few remaining friends in Boston called in some favours, arranging a sofa and dinner for a few days. The anger I felt melted into grief over how badly I had spoken to Damian, then understanding and eventually forgiveness. When I finally had enough courage to return Damian’s many apologetic voicemails, it was a very short and confusing conversation.
He asked me what I wanted most, and I told him I needed everything but I could only think of one thing I wanted. “I just really want a hug.” He said OK, then promptly hung up. I thought it was all over.
Three days later as I sat on that front porch, despondent and confused, a taxi pulled up. Damian emerged with smiling eyes, to give me exactly what I said I’d wanted most. He bounded up the steps with his arms out, leaving the taxi door open with his luggage still in it. I knew then that he would always be there, ready and willing to steady me in the world.
Over 15 years, Damian and I have been in many more border security lines together, navigating marriage and immigration status in several countries so that I could continue to studies. We eventually ended up in New Zealand, which we consider our forever home. We have built a life on a rural orchard filled with animals, and space for Damian to practise with his new band. After this long together, we like to say we are in no way similar as people but we are completely complementary. Damian is still the most patient, kind, encouraging, hard-working and forgiving man I’ve ever met, and every day he gives me the best hug I’ve ever had.
Tell us the moment you knew
Do you have a romantic realisation you’d like to share? From quiet domestic scenes to dramatic revelations, Guardian Australia wants to hear about the moment you knew you were in love.
