We get asked all the time, “How did you two meet?” It’s an easy question on the surface, but the real story is a long one about finding honesty, choosing courage, and building a big blended family. Christopher and I came from very different places he grew up in rural Virginia and I grew up in deep south Louisian but somehow our paths ran parallel until they crossed.
Both of us felt different from a young age. For me, the realization came in middle school: while everyone else seemed interested in dating, I discovered I was attracted to people of the same sex. I felt exposed the first time someone used a hateful slur toward me. The memory is sharp, where I was, who said it, the laughter. I buried that part of myself for years, pretending to be what others expected so I wouldn’t stand out or get hurt.
Christopher tried a different route. He turned to faith and church life, hoping it would quiet the feeling. He built a life that looked like the one people around him praised: marriage, kids, a home. For both of us, those choices made sense at the time, but they didn’t bring peace. Eventually, each of us realized we had to face the truth about who we were, even if that truth threatened our families and the lives we had built.
Coming out after having wives and children was messy and painful. We both worried about hurting people we loved, yet staying hidden felt dishonest and unfair to everyone. In the midst of divorces and the upheaval that followed, we each found an online community for men going through similar experiences. It was the first time either of us felt less alone. Hundreds of men were in the same place, and through that group Christopher and I connected and became friends.
Our friendship grew quickly. We supported each other through late nights and awkward, lonely moments, like the first time he dropped his kids off at their mom’s house, or when I came home to an empty apartment for the first time after leaving my marriage. Then, in the middle of one of those late-night calls, we both realized things had changed. We asked each other what we were, and after fumbling for words, we admitted we wanted to be more than friends. We started dating long distance.
Meeting him in person for the first time was unforgettable. I flew from Louisiana to Richmond, nervous and excited. Walking through the airport, seeing him waiting with that bright smile, feeling his hands take mine both of us shaking was the moment I knew I was safe. He calmed me, and I felt, perhaps for the first time, truly loved.
Because we both had kids, we were careful about how we moved forward. We’d agreed we wouldn’t introduce our children to someone we were dating unless the relationship felt serious. Christopher began by talking with his older kids, Delaney and Cooper, individually, giving them space to process the news and say when they were ready. Cooper wanted to meet right away, while Delaney needed time. I sent her a note telling her I was proud of her honesty and that I was happy to wait. A few weeks later she asked us both to come to her school play, and after that her guard came down.
With my younger boys, Sawyer and August, we used FaceTime at first so they could see Christopher in a safe, familiar place. Christopher sent small gifts and made consistent contact. By the time we all met, the kids were already friendly with each other. We planned a trip to New Orleans so they could choose activities together, museums, the French Market, parks, culinary treats. The week was chaotic and perfect; by the end everyone felt like family.
Blending our families wasn’t always easy. There were awkward moments and missteps. We had to learn how to be honest with each other and with our children. But those challenges taught us compassion and patience. Our older kids noticed how much happier their dads were. Our younger ones learned a broader idea of love, one that looks like shared chores, bedtime stories, and laughter over doughnuts.
Now, as we approach our anniversary, we look back and see how far we’ve come. We chose truth over comfort, and though that choice cost us in the short term, it made room for a life that feels authentic and full. I wouldn’t erase the pain that led us here, because it shaped us into more honest, generous people.
If you’re in the place we once were married, parenting, and also quietly wrestling with who you are know this: you are not alone. Coming out is not a single event but a slow process of care, planning, and bravery. Take your time. Protect yourself and your children. Seek support. And when you can, choose honesty. The people who truly belong in your life are the ones who will love you because you finally let them see the whole you.
