The liberation of long-distance relationships

It's the night before Amber's flight and I can't stop biting my nails down to small, misshapen nubs. No matter how many times we say goodbye, it never gets easier. She's upstairs packing, and I'm in the kitchen chomping through a bag of salted cashews. The inner child in me is pouting, on the verge of a small tantrum: will she miss me as much as I miss her?

On the night I met Amber, I wore a floor-length sheer black dress with long matching gloves and chunky six-inch heels. A large gold conch necklace lay at my throat, a playful red lip completing the look as I channeled the energy of Ursula the Sea Witch. It was Halloween and I was volunteering at the door of a well-known kink party in Brooklyn. As one of the "angels" of the night, I delivered the consent direction that all attendees heard before verbally agreeing to the party's boundaries. I scored the early shift, so when my job was done I joined my friends on the rooftop to watch queer, erotic short films. 

In the haze of an unusually warm October night, I noticed Amber—clearly channeling Young M.A.—in the crowd and inched closer to her side of the bar. "Isn't that one of your friends?" I whispered to my friend Z, who seemed to know almost everyone in the scene. "Oh yeah, sure,” they replied. “Let's say hi." I smiled in relief at having an excuse to infiltrate Amber's circle. I had seen her throughout the years in Brooklyn's queer nightlife circle but never had the courage to say more than three words. I found myself arrested by her unabashed beauty—the constellation of freckles across her cheeks, an effortless smile dimpling the sides of her face, the southern lilt of her soft voice, and the warmth behind her eyes when she took her glasses off. That night, emboldened by my inner villain, I approached her with newfound confidence. We chatted among our group of friends, but it wouldn't be until a few days later, when Amber sent me one of the sweetest DMs I'd ever received, that our connection moved from passive admiration to a first date. I didn't know it then, but digital communication would become an integral part of our relationship.

A month after our first date, Amber left for her yearly residency in Central America, where she tends to a business from December through May. In typical queer fashion, in that short month of dating, I had already fallen head over heels. Something about our connection felt all too easy—familiar, even—as if this wasn't the first time we were meeting. So when the moment came to go long-distance, I felt hesitant. A big part of our connection had been built on quality time (my love language), physical touch (her love language), and shared experiences over food, music, and movies. It felt like the ultimate tease—to finally have time with my crush, only to have our connection cockblocked by over 3,000 miles. 

Questions flooded my mind: would we still be attracted to each other? How often would we talk? Did I want to date someone I could only see in person half the year? It was too early to tell, and most of my concerns were rooted in fear—fear of a relationship structure different from what is widely accepted as "successful."

Allowing the space to grow

Our relationship ripened organically over time—six months, then a year, then two years passed in a blink. In those in-between moments away from Amber, I realized I cherish my alone time—more than that, I need it. Whether in romantic, platonic, or familial relationships, I am fiercely independent, and that requires significant time on my own.

Not only was I learning new things about myself, I was simultaneously unlearning bad habits from previous relationships. I had expected my partner to fulfill every role at once—sexual playmate, therapist, emotional crutch, best friend, roommate, confidant—while also expecting them to read my mind, rather than explicitly telling them what I needed. I avoided difficult conversations and felt entitled to my partner's time, quietly resenting any space they kept for themselves. Underneath it all was a more insidious expectation: that the relationship should be the gravitational center of both our lives; that everything else should rearrange itself around us.

Long distance offered me an opportunity to examine my desire. Within that space I could see the dynamics operating in the relationship more clearly—dynamics often obscured by constant proximity. When physical touch, in-person quality time, and sex weren't options, I was forced to identify my why. Why did I want to date this person? Why was I willing to schedule calls across time zones? Why was I invested in sustaining a connection across distance?

I would stay up until 3 a.m. on the phone with Amber, talking about everything and nothing, exploring parts of our story that required me to be intentional and curious. As someone who had often used sex to maintain or be reassured of connection, I found myself in foreign territory—and eventually recognized that I'd been using sex as a crutch to assert intimacy. While sex is undoubtedly an important part of intimacy, it can in some cases assume oversize importance,  overshadowing quieter moments of connection found in conversation, playing a game or cooking together. 

In hindsight, I realized my past relationships harbored imbalanced power dynamics, unspoken conflict, and tension that didn't receive the introspection it deserved until those issues compounded and led to explosive fights. In my most recent relationship, I co-habitated with my partner by accident. My apartment at the time fell through and I needed a place to stay, they offered their space and that arrangement continued for a year until we both reached a breaking point. In couples therapy, I was able to unpack the unconscious ways that I relied on my partner to provide my housing and keep me safe. Estranged from my own biological family, my romantic partner filled the security that comes from being supported. I didn’t have the option to move back home. That implicit reliance bred resentment and entanglements around money, responsibilities, and boundaries. And while my partner and I had beautiful moments of connection in that shared space—cozy dinners, warm cuddles on cold nights, hosting friends together—ultimately our relationship could not withstand the weight of co-dependency that cohabitation emphasized, especially heightened during the pandemic. 

After leaving that relationship, I made a personal promise to not abandon my own values and needs in pursuit of ease. While it was the easy choice to move in with my past partner, it wasn’t necessarily the right choice. By “right” I mean the choice that will allow me to be autonomous and free, so I can show up to my relationship as my whole self, rather than as half a person who is looking for someone to complete me. When I met Amber and I was invited to try a new relationship structure, it seemed as if I had received what I was seeking. But as they say, be careful what you wish for. 

Long-distance relationships, in comparison, are anything but convenient. They can't be contained to a geography or a time zone. They ask us to stretch, compromise, and meet in the middle. They offer no instant gratification. They ask us to plan, adapt, and sit with the discomfort of change. The first time Amber invited me to visit her in Central America, I felt a mix of excitement and dread. Even though she arranged my transportation, housing, and meals, I still felt a seed of doubt: am I really doing all this just to see her? As if the effort of travel might betray how deeply I cared (God forbid she find out). It ended up being a beautiful trip—long, lazy days under the sun, drinking each other in, indulging in the fruits of months of built-up anticipation. Visiting her opened me up to a country I'd never seen. Witnessing her in her element, in that other home, that other landscape and climate, gave me a wider perspective on our relationship and a deeper reverence for our ability to sustain intimacy across continents. She expanded my world. In the words of Margaret Atwood, "I exist in two places, here and where you are."

Learning to be my own primary partner

That expansion asked something of me in return. Especially without institutional or familial support, in some cases queer relationships can come with expectations that partnerships ought to be all-encompassing—which can breed codependency rather than interdependence. Research suggests that queer relationships can often be more vulnerable to falling into a codependent trope because statistically queer people are more frequently emotionally, physically, and religiously rejected by their families of origins or early romantic partners.

There have been many hard nights when I just wanted my person beside me: to hear me gripe, hold me when I felt low, affirm me when I felt insecure. In the absence of that immediate reassurance, I was faced with the task of showing up for myself—leaning on my toolkit of journaling, meditation, and movement. I also diversified my circle of support to include friends, therapists, coworkers, cousins. Through this, I not only deepened my capacity for self-reliance, but made room to strengthen other relationships. I realized that my long-distance relationship actually allows me to take up more space in my own life. It interrupts the codependent patterns I had inherited and unconsciously recreated in my past experiences of intimacy and relationships.

Perhaps the question isn't whether long-distance relationships are harder than conventional ones, but whether they reveal assumptions we rarely interrogate. That love should always be immediately accessible. That intimacy is measured by proximity. That commitment is proven through constant presence. 

I still cradle myself, awash in tears, after Amber leaves, softening to the heavy disappointment that sits on my chest. I clutch the t-shirt cloaked in her lingering scent and pray she has a safe journey. In those moments of separation, a resounding love blooms in me—an understanding that I care deeply for this person. I am grateful that I made the hard choice to love someone, even when it was not always easy. The perseverance, trust, and commitment we’ve cultivated together has given me the healthiest romantic relationship I’ve ever experienced. This suffering at her departure, this intensity of missing, is a prime indicator of my devotion. It reminds me of words from Kahlil Gibran: "Ever has it been known that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation." Distance does not diminish what we have—it reveals it.

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