My Girlfriend & I Broke Up. Thank God I Have My Husband.

Nothing prepares you for your first real sapphic heartbreak. I can only describe it as being gutted from the inside out, randomly crying into the cobalt-stained pottery she once made me, over-sharing with strangers on the internet, and consulting tarot readers for any form of solace. Typically, you grieve this kind of heartbreak alone, but thankfully, I didn’t have to.

I dated Katie* for two years. It was actually my husband who introduced us. They were longtime friends and occasional lovers who had reconnected when they ran into each other at a concert in her city. Like me, she was also married to a man and had newly discovered her queer identity. Shortly after, my husband connected us over Instagram DMs — which he ran by her ahead of time — figuring we’d be good friends, good lovers, or maybe both. He knows my type.

Like queer relationships often do, it went from zero to 100, fast. A deep yearning that manifested in constant texting, sending each other photos of our lives every day, planning trips together, and me crying the first time she had to leave after a weekend together. I loved her in a way that surprised me.

But after two long, questionable years of long-distance dating and loving and confusion, I broke things off over the phone in a Trader Joe’s parking lot — it turned out that she hadn’t been entirely honest with me about her marriage agreements. She didn’t say much on the call, other than explaining her version of events. Nothing about our end was ideal.

Afterward, I drove home to my husband. Over my two-year relationship with Katie, he'd been my confidant through the whole thing — the excitement, the worry, all of it. He was accepting of our relationship and welcomed my sharing. So when I arrived home, and he took one look at my face, he said, “Oh my god, what’s wrong? Are you OK?” Later, he told me I’d been pale, like someone had died. I’d been through breakups in our polyamorous marriages before, but this was the first time it felt like real, extreme pain.

That afternoon, we lay on the bed together, me in a ball of tears, him steady and holding me. He gently stroked my hair and circled his fingertips on my back. As my tears dampened his T-shirt, I apologized for crying, and he looked at me and simply said, “There is no apology needed here. I love you. I am here for you. Even in your pain. Even if it’s not about me.”

Despite his disbelief in all things spiritual, he said, “Go for it” when I contemplated hiring an Etsy witch to solve my problems. (I didn’t end up hexing her.)

Later that evening, he brought me my favorite snack — dairy-free ice cream. It was hard to accept that my heartbreak wasn’t a burden. But his words reminded me of why we’re polyamorous: We don’t dictate each other’s journeys but we can help each other through them. Had the situation been reversed, I’d have said the same to him.

In the weeks after, he showed up in ways I didn’t expect. He made me jasmine oolong tea every night before bed. He asked how I was feeling throughout the day. He took me to a spa for a sauna and cold plunge. On a particularly bad day, when I broke down crying in the pastry shop because my favorite was sold out, he made jokes to lighten the mood. Despite his disbelief in all things spiritual, he said, “Go for it” when I contemplated hiring an Etsy witch to solve my problems. (I didn’t end up hexing her.)

There are many perks to being a bisexual, polyamorous woman married to a man: Honoring my queer side while having a stable, much-loved partnership with my husband. Going to sex parties together. Sharing my life online to help other polyamorous people. But more than anything, a decade of polyamory has taught me a lot about myself and the relationships that matter most to me. It wasn’t my best friend or my therapist I turned to first when I needed someone — it was my husband.

Katie and I had always talked about going to Marfa, Texas, together — a middle-of-nowhere desert town that makes you slow down and relish every moment. A year and a half later, I still wanted to see it, so I did. I turned it into a cathartic road trip with another queer woman, a romantic interest who understands WLW heartbreak, and our two dogs. It was a trip for the books. In the dusty, hot place where I once imagined Katie and me, I finally found the sense of peace I’d been looking for.

*Name has been changed for privacy.