This is the first in a series of love letters I’m writing to the people who’ve cared for me and tended to me over the years, without judgment or expectation. These aren’t romantic love letters, at least not in the traditional sense. Admittedly, I’m not the particular sort of evolved person who values platonic or familial love over romantic. In fact, I’d say that a childhood watching Disney movies — specifically The Little Mermaid, over and over, until the VHS tape quite literally ground into dust — taught me that romantic love was to be valued above all, that the chase to find the person of your dreams should be the absolute, utmost guiding force in your life. As you can imagine, being closeted until 33 made this chase extraordinarily unfulfilling. I chased boys and men who either didn’t want me, or wanted me for long enough for me to realize I absolutely did not want them. After each relationship, I suspected more and more the whole thing was a goddamn scam. You’d think that when I came out as a lesbian, I’d be thrilled and embracing of the fact that the romantic love I was searching for could finally be reciprocated by someone I actually wanted to be with. Instead, I overcorrected. I kept love at an arm’s length for awhile, preferring to keep things at the surface. I tried to bury the romantic side of myself, convinced that the people who were looking for love must be kidding themselves and if I “gave in” to the thing that’d spent a lifetime hurting me, it would ultimately lead to dissatisfaction. Of course, that wasn’t and isn’t true and caused it’s own set of confusing problems I now have to untangle (fml). Fundamentally, though, I think the issue is the same as it was when I was living as a straight person: I deny myself access to my real feelings, because I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust myself because I never really felt like I was allowed to.

The bottom line: being closeted sucks and being a queer person trying to navigate your feelings outside of the heteronormative framework while also being true to your inherent values and nature is extremely perplexing, particularly if you arrived at queerness late and spent a whole lifetime refusing to acknowledge how and why your feelings matter.

Trust me, I get it. It hurts. Deep breaths.

You’ll untangle it all and find the balance eventually, and if you relate to this, understand that I am right there with you, slogging through the s**t. We’ll figure it out and everything will be great, or at least better than it has been before.

Anyways. All of that is to preface this, a series of platonic love letters to the people who’ve shepherded me through all of my lifetimes, straight and gay and happy and sad and fucked up and thriving and mentally ill and balanced and literally everything in between. I’m sharing them (with each subject’s permission) to perhaps inspire you to look at your own circle of souls and acknowledge who has shown you true love outside of the realm of romance. Maybe you’ll even want to write to them and let them know.

The first one is to my friend Lara.

Dear Lara,

I’m currently tucked away in your Maine apartment, where you’ve left me in charge while you’re away on a work trip. The cat and I are getting along better than we ever have, and while her unpredictability used to scare me, I’m realizing that it’s actually what makes me feel closer to her. Sometimes she purrs, sometimes she bites, and there’s no way to really know what you’re going to get. Same, TBH.

Before you left, we had an encounter in your kitchen that I promise you I will never forget. Something came over me that day; an overwhelming feeling of panic and sadness and fear and heartbreak and disappointment and confusion a terrifying lack of control over my own life and my own emotions. I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite that way before; it was like my body was purging energy without my permission. Perhaps it’s because it sensed that even if I couldn’t give myself permission to release in that way, you granted it for me. Admittedly, I was ashamed at first. For a few seconds I was really f*g scared that you’d judge me for what I was experiencing, or tell me to calm down, or tell me I needed to seek help.

Instead, you hugged me and told me that no matter what happens, I always have you and this place. Then you poured me a whiskey, turned on the shower, and said, “Get in there and cry.”

I did, and it was exactly what I needed. Thank you for that. Your shower is a most excellent environment for a breakdown. I enjoyed the body scrub as well.

So as I’m sitting here and looking around at all of the very pretty but also very uncomfortable Turkish pillows you got for a steal on Etsy and enjoy the inherent coziness of the life you’ve built for yourself in Maine, I consider the fact that yes, we met by chance in Seoul — but somehow, our friendship continued across many years and many continents and now we’re both here doing this, whatever this is, so perhaps it wasn’t a chance meeting at all. We haven’t always been on this strong of a wavelength — you went through some things I wasn’t emotionally able to support you through, for my own reasons, and I went through some things you simply didn’t see (most likely because I made sure you couldn’t). The fact is, though, despite the ebbs and flows to and from one another, it’s always, always easy to pick back up where we’re strongest: hunched over a cheese board, drinking and cackling about whatever b**t happens to be plaguing us at the time. In those moments, it feels like we never left one another — in fact, it feels like we’ve known each other for the entirety of this lifetime and the ones before it. I’m just so glad that this particular lifetime includes dirty gin martinis and a fuckton of cheese.

I don’t know if I’ve ever succinctly expressed this to you, but you have a particular quality that I really admire, and wish to cultivate more of in myself. You’re so f*g present for the people in your life; in constant communication with those who need you. It doesn’t matter if you’ve known the person for years, or just a few days; you show the fk up. Sometimes I worry that you take too much on, that you’re not leaving enough room for yourself. Your brain often seems like it’s running a mile a minute. Maybe that’s why I’m here; to remind you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do even if you’re fully capable of doing it, and that you should take the time and space you need to prioritize yourself as Lara, versus yourself as caretaker. You’ve been through so much in the last five years, experiences I know would shatter most people to the point of total immobilization. And yet, here you are, dealing with all of that and continuing to be a sounding board and support system for others, cooking meals and pouring drinks and reciting the most pure of Lara mantras to get people out of their comfort zones: “C’mon everybody, let’s just try it!” Your dad would be so f*g proud. When you think of him, thank him for me; for all of us. I know I do.

There are so many small little moments I cherish between us — I won’t get into them here, because those are just for us and whoever happened to be in the room hunched over the cheese board at the time. I also know there are many, many more to come, and the security of knowing that makes this bizarre time of my life and fucked up time in the world seem all the more manageable. I’m so grateful to have a friend like you, and I can only hope that what I’m bringing to our relationship has as much of an impact on you as your presence does on me. There are not many people in this world one knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, they can rely on — I hope you know you’re that for me, and for many, many others. Thank you for everything, my friend; the companionship, the adventures, the encouragement, and most recently, for teaching me how to properly cook and eat a lobster despite the fact that I couldn’t even bring myself to put it in the pot. Your friendship means the world to me.

Love,

Amanda

Subscribe at amandakater.substack.com