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Reflecting on the unexpected challenges that arise during those first forays into polyamory:
Many years ago, when my nesting partner and I had only recently made the transition to active polyamory, I faced an emotional challenge that I wasn’t prepared for. My husband was spending the night with a new lover for the first time. Always before, he and I made a point to be home by around midnight. But this new relationship called for more time. It called for long nights and waking up together.
I had been polyamorous for years before meeting my husband. I considered myself an old hand at this — something I was introducing him to. But we had been functionally monogamous for a decade, and it had been a long time since I had had to face a night alone like this. My own struggle surprised me.
She was from out of town, and I had not yet met her. She was coming to dinner, and then would leave with my partner for the night. When these plans were made, I was all enthusiasm. My husband was adorably aflutter, and she sounded like a lovely person. I was so glad that polyamory was becoming a rewarding life choice for my husband, rather than something I had perhaps pushed him into.
But as I chopped the mushrooms and the sundried tomatoes, my ever-present anxiety began to surface. By the time I put the quiche in the oven, I caught myself having imaginary conversations with a hostile, demanding, closet monogamist who would certainly try to undermine our relationship. I was not prepared for the fear that bubbled up in me as I faced this new dynamic.
I had to remind myself: my husband has excellent taste in people, and clearly thought highly of this woman. And she admired and desired my husband, and therefor clearly had excellent taste in people, as well.
She was coming to dinner at our home. She wanted to meet me, and to feel welcomed as part of my extended family. And I wanted the same. I wanted her to feel at home. I wanted my partner to have this connection and happiness, and I was glad — even if it meant that I’d have a lonely night — that this new relationship of his was becoming something intimate and special.
I also remembered that I love having evenings to myself. I had forgotten what good company I am for myself. How I had often missed those quiet nights alone with a book and a cup of Bailey’s-spiked tea.
I remembered that discomfort is not the end of the world. That transitions can be challenging. That occasionally feeling lonely or unsettled is a part of living the life I desire.
Challenges are not the enemy. They are catalysts for growth.
So that night, we shared wine and quiche, and she told me that she had been terrified to meet me, imagining that I would be a cold, resentful, passive-aggressive woman, determined to establish my dominance as The Wife.
We both had fear. We both faced challenges. And our relationship took a little while to click. But we had honesty and openness, and faced our fears both apart and together. My partner left that night, and I had warm hugs for her, and kisses for him, and all the warmest wishes for the both of them. And then I cried a little. I sat on my bed with my book and my tea, and felt untethered and afraid.
It was not the easiest night. I had to relearn how to enjoy my own company. And in the morning, my partner came home, and all was love and reconnection, and I was so glad to have the opportunity to support him in his journey, just as he supports me in mine.
I still sometimes struggle. I have moments where I have to sit with my own fear and anxiety. I have to remind myself that I am safe. That love is not finite. That self-growth can be painful, but it is absolutely worth the effort.
And eventually, the new normal becomes less challenge and more joy, and those quiet cups of spiked tea are treasures in and of themselves.
(Reprint from an essay I wrote — and just rediscovered — back in 2018.)