how to be both

by Christine Wiese

We used to joke that our relationship was a one-night stand that turned into a marriage. I was instantly drawn to J’s brilliant blue eyes and quirky smile. There was a quick spark of passion and connection—our first long conversation extended into the next morning.

A year and a half later, we had a lovely garden wedding in sharp midday Florida sunlight that made the photographer squint and scowl because it was so difficult to arrange everyone in a way that didn’t throw harsh shadows over their faces. We imagined a future in Gainesville, the quiet central Florida college town where we met in my last year of graduate school. But after dragging our harried real estate agent around for months, what captured us both about our house was nothing as practical as the distance to work. It was the light—specifically the light in the living room—the way it spilled from the giant picture windows in the north wall and filled the room.

On the day we moved our furniture in, we set our coffee table in the middle of that pool of golden Florida radiance and surrounded it with green sitting cushions. Our floor-sitting routine was the sort of thing we bonded over, like the importance of natural light, our preference for neutral colors, and how we put away each Tupperware container with its lid on the dish. Our coffee table was the space we returned to each day—to eat dinner, watch a movie, talk, and argue.

We placed the two-seater white couch in front of the big picture window and kept the thin gauzy white curtains pulled back, so as the sun rose, it filtered through the arching branches of the live oak in the front yard and passed its beams across the floor. Why did we choose white among all the couches on the IKEA showroom floor when we knew we wanted a dog who would undoubtedly have muddy paws and shed brown fur? The couch seat was wide and flat so we could sit cross-legged. It was short, too, so our feet reached the floor and didn’t dangle as they did on the furniture belonging to all our taller friends. The white couch was where we sat to relax. We were good at resting together. I remember the coziness of sitting facing one another, our legs intertwined, each with our back on an armrest and a book in our hands.

On a Saturday morning, not long after settling into our new house, the phone rang. I heard J’s muted voice behind the office door for a few minutes before they came out and met my questioning face. A friend of J’s from work was getting divorced. Although I’d only met the couple a few times, I’d imagined they got along well. At the same moment, we stepped forward and reached for each other. “Let’s never get divorced,” J said.

We stood with our arms curled tightly around each other while bright sunlight streamed into the room. I couldn’t imagine getting divorced. We’d realized our dreams together: our house in bike-commuting distance to our work and a cheerful mix-breed rescue puppy. I’d found a job at the University of Florida in plant biology, and J worked in library science. It was what we wanted, engaging work that left time for my yoga practice and J time to make pottery. J and our marriage were home.

So when did the little niggling feeling start? The one I sometimes blamed on J when they did or didn’t do or say whatever it was I wanted, or didn’t want, at that moment. When I was working or teaching yoga, I didn’t think about the occasional ping of—what was that anyway—something—because that’s how marriage is, right? I mean no one stays in the falling-in-love phase forever. I didn’t ask J how they felt underneath the stress of work and the day-to-day. What were they thinking about while they shaped mugs and bowls in their pottery studio? After eight years it never occurred to me to wonder if they were happy. We each kept our vulnerable selves and our secrets close and said nothing.

“I never see you anymore,” they huffed angrily when I got into bed after a late evening of teaching yoga. I had fallen in love with Ashtanga yoga practice in graduate school. Its rigor and intensity hooked me from the first class, and I’d been carving out an ever-larger sphere of my life for yoga ever since. They’re right, I thought, then stuffed the thought away and lay down.

We scheduled date nights. At a corner table at the ice cream shop, J sat quietly while I meandered out loud through my fears and struggles with starting a small yoga studio. The hour and a half I spent on my yoga practice every morning inspired me. I wanted to share it with others who connected to its dynamic flow. Starting a studio of my own, though, even a small one, had been harder than I imagined. It felt good to talk through my worries. But just as I started to relax, J spat out, “All you talk about is yoga. It’s too much. I don’t want to hear anything else about yoga, ever.”

I stopped talking. My fleeting sense of connection evaporated. If they weren’t interested in something I was so passionate about, then who was? We didn’t want to lean into the same things. I wanted to expand my yoga program and stretch myself physically, go hiking, backpacking, and take long bike rides. J wanted to putter around the house together, do some fix-it projects, and renovate the place a bit. I threw my wilted paper ice cream bowl into the trash and sighed. “All right, let’s go.”

J tried joining me on outdoor trips, but workdays in an air-conditioned library didn’t acclimate them to the Florida heat in the way spending workdays at plant biology field sites did. Hiking in the heat was as miserable for J as it was enjoyable for me. We had good moments while backpacking on a short loop near Sarasota. On our first night of three, we stood shoulder to shoulder and clasped hands as a brilliant sunset faded from red to gold to pale yellow over the wide-open dry prairie. But those moments were overshadowed by J’s frustration. Wild hogs had rooted up and down the trail, leaving the usually flat ground bumpy, and the temperature was an unseasonable eighty-five-plus degrees even though it was mid-winter. J’s litany of complaints about the lumpy, hot trail rubbed my nerves raw.

I remembered how, early in our relationship, we used to run together. We were exactly the same height with the same size feet. We could grab any of the shoes in the small pile next to the front door; they all fit us both. When we ran together, our strides matched perfectly with no one ahead or behind. These days we just couldn’t find a rhythm.

Years later, I learned that their inscrutable look was not only frustration but also a fear of not keeping up, of seeing me bend farther away and not knowing how to catch hold of my hand. They had always been there, moving in parallel beside me. It didn’t occur to me to reach out for them and pull them close again.

Instead, our momentum carried us further apart. We spent even less time together. We made other friends. We spent more time with them. We fought more. Our irritation with each other spilled into silly arguments spun from the cycle of trying to find the overlap between our two individual selves.

One evening after a long day at work, we stood in the hallway, and I ranted about a co-worker who was passive-aggressively undermining my success at work. When I paused and took a breath, I looked to J for support. With an angry look, they said, “What do you want me to do about it?” and walked away.

How long after that was it when we sat on our cushions at the table in the living room, the one just the right height for sitting on the floor? With the sun’s afternoon glow around us, J said, “I think we’re drifting apart.” Chills ran down my back. We couldn’t be, I thought. But I knew it was true. We leaned closer with only the distant sound of traffic filling the space left by our words, reaching for physical closeness to soothe the unease. J had just turned 40. I was 35.

J first suggested seeing other people—not separating—polyamory: staying together and having other relationships. I’ve lost the memory of where the idea came from or how J first brought it up. I remember they described a world of people who maintained committed relationships with more than one person at a time. I was skeptical. Either we were together or we were apart, right? But I didn’t feel supported, and J didn’t feel seen or heard. We struggled to find mutual perspectives and shared ways to spend time. Did we want to stay in a relationship that felt more like roommates than a partnership? Could we find in other relationships what was missing in ours? And could we still share our life together which had lasted almost a decade? I mulled over J’s idea.

A few weeks later, lying in bed next to J with our rescue dog snoring quietly on the floor beside me, I wondered how would I feel when J kissed someone else? But maybe I could do my things like go for a long bike ride without feeling guilty. We spent so little time together these days. Maybe it wouldn’t be so different. Lately, I spent more time with my friend W because we taught yoga together and because we wanted to do the same things, long bike rides and hikes. Maybe I could hang out with W more, too.

“Okay,” I said, into the dark. “We can try seeing other people.”

“Okay,” they replied. “Let’s talk about it in the morning.”

The next day, we sat together on the cushions at our coffee table, and I held a notebook and pen while we worked on a list of boundaries for our future relationships. Where would we spend time with other partners if they came to our house? The kitchen, living room, and porch were okay. Not our bedroom, we agreed. That was off-limits. What about when conflicts arose about time? We’d prioritize each other. If one of us needed the other, we wouldn’t accept a date with someone else. As we talked, I remembered the connection of shared priorities. Seeing other people was something we were doing together. We smiled, laughing sheepishly at the absurd conversation. In the Florida sunlight, everything seemed possible.

At first, we fumbled in the world of new relationships. J came home less than an hour after they’d left for their first date, discouraged. “She just wasn’t into me,” they sighed. “She was really enthusiastic when we were chatting online.”

I leaned in and gave them a long hug. “That’s her loss,” I said.

But eventually, J met B, who was also married and had overlapping interests. And J met M, who was divorced and open to a poly relationship.

Meeting people though was only the beginning. When they came home after a date, J said, “I kissed B.” They scanned my face, waiting for my reaction. Repulsion, jealousy, sadness, distance, and a litany of other sensations came and went. What was the light like? Was it fully dark out or was the evening sun still setting? My memory is eclipsed by the shadow of overwhelming emotions. “Um, okay,” I said and darted out of the room.

By the next day though, the feelings had passed. I was happy for J and grateful for our renewed sense of connection. Was this how poly was going to go? Up and down with the rising and setting sun?

The next Saturday evening, J sat on the edge of our bed putting on their socks when they said, “B said she and her husband will be at the roller derby bout, too. Are you ready to meet them?”

I jumped. J was casually asking if I was ready to meet their new girlfriend.

“Um, no. Let’s wait.”

J shrugged. “I’ll let her know.”

Later, settled in the stands next to J and waiting for roller derby to start, I asked, “Which one is B? Has she walked by?”

“She’s over there.” J pointed to a woman sitting a few sets of bleachers away with someone I imagined was her husband.

B was taller than me and wearing a T-shirt and jeans. So ordinary-looking, I thought. But what had I imagined someone in a poly relationship would look like? More like the women on the roller derby track, tough-looking with spiky hair and lots of black eyeliner. Seeing B’s ordinariness, I wasn’t particularly anxious or jealous, just curious.

In the arc of our poly relationship, J and I each found more of what we were looking for. I was happier because J was happier. They had a good time with their other partners doing things they liked—quiet nights cuddling while watching movies or going to the monthly art-walk of galleries and displays downtown. I savored guilt-free time, biking, hiking, and doing yoga while J was on dates. I also reveled in sharing those adventures with my friend W, who often joined me on a bike ride, a hike, or at Friday night swing dance classes.

W and I had met several years before when W’s girlfriend brought him to one of my evening yoga classes. He connected with the high-energy style of Ashtanga Yoga and showed up every night after his first class.

One evening, a few weeks after we first met, W and I sat alone in the yoga studio waiting for the other students to arrive when he asked, “How are you?”

“Busy,” I said.

“Busy with what?” he asked.

The small push was enough for my overwhelm to spill over. “With work. And teaching yoga. I’m glad classes are busy, but I get up at five am to do my yoga practice, work all day, and teach every night. I’m exhausted.”

I didn’t say that worry about my marriage also kept me up tossing and turning. I didn’t explain that J was frustrated at work, too, that they worked for a patronizing boss who micro-managed their work and shot down their ideas. I didn’t say that the more time and energy I gave to teaching yoga, the more J’s resentment built. I didn’t say we were struggling.

“I can help! When you need a night off, I can teach for you,” W said.

W’s offer relieved some of my pent-up worry. He had years of yoga practice behind him and connected well with the other students. At first, W filled in only occasionally. But as my yoga program grew, he started teaching alongside me most evenings. We found a satisfying rhythm teaching together. We chatted after class and learned that our work—mine as a plant biologist at the university and his as a PhD student in tree genetics—overlapped. We commiserated over the struggles of working in academia: professors who didn’t return emails, grants that didn’t get funded, research papers submitted to journals that didn’t get published. Soon we extended our growing friendship to meeting up on weekend afternoons for a bike ride or a hike.

Three years passed before we both acknowledged our long-term relationships were unraveling. We traded books on marriage theory, each looking for the solution to save our respective relationships.

When Esther Perel, in her book, Mating in Captivity, described erotic energy as the surge of vibrancy when we meet a personal challenge or the zing of exploring something novel, I knew this was the electricity J and I were missing. We looked in different places for that spark. I dove into yoga and athletic activities. J crafted elegant pottery. But while our passions added to our individual lives, we struggled to share that with each other.

That surge of aliveness—in yoga practice, on our longest bike ride yet, or on a weekend hike—was something I shared with W.

Nearly a year into the poly experiment with J, W and I sat cross-legged on the tile yoga studio floor. The evening sky had faded out to darkness and the dim studio lamps threw patches of shadow over our faces. His long-term relationship with his girlfriend had ended. W wandered through his thoughts about what he wanted in a partner. He paused, then said, “I like what we have. I want to do yoga and ride my bike and have hiking adventures.”

“We could date,” I said. The clock’s tick echoed around the room, mocking my trepidation as I waited for his response.

“I thought about that,” he said. “But our friendship is so important to me.”

“I know what you mean. If it didn’t work out, we couldn’t go backward and be friends in the same way.” I looked at W while he gazed past me, thinking. “Let’s try it,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, and I stepped forward for a long hug. We let go and he walked out the studio door.

I remember how our town looked on a summer evening out on a date with W, while J was on a date with a girlfriend. W and I sat on the warm concrete sidewalk outside the popsicle shop, eating strangely flavored popsicles like blueberry-thyme and guava-basil. I wiggled my toes in my flip-flops, and we talked about nothing while the fluorescent signs of the stores, bars, and restaurants shimmered with possibility.

A few weeks later, on a warm fall afternoon, my friend Karen and I walked along a sandy hiking trail in San Felasco State Park, and she asked, “Do J and W get along?”

“They’re not best friends, but they get along okay,” I said. They tolerated each other because they both cared about me.

“But isn’t poly all about group sex?” Karen asked.

“Ummm, no,” I said. “Poly is as mundane as any monogamous relationship. It’s just more complicated because there are more people.” I told Karen the joke that people in poly relationships have less sex than monogamous couples because they spend so much time talking through everyone’s feelings with their partners, and partners’ partners that there wasn’t any time left for sex; and I told her about an entire Friday evening lost to arguing when J, M, and I couldn’t agree on who was going where for holiday break.

“That sounds like a lot of work,” Karen said. “Do you think this will last?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

After a year of being both J’s wife and W’s partner, W had finished graduate school and accepted a job in Asheville. We wanted our relationship to continue, and I could work remotely, so, although I didn’t enjoy long car trips, I drove.

The balmy March air welcomed me back to central Florida when I got out of the car after another eight-hour drive from Asheville, my third drive in three months. I walked in the door, set my things down, and found J in the kitchen. I smelled rice cooking and a hint of coffee from the morning, familiar scents of home. J stood at the counter chopping vegetables and looked up when I walked in. Their face was pinched with sadness. “I think we’re done,” they said. “It’s too much, getting used to you being away and then adjusting when you’re home again. We’ve drifted too far apart.”

They were right. I was trying to be in two places at once and I was torn between them.

“Okay,” I said and turned away. Our palpable sadness cast a shadow over the golden afternoon light that shone on the kitchen counter.

A few weeks later, I lay alone on the floor cushions in the middle of our living room. I saw our white couch, stained with puppy paw prints. Outside the big picture window were the yellow and orange cosmos I planted in the yard five years ago. They seeded themselves each spring. Sunshine flew through the window in dapples across the floor and made bright blotches across my legs. It gave an otherworldly feeling of unreality to my thoughts. This will not be my house soon. I’m leaving this. Our marriage and our house were somehow connected. Like the mysterious nature of light, we were both particle and wave, J and I reflected out as individuals, and we were partners, making something else together. We never spoke about this duality—about the extraordinary joy of learning and loving together, about the days we wanted to walk out and never come back—and about how all of that was true at the same time.

About the author:

Christine Wiese lives in Asheville, North Carolina, where she works as a structural integration bodyworker and a ghostwriter on topics related to human anatomy and biomechanics. In her previous career, she was a field biologist focused on preservation of Florida endemic plant species. Her work has appeared on the Brevity craft blog and is forthcoming in County Lines: A Literary Journal.