Friendship Is the Front Edge of Romance

Coming out as transgender didn’t make me someone new. It made me more me. Fuller. Louder. Less willing to bend.

And yeah, I talk a lot about being misgendered. But honestly? I get it.

I’m six foot one. Broad shouldered. Built the way I’m built. And I don’t perform femininity the way people expect anymore. I used to. Dresses. Makeup. Trying to fit some version of what the world said I should be.

That wasn’t me. So I burned it down.

I went back to my roots. Hunting, fishing, camping. Then I found motorcycles. And just when the world thought I couldn’t possibly get more “masculine” while claiming feminine energy, I did it again.

Because I stopped caring what people think.

When I first came out, I tried to appease everyone. That was a mistake because it turns out, everyone had an opinion. Everyone thought they knew where I was getting it wrong.

So I did what I’ve always done when the world hands me unsolicited advice: I gave it the finger. And just in case they missed the visual, I added a verbal: “fuck your mother.”

So why am I telling you this?

Because lately I’ve been craving connection. Real connection. The kind people call romance. But that word is broken. It means one thing to most people.

To me, it means something entirely different.

My body doesn’t respond the way people expect. But I still crave touch. I still crave closeness.

But I can’t accept it from just anyone. Because for me, romance doesn’t start with attraction. It starts with friendship.

Not surface-level, grab-a-drink, talk-about-the-weather friendship. I’m talking about intense, soul-level connection.

And yeah, this is where I tend to fuck things up. Because to me, friendship is intimacy. It’s the front edge of romance.

Since dying, and clawing my way back, I don’t have the capacity for superficial interaction anymore. I don’t want small talk. I don’t want casual. I don’t want to sit around a pool pretending that’s connection.

If you’re in my life, I want to know what moved you yesterday. What almost brought you to tears. What you believe your purpose is. What you think about God. What you’re trying to leave behind in this world. I want to feel your pain. Your fire. Your reason for showing up.

Because if you’re just drifting through life, phone in one hand, taco in the other, completely checked out, I’m not your person.

Friendship with me isn’t easy. Because it’s deep. Immediately.

And that’s where the confusion starts.

Because if friendship already lives that close to the edge, how do you tell the difference between friendship and romance?

Here’s my truth: Romance, for me, isn’t sex. It’s connection. It’s two people meeting each other fully, emotionally and spiritually, and stepping into vulnerability together.

Yeah, my body doesn’t respond the way it used to. But make no mistake, I am still a sexual being.

Just differently.

(And if that’s too much information for you, you’re probably in the wrong place. This space, like my life, is real. Unfiltered. Sometimes uncomfortable. Deal with it.)

When I’m with someone, I meet them where they are. I feel them. I connect with them. And as they open up, as they move toward that edge of vulnerability and release, I go with them. I help them get there. And in that shared moment, when they trust me enough to let go completely, I find something deeper than anything physical ever gave me.

I find connection.

I find fulfillment.

I find something that feels complete.

So why share all of this?

Because I don’t think I’m as different as people might assume. I think I’m just an amplified version of something a lot of people feel but don’t say out loud.

That desire for real connection. For something deeper than surface-level bullshit. For something that actually means something while it exists.

But it creates a problem. Because when friendship already lives this deep, it’s really hard to tell when it becomes something more.

Not because I’m confused. But because the line itself is blurred.

And honestly, that fits. Because just like everything else in my life, it’s a little crooked, a little messy, and more complex than it should be.

I don’t share this for sympathy. I share it because it’s real.

And that’s what I do.

If my words resonate, if they make you pause, think, feel something, then that’s impact.

That’s legacy.

And long after I’m gone, if something I wrote still makes someone feel less alone, that’s enough.