Normal Couples

7/27/2025

NOTES FROM THE BALCONY, ENTRY #4
Today’s notes come from the guest bed, my version of observation deck, chapel, classroom.

Part I — Kansas City, or Thereabouts

I feel compelled to write this today because my friend B recently posted a photo from the Mumford & Sons concert she went to (together with my friend Josh, who I briefly mention in my first note), held in the middle of a mystical Kansas City downpour. The kind that feels both biblical and euphoric. She called it some version of grounding and poetic, and of course it was. I see them as that kind of couple—always moving toward what feels right together. That grounded assuredness they have in what they feel and know is right carries through in how they conduct themselves and navigate relationships. The way they lean into the magic around them, how they intuitively protect themselves and each other—that’s something I’m still learning how to do. Something I’m still trying to believe I deserve. But I'm getting ahead of myself, so let me take it back a little.

I met Josh in 2020 on a chaotic immersive installation project in Houston. It was post-Covid, and one of those wild art gigs where you're on construction site constantly and don’t know what day it is or what you hair is doing, or who left all the weirdness in the bathroom (more later on what it's like living in an artist house, which oddly reminded me of frat houses of days gone by).

Fast forward to five years later and we are cooking together again on another job site but this time more collaboratively and in a different geographic location. And without the homemade Texas-sized squatty potty.

What I confronted in Kansas City this June wasn’t only the chaos of my personal life and finances. It was something like the big giant Truth of Myself. The entire installation only took me about five days, and each day was a meditation. The whole process was deep spiritual work, and every night I would drive to Topeka and relay all of this to my friends who had wide ears and hearts. Friends who not just absorbed my words but engaged with me in conversation for hours, and gave me plenty to think about. This work was something between a spiritual audit and an emotional exhale. Britt and Josh let me stay a few days longer, not knowing how deeply I needed the refuge.

What I didn’t realize at the start (but very quickly noticed) was that I would spend just as much energy learning about my inner world as I would the outer one I was building—unpacking and repacking tools, yes, but also unpacking and repacking the ache in my chest. There I was, 60 feet in the air on a boom lift, screaming and sobbing into a phone call about my home life, the steel of the basket rattling beneath me, the sky pressing close overhead. And then later, back on the ground, walking into a Barbie-themed guest room where B had made a bed for me with soft sheets and gentle pinks. I’ve always had a thing for Barbie. She reminds me that girlhood can be whatever you build it to be—if you survive long enough to choose.

That house was a healing chamber. Not in the dramatic, red-crystal, Palo Santo way. But in the mundane, miraculous way of morning coffee poured into a daisy mug. Late night s’mores. Long nights talking. Afternoon sunbathing. Dog walk o’clock. Deep work hours without children screaming or men screaming or the world screaming. I got more done there than I had in weeks. And I rested. God, I rested.

What struck me most, though, was how B and Josh treat each other. Mutual care without martyrdom. Respect without resentment. They’re not perfect, of course, but the rhythms between them felt earned and honest. They let me watch—me, the perennial observer, the girl who used to hide out at friends’ houses in high school just to see what a normal family felt like. And this time, I didn’t feel like a burden. I felt like someone they loved.

Brittany is a talented writer. Josh is an artist and brilliant projectionist. But labels like that are too small. What they are, really, are humans who have suffered and survived and still find ways to contribute without exploiting. Not each other, and not others.

I lie my head softly on the white pillows of the guest bed, knowing how much I will miss it. I close my eyes and feel the damp warmth of my freshly washed body. I pull the sheets up quickly so a gust of wind envelopes me, then the fabric drifts down gently over my legs. I wrap my feet tightly in it. I start to drift off to the sound of my friends laughing in the other room while watching television. I smile widely, so widely. I am reminded of being a child and drifting off to sleep on my aunt's couch at some family party. The sound of laughter in another room reassures my nervous system. The following morning came with questions as to whether I was disturbed by their noise and apologies as to if I were bothered. I shrugged it off casually while sipping my coffee, but inside was laughing, knowing what joy they would never know they brought me.

-

Part II — Peoria, or What I Thought I Left Behind

When I left Kansas City to drive back to Chicago, it was sometime mid-June and I was thinking a lot about Cave of Wonders, the new show at Sparkerland. Missouri is famous for its caves, and I considered stopping at one on the way home. But instead, I followed a pull toward Peoria—my old college town, where the streets still hum with leftover versions of myself.

First I called Oscar, one of my former professors. I met up with him and his wife Patty. For years, I’ve tried to carve out parental archetypes from the people who have shown me any sliver of care. I used to imagine they could be the kind of parental figures who didn’t flinch when I cried. Who didn’t say “call us if you need help” and then never show up, or worse, laugh at me. My desperation made illusions easy to build, and disappointments even sharper.

Mostly, though, I stayed with my friends Colson and Lea and their daughter—their baby girl, the same age as my son, reminding me of him constantly. Watching the way they move through life together felt like watching choreography I had never learned. Lea, pregnant and exhausted and still radiant, handed me a chilled glass of something special she mixed just for me. She made us dinner. She wrapped me in her home like a weighted blanket. They took me to their favorite places in town and paid for almost everything without blinking an eye. It wasn't to show off. It was out of love, out of wanting me there, and I could hardly fathom it.

Their love—intercultural, intuitive, generous—is the kind that doesn't ask for spectacle (even though it does create quite the unintended spectacle everywhere they go--they turn heads because *one* they are both gorgeous and so is their daughter and *two* they love each other with such ease, it almost seems impossible to believe. I think I even asked them once recently if they ever argue. We laughed at whatever was said in that conversation. I watch them and feel a dull swelling in my throat, a not-unpleasant sadness. I look at their daughter and think how safe she is automatically with those type of parents. She is still ignorant to how lucky this is. Their effortless love reminds me of what I still want. Not in a way that burns, but in a way that keeps me searching. I know he is searching for me too.

The guest bed there wasn’t quite as cozy as the Barbie room bed, but the room itself was beautiful. Little trinkets and perfumes lined the top of the dresser, and a stack of interesting books was off to the side. The floor was soft and so were the sheets. What disturbed my sleep wasn’t the bedding—it was the presence of memory. One of our mutual friends from college had flown into town that same night. We hadn’t planned it, but I had called him on a whim and he happened to be flying in at midnight for something to do with his mom's American naturalization, I think. We both acknowledged that the timing felt serendipitous and were excited to see each other.

We cuddled, held hands, talked for hours until somewhere around 4am. He told me about working for a political party in the Ivory Coast. I admired his passion, his intelligence, his care for a world larger than himself. He talked about business and finance plans, seeming so grounded and self-assured. I felt safe—for a moment. He massaged my back and I fell asleep to the sound of his voice talking softly in French to someone over the phone. He said it was a political affiliate. Then he left in the middle of the night after another phone call. Said he’d be back. He never returned.

What followed was a slow ghosting, made worse by the gaslighting that came after. I wasn’t crazy—our mutual friends saw it too. We were supposed to get brunch. Instead, I watched him slip away into a curated life, posting photos with cousins and boba teas while ignoring my messages. I felt humiliated and confused, the old ache of abandonment pulling its usual trick of convincing me it was my fault.

But I had Colson and Lea there still. We processed it together. They reminded me of what love looks like when it doesn’t flee. When it listens. When it feeds you.

Sometimes I think I will be alone forever. Me and the dumpsters, the wires, the whatever. Me and the kids until they move on or tire of me. I try to remind myself that I was fine before, and I will be fine again. But then I look at my oldest daughter—the way she gravitates toward her friends' homes, the way she lingers a little too long—and I realize she’s doing what I used to do. Seeking softness in the crevices. Seeking safety. Seeking a normal couple to parent her. I try desperately to change things for her, make them better before it all collapses, but it seems impossible to stop the pattern.

And I ask myself: is it too late?

Suddenly I remember Josh and Britt--their cozy living room and watching a movie while unintentionally falling asleep on their couch in a deep, peaceful way like when I would nap at my Granny's after a big meal. I remember the way Josh tapped my shoulder so gently to wake me, so I wouldn't wake up in the middle of the night feeling disoriented and alone, I imagine. It felt like a kind gesture. I remember Colson and Lea, and the little purple bag of presents they gave me "just because", and the tears I choked back when I finally conjured up the courage to open it, because I already knew their kindness would make me feel seen, and feeling seen would make me cry. I close my eyes again and remember that soft Barbie room bed and the laughter at night. The glass of tonic shared at a table. Waffles with dollops of Nutella on them. The belly laughs. The feeling of being wrapped, even temporarily, in the arms of people who choose you.

And I think, maybe I haven’t missed love. Maybe I’ve just been learning how to recognize it.