A Better Mirror

I learned an important lesson this weekend because I wasn’t allowed to shave.

That is not a sentence I expected to write, but one my therapist will almost certainly write down.

The story actually starts a couple of weeks earlier in Alaska. Like most trips, the week had been a blur of travel, friends, events, and entirely too little sleep. Somewhere between standing on the deck of a cruise ship watching whales surface in the distance, hiding tiny corgis around the ship, and trying to remember what day of the week it was, shaving simply stopped being a priority.

At the time it didn’t seem particularly important. The problem came when I got home.

The first thing I noticed when I looked in the mirror was that I regretted the decision almost immediately. The beard wasn’t intentionally grown out. It wasn’t carefully maintained. It wasn’t making some kind of statement. It had simply crossed into that awkward territory where it no longer felt deliberate. I like things to feel intentional. Whether it’s the classes I teach, the way I present myself at events, or the absurd number of hoods currently occupying my closet, I generally prefer to make choices on purpose.

The beard no longer felt like a choice. It felt like something I needed to fix.

Unfortunately, I had other plans. Or more accurately, Kuma had other plans.

The evening I got home from the cruise, I broke chastity. There wasn’t a dramatic confrontation, a tribunal, or a public hearing. I simply felt guilty about it and told Kuma the next day. The punishment was straightforward enough: no haircut and no beard trim until I returned home from London.

Under normal circumstances, that probably wouldn’t have bothered me very much. The problem was that I had already decided the beard was a problem. Now I had to spend three days at home looking at it, followed by five days in London looking at it, before I would finally be allowed to do anything about it.

Every time I walked past a mirror, I noticed it. Every time I caught my reflection in a window, I noticed it. By the time I boarded my flight to London, I was convinced everyone else would notice it too.

As it turns out, they did.

Just not in the way I expected.

The trip itself ended up being one of those weekends built almost entirely out of small moments. There was no grand adventure. No singular event that defined the trip. Instead, it was a collection of conversations, meals, friendships, and unexpected realizations that slowly accumulated until I found myself looking at the weekend very differently than I had when it began.

Saturday started with a mission. Since I was already in London, I wanted to find a few things for my Georgia Pup contestant basket. One of the goals I’ve had while putting it together is to tell the story of two communities that have become incredibly important to me over the last year: Atlanta and London.

That meant wandering around Soho looking for things that felt distinctly London.

As often happens when I go shopping, I found several things that weren’t on the list. I picked up a pair of underwear covered in puppy paws that were entirely too cute to leave behind and added a few new electro accessories to my collection. The basket itself only gained a puppy paw leather paddle, but that felt appropriately on-brand for me.

The bigger purchase wasn’t mine at all. Somewhere along the way, Kuma and I found ourselves looking at latex.

What started as casual browsing quickly escalated into Kuma walking out with a latex surf suit. It was very much an impulse purchase, but one of those impulse purchases that feels justified the moment it happens. He looked incredible in it. More importantly, it became another thing we could share.

Long-distance relationships are built from small overlaps like that. Shared hobbies. Shared interests. Shared communities. Shared experiences. Every one of those connections feels a little more valuable when most of your relationship takes place across an ocean.

That evening we both wore our surf suits to Collared. Mine was blue. His was black. Both were impossibly shiny and probably visible from orbit.

What neither of us expected was that we would accidentally form a small pack of rubber puppies. Trent was also in rubber, and before long the three of us found ourselves clustered together looking like we’d coordinated the entire thing despite absolutely no evidence that any planning had occurred.

It’s also how I met Rascal.

One of my favorite things about places like Collared is how easily conversations start. Sometimes it’s because of a mutual friend. Sometimes it’s a shared interest. Sometimes it’s simply because someone is wearing something interesting and another person comments on it.

Before long, Rascal and I were talking, hanging out, and adding another friendship to the growing list of connections that somehow seem to appear every time I visit London.

Looking back, that’s probably my favorite part of these trips.

Not the venue. Not the gear. Not even the travel itself.

The people.

It’s always the people.

What struck me most about seeing Trent wasn’t that he recognized me from a previous trip. It was that we actually got to spend time together. There’s a difference between being recognized and genuinely getting to know someone. We talked, hung out, played a little, and by the end of the evening I found myself thinking how much I enjoyed being around him.

Like most weekends, not every emotion fit neatly into the category of “good trip.” One of the realities of long-distance relationships is that they occasionally remind you of the things you wish were easier. There were moments throughout the weekend where I found myself thinking about distance, time, and how different life would be if the people I cared about weren’t separated by an ocean and six time zones.

Those feelings never stayed very long, but they surfaced just enough to remind me that it’s possible to appreciate what you have while simultaneously wishing some parts of it were simpler.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last year learning that growth isn’t the absence of uncomfortable feelings. Growth is recognizing them, understanding where they’re coming from, and choosing not to let them define the experience.

Fortunately, there were far more moments of connection than moments of uncertainty.

The funny thing is that while all of this was happening, people kept complimenting the beard. Not politely. Not in the way people compliment something they think you’re sensitive about. They genuinely liked it.

Several people commented on how thick it was. More than one person told me they thought it looked really good. The more compliments I received, the more confused I became because every time I looked in the mirror, I was still seeing the exact same thing I had seen back in Atlanta.

Something unfinished. Something that needed fixing.

Kuma liked it most of all. He repeatedly told me he liked it fluffy. Throughout the weekend he tugged on it, grabbed it while cuddling, and ran his hand through it. At one point he was laughing because my overgrown mustache had become long enough to catch food and drinks.

From my perspective, this was evidence that the beard had become completely out of control. From his perspective, it was adorable.

In hindsight, I probably should have paid more attention to that disconnect.

Breakfast for Dinner

Sunday brought a different kind of happiness. We went back to Kuma’s place, where Tom kindly drove us to the grocery store so I could gather ingredients for biscuits and gravy.

There wasn’t a particular reason for it. Nobody had requested Southern comfort food. Nobody was craving breakfast. It simply seemed amusing to make breakfast for dinner, which in hindsight is probably one of the most accurate descriptions of my decision-making process anyone could ask for.

Most of the actual cooking happened with just Kuma and me in the kitchen. There was something surprisingly enjoyable about that. No event. No schedule. No grand plan. Just the two of us cooking while I attempted to explain a dish that every Southerner considers completely normal and every British person seemed mildly suspicious of.

The real fun came when it was finally served.

Everyone was willing to try it, but there was definitely some curiosity about exactly what they were looking at. The biggest source of confusion turned out to be the gravy. More than one person commented that they had never seen gravy that wasn’t brown before.

Watching people encounter sausage gravy for the first time was unexpectedly entertaining. Fortunately, they loved it.

The highest compliment came afterward when Tom commented that they should add it to their regular cooking rotation. Apparently this was becoming a pattern. He had said the same thing after I made Bang Bang Chicken on a previous visit.

I don’t know why that comment stuck with me as much as it did. Maybe because it wasn’t really about the food. It was about sharing something familiar from my world and watching it become part of theirs.

One of my favorite memories from the entire trip is introducing a British household to biscuits and gravy and watching confusion slowly transform into enthusiasm.

The Weight We Carry

Monday afternoon found Kuma and me sitting on the couch scrolling through photographs from different periods of my life.

I’m not entirely sure how we got there. One moment we were talking about one thing, and the next we were years deep into old Facebook photos, camera rolls, and memories.

Different hairstyles. Different cities. Different jobs. Different relationships. Different weights. Different versions of me.

We laughed at many of them. Some were genuinely terrible. Others were simply reminders of how much time had passed.

There’s something strange about looking through old photographs with someone who wasn’t there for any of it. The stories that feel obvious to you require explanation. The people who once felt central to your life become strangers to the person sitting next to you. Entire chapters that once felt enormous become a handful of images and a few minutes of conversation.

As we scrolled, one thing became immediately apparent.

There were a lot of pictures of Fat Ruff.

And Kuma loved them.

Every few photos he would stop and point something out. He talked about how beautiful I was. How much personality he could see in the pictures. How much he wished he had known that version of me.

At first, I wasn’t entirely sure how to process that. When I look at those photographs, I tend to focus on the obvious things. The weight. The limitations. The version of my life that felt smaller than it does today.

Kuma wasn’t seeing any of that. He was seeing someone he thought was worth knowing.

And somehow that realization stayed with me as we continued scrolling.

Then we landed on a much newer photograph. I was thinner, healthier, and much closer to the version of myself that exists today. On paper, it should have been one of the happier pictures we looked at all afternoon. Instead, it was the photograph that hit me the hardest.

The picture included my ex-husband and, for reasons I still struggle to fully explain, all I could see was the expression in my eyes. For years I would have told you that losing weight was the thing that would fix everything. And in many ways it changed my life. I can travel more easily. I can walk farther. I can do things physically that once felt impossible. But looking at that photograph, I realized something I hadn’t fully appreciated before. Even though I was carrying less weight on my body, I was still carrying an enormous amount of weight emotionally.

The marriage was struggling. Addiction was consuming someone I loved. The future felt uncertain. And somehow all of that had made its way into my eyes.

I felt the tears start almost immediately. Before I could even fully explain what I was feeling, Kuma pulled me into his arms and held me. There was no attempt to solve the problem or explain it away. He simply sat with me while years of grief, sadness, and reflection surfaced all at once.

What comforted me most wasn’t just the hug itself, but what came afterward. As we talked through everything I was feeling, he reminded me that none of it was my fault. Looking at that photograph, I had immediately started focusing on everything that had been lost. Kuma saw something different. He reminded me that every one of those experiences helped shape the person sitting next to him on that couch. The difficult years, the heartbreak, the challenges, the risks I eventually took, and the choices that followed all played a role in creating the life I have now.

More importantly, he reminded me that those experiences helped shape the person he loves today.

I don’t know why that landed as hard as it did, but it did. When I look back at that chapter of my life, I often focus on what I missed, what I lost, or what I wish had been different. Kuma was looking at the exact same history and seeing something else entirely. He wasn’t focused on the years that had been difficult. He was focused on the person who emerged from them.

That didn’t erase the sadness I felt looking at the photograph. I still mourn for my ex-husband and the struggles he faced. I still mourn for the version of myself that spent so many years carrying burdens that felt impossible to put down. Looking at that picture, I wasn’t just grieving for him. I was grieving for both of us. I found myself thinking about the years we lost, the trips I never took, the experiences I postponed, and the parts of myself that remained unexplored because there was never enough emotional energy left over to pursue them.

At the same time, I know I wouldn’t be where I am today if that chapter hadn’t unfolded the way it did. I’ve reclaimed so much of that life now. The travel, the community, the friendships, and the version of myself that feels fully alive again. Most importantly, I know I never would have met Kuma if I hadn’t chosen the path I did when I did.

That doesn’t erase the sadness, but it does remind me that sometimes the chapters that hurt the most are also the ones that eventually lead us home.

Eventually our conversation shifted toward something I had been carrying around for most of the trip: the loneliness, the distance, and the reality of trying to navigate a poly relationship when the people I care about live thousands of miles away. The truth is that sometimes I come home to a quiet house occupied only by Harry. Sometimes I struggle with that. Sometimes I look at moments like the one I was experiencing on that couch and wish they weren’t separated by an ocean and a passport.

Kuma listened patiently as I tried to put those feelings into words. Then, in the way he always seems to do, he reminded me that nothing was pulling him away from me. He reminded me that he cared, that I mattered, and that the future we had been talking about all weekend was still very much a future we were building together. More than anything, he reminded me that the experiences that brought me to that couch in London were the same experiences that made me the person he loves today.

What struck me later wasn’t the reassurance itself. It was realizing how much of the weekend I had spent focusing on what was missing while evidence of everything that was going right kept appearing around me. I had spent an evening surrounded by friends, both old and new. I had wandered through Soho shopping for pieces of my contestant basket. I had accidentally become part of a small pack of shiny rubber puppies at Collared. I had spent an evening making breakfast for dinner in a London kitchen and watching an entire household discover that gravy doesn’t have to be brown. Everywhere I looked, there were examples of connection, friendship, and belonging.

Connection Leaves Traces

Then on Sunday, right in the middle of the trip, another reminder appeared.

Karaoke Tom, who I had met on the Alaska cruise, sent me a message after reading one of my recent blog posts. He told me he was glad I had such a wonderful experience and then added something that caught me completely off guard.

You are a great writer.

Along with the message was a photograph of one of the little Ruff corgis I had hidden around the ship sitting on his turntable at home.

I don’t know why that image affected me as much as it did. Maybe because the cruise was over. Everyone had gone home. Life had moved on. Yet there was one of my little corgis sitting in someone’s house hundreds of miles away, and there was Tom taking a moment out of his day to tell me that something I had written mattered to him.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the message, the friendships, the conversations, and even the silly breakfast-for-dinner adventure were all pointing toward the same lesson.

Connection leaves traces.

The more I thought about the weekend, the more I realized that nearly every meaningful moment had revolved around that idea. A friendship deepening at Collared. A new friend in Rascal. Breakfast for dinner becoming part of someone else’s cooking rotation. A tiny corgi sitting on a turntable hundreds of miles away. A photograph that forced me to look honestly at my past. An Alpha reminding me that my history is more than my mistakes and losses.

Even the beard fit the pattern.

For days I had looked in the mirror and seen something that needed fixing. Meanwhile, everyone around me seemed to be seeing something else entirely. They saw something worth complimenting. Something worth tugging on. Something worth remembering.

Maybe that’s what Kuma meant when he told me that I focus too much on the negatives. Not because the negatives aren’t real. They are. But they aren’t the whole story.

Trusting the Mirror

When I look at old photographs, I can immediately spot the sadness that the version of me in those pictures couldn’t see. Time gave me perspective. Distance gave me clarity. Maybe one day I’ll look back at photographs from this trip and notice things I’m currently missing too. The friendships. The growth. The laughter. The community. The love. The life I worked so hard to build.

When Kuma dropped me off at the bus station to head to the airport, there wasn’t a dramatic goodbye. There never really is. We talked about seeing each other soon, about our daily messages, about his upcoming trip to America, and about plans we were already making.

It wasn’t goodbye.

It was see you later.

And maybe that’s the real lesson hidden inside an unexpected beard punishment. Sometimes the people who care about us can see things we can’t. Sometimes they can see strengths more clearly than we do. Sometimes they can see growth before we recognize it ourselves.

And every once in a while, if we’re lucky, we trust them enough to believe they might be right.