Making Space: Marriage Equality, Family, and the Healing Power of Breath, Movement, and Stillness

On Monday, the Supreme Court quietly declined to hear a case that could have upended the lives of hundreds of thousands of families like mine. The justices rejected an appeal from Kim Davis, the former Kentucky county clerk who refused to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples in defiance of the 2015 Obergefell v. Hodges decision. LGBTQ+ advocates had feared that the court’s 6-3 conservative majority might be ready to revisit the precedent, especially after the 2022 reversal of Roe v. Wade. But for now, marriage equality remains intact.

For me, this ruling isn’t just a legal footnote—it’s a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

I’ve been with my husband for 22 years, and legally married for 12—because that’s when it finally became possible in some states. Back then, the only place we could legally marry was Massachusetts, so we chose Provincetown. It was a celebration, a party, a moment of joy that still glows in my memory. We were surrounded by love, laughter, and the kind of energy that only Provincetown can conjure. And we were married. Legally. Finally.

We now have a 12-year-old son, whom we adopted from a southern state. At the time, only one of us could legally adopt him because this state didn’t allow same-sex couple adoptions. We had to wait until we returned to Vancouver, BC, to file for joint adoption. Even then, we hit a wall. We got the one conservative judge in all of Canada who initially denied our request.

Thankfully, we had Barbara Findlay—our lawyer, our advocate, and truly a force to be reckoned with (look her up, she’s legendary). When the judge refused, Barbara calmly told us we could either re-file the petition or she could walk down the hall and find another judge. She knocked on a random door. That judge signed it in two seconds and told her to congratulate us.

That moment was a microcosm of our journey: resistance, resilience, and then—grace.

Our social worker had warned us that nurses and doctors might try to convince our son’s birth mother to change her mind, simply because we were a gay couple.

But it didn’t happen. The doctors, the nurses, the custodial staff—everyone was nothing but beyond lovely. We were met with kindness, compassion, and support from every direction.

We’ve endured whispers, name-calling, and disgusted faces in airports. We’ve felt the sting of judgment. But for every person who recoiled, there were a dozen who wrapped us in love.

Still, the stress is real. For the past six months, we’ve lived with the fear that our marriage could be dissolved. What would happen to our family? Our legal protections? Our son?

And then there’s the deeper ache: knowing that some of the people closest to us—parents, siblings, best friends—voted for leaders who made that jeopardy possible. How do you hold that duality? How do you reconcile love with betrayal?

I don’t have the answer. Some days I keep it together. Other days, I wonder what problems I could solve if these issues didn’t occupy so much real estate in my mind.

But maybe that’s adulthood: making space for contradictions. Holding things in your heart that don’t fit together neatly. My OCD and ADHD inner child wants clean lines and perfect puzzle pieces. But life isn’t like that.

So I make space.

When I’m steady in my yoga, breathwork, and meditation practice, I feel it—literal space between my fascia and my skin. Sometimes it’s filled with a cool autumn breeze. Sometimes it’s so tight I feel like I’ll come apart at the seams. But that’s life. A yoga practice, not a yoga perfect.

I walk out of the elevator to the top floor of my gym. The sign is on the horizon. I stop. I breathe. I feel the sun on my face. And I whisper prayers of thanks.

Because today, my marriage still stands. My family is still whole. And I am still here—making space, holding it all together, and doing my best not to lose my shit. Some days I’m a serene yogi floating through life, and other days I’m losing my fucking mind in carpool. But hey—that’s life. That’s love. That’s parenting. And that’s the beautiful, chaotic, breath-filled mess of being human.