My partner, Peter, passed away suddenly and unexpectedly this past November. It was a shock that has left me reeling, untethered. This is my first experience with grief on this scale. I’ve never lost anyone I loved this much before, and the sorrow has become a singular, relentless ache—the worst pain I’ve ever known.
Grief is peculiar. It’s an unpredictable tide, pulling me between anger and sorrow. One moment, I’m furious at the world, at the injustice of it all, and the next, I’m drowning in waves of sadness so profound I feel paralyzed. These shifts come without warning, striking at the most random times during the slow, monotonous passing of the days. It often feels like I’m powerless in the face of my emotions. And yet, amid the turmoil, the sharpness of grief is softened by memories of our happiest times together. It’s strange how my rational mind resists revisiting those moments, as though it’s afraid to touch something so fragile, but my heart can’t help but return to them.
“They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” I find myself questioning that sentiment more often than I’d like to admit. I’ve spent countless sleepless nights searching for ways to escape this pain, or at least to dull its edges. I’ve realized I can’t control the situation, no matter how desperately I wish I could. What I can control, however, is how I choose to remember him.
When I close my eyes, the first memory that comes rushing forward is from our last trip to Italy this past October. Capri, to be exact—a slice of paradise so beautiful it feels almost mythical. The day was perfect. The sun danced on the turquoise water, and the salty breeze kissed our faces as we set out on a boat tour around the island. The scenery was breathtaking, with jagged cliffs plunging into crystal-clear water, but it was Peter who stole my attention.
After hours of gliding across the sea, we anchored in a secluded cove. It was as if the world paused just for us, allowing us to revel in the moment. I was lounging on the bow of the boat, the sun warming my skin as I watched Peter peer over the edge, his face alight with childlike wonder. He was fascinated by the kaleidoscope of fish swimming beneath us, pointing them out and grinning like a boy who’d discovered treasure. Then, with that mischievous glint in his eye—the one that always made me laugh—he turned to me and teased, “Come on, take a swim with me!”
He knew I wouldn’t. In all our years together, Peter had accepted my stubborn refusal to embrace anything “aquatic,” especially when it involved sharing the water with fish. I laughed and replied, “You know where to find me if the fish start biting. Until then, I’m staying right here!”
“Suit yourself,” he said, leaning in to plant a playful kiss on my cheek and sneaking in a tickle that made me squeal. I watched him prepare to dive, his movements deliberate and joyful. And then he was in the water, cutting through it effortlessly. From my perch, I watched him with awe. He waved at me, his face illuminated by the sun and sheer happiness. In that moment, everything felt right, as though the universe had conspired to give us this perfect day.
I smiled—a smile so genuine and full it startled me. Tears welled in my eyes, not from sadness but from the overwhelming realization that I was living the happiest moment of my life. It was a moment of pure gratitude, a culmination of all I had endured, and I couldn’t believe that after everything, this was my life. This was my Peter.
But my mind doesn’t linger only on that memory. It drifts, unbidden, to the beginning—our first meeting on a frigid winter day in Bryant Park. He had stopped me with a line so ridiculous it caught me off guard. “Can I read your palm?” he asked, towering over me like a gentle giant. Any self-respecting New Yorker would’ve brushed him off as a weirdo, but something about him felt disarming, familiar even.
I let him lead me to a nearby bench, where he took my hand and studied it with exaggerated focus. He nodded and hummed, pretending to uncover great secrets in the lines of my palm. I watched him, half-amused, half-bewildered, until he looked up at me with a grin that could melt glaciers. “I see a very important name in your future,” he said, pausing dramatically. “Peter.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Let me guess,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Your name is Peter.”
It was absurd and cheesy, but it worked. Something about his boldness, his unfiltered joy, felt safe, even comforting. That day, we started a conversation that would never really end. We spent nearly every waking moment together after that, and when we weren’t, we’d call each other incessantly, chatting about everything and nothing.
Peter had a way of making me feel like I was the center of the universe. He looked at me as though I was art, as though everything I said or did was extraordinary. He had this relentless belief in me, a confidence I hadn’t yet found in myself. His love made me feel cherished, seen, and worthy in a way I had never experienced before.
He was there through every step of my transition, holding my hand, cheering me on, and reminding me that I was enough just as I was. “Even if you stopped tomorrow,” he once said, “I’d still love you because I love you—the real you.” He didn’t try to change me or mold me into someone else. He simply loved me, wholly and unapologetically.
The irony isn’t lost on me now. When he read my palm that cold day in Bryant Park, he was right—my life was irrevocably changed forever by a man named Peter.
They say grief isn’t linear, and I’ve come to understand just how true that is. Some days, it feels like I’m still trapped in those early moments of despair, longing to fast-forward to a time when the pain is less raw. Other days, I catch glimpses of healing, fleeting but real.
I know I’ll never stop missing him. But I also know that the love we shared was a gift—one that will stay with me always, like a tattoo etched onto my soul. My hope is that by holding onto these memories, by writing them down and sharing them, I can begin to heal. That one day, the sharpness of this loss will fade, leaving behind something softer: gratitude for having been loved so deeply and the strength to carry that love forward.
Rest in peace, Peter.
Comments