I know, I know — you had a partner who was friends with an ex and their friendship was a tornado of toxicity and trauma and it literally ruined your life. I get it. The frustrating plotline of someone hovering around your relationship praying on its downfall objectively fucking sucks. It’s exhausting; it weighs on you and sows seeds of distrust in partners and any relationship they have outside of your own. And, depending on what shorty did, it may have led to some hands thrown, too.
It makes sense that these experiences have led various people to the belief exes should never be friends, that one should never date someone who is too close with an ex, and that it can only be a sign of a toxic connection that must be released.
Nonetheless, I’m asking that we look beyond our own negative personal experiences, beyond our disingenuous past partners and their bullshit “friendships” and think more broadly about what friendships with exes mean overall. I’m asking that we challenge our own insecurities and fears, our own preconceived notions about how relationships ought to function, fed to us by a heteronormative society. Instead of relegating these friendships to punchlines about queer stereotypes or labeling them as an innately concerning aspect of queer culture, I’m asking that we dissect it more deeply and leave space for a reflection on how unique and transformative queer love can be. The tendency to build friendships following a break up is, personally, one of my favorite aspects of queer culture.
Engaging with the world as a queer person means many of the roadmaps we learn at a young age in a heteronormative society are useless. We are often creating anew, carving out original methods of relating entirely from scratch in hopes of building something that fits us more accurately.
It makes sense, then, that many of the unspoken and unquestioned relationship rules don’t fly under the radar here: We notice and interrogate. A desire to challenge what it means for a relationship to “end”, to preserve the care and connection present regardless of what form the relationship takes, and to subvert common practices of disposability around breakups actually seems rather fitting for queer relationships.
The assumption that, absent romantic partnership, someone can no longer provide value to our lives or continue to be important to us is arguably rather strange. Presuming a relationship ended amicably and a friendship was part of its foundation, why shouldn’t we have the space to allow that friendship to continue? People are special and important in their own right before they begin to embody a specific role in our lives, before they become our partners or friends or anything else. There is something beautiful about wanting to acknowledge that specialness as innate to them. It does not dissipate simply because their role in our lives has shifted.
What does it mean to see our lovers as people before we see them as our partners? To love them for who they are and not what they provide us? Does that allow us to see value in them even when our relationship must change? While it may not be articulated as clearly, I think these questions underlie the attempts queer folks make at building relationships with former lovers. To acknowledge that relationships can continue to be wonderful in various forms is indicative of how we rethink relationships constantly.
To no one’s surprise, an ex of mine is one of my best friends. We dated so long ago it’s hard to remember the details. Nonetheless, what has always lingered was how gentle of a love it was. It was young and innocent, my first queer lover. Most importantly, it was my first time learning that love could be healing. My early forays into love were nothing short of traumatic. Years after our initial breakup, a chance conversation brought us back into each other’s lives. Our decision to rekindle a friendship, as opposed to a relationship, was a reflection of a desire to show up for each other as best as possible. Our romantic desires just didn’t align any longer, and yet the love had in no way dissipated. To many, this would seem like a perfect place to end our interactions, a clear sign that our time shared ought to come to an end. And yet, I couldn’t shake the idea that this couldn’t be the end of the road for someone that had held my heart so tenderly, that held the threads as I sewed it back together. In choosing to stay friends, I’ve learned that friendship is a love story in its own right. Having such an intimate history makes us surprisingly equipped to help each other grow, to notice relational patterns and challenge them and, without the complexity that sex can add, we’re often better able to call each other in. Their presence in my life and the growth it’s enabled has only opened the possibility for even sweeter love to enter my life, it has only made me better prepared to love new partners. Ultimately, the depth of love between us has never wavered, all that has changed is where it fits and how it’s expressed.
Love is the commitment, the connection. Romantic partnership, in the way we often think of it, is only a vessel. Like water, love can move from one vessel to another and take its shape — from vast oceans to neighborhood lakes, from partnerships to friendships. When we allow it to move freely, it is at its happiest, ebbing and flowing, constructing cliff sides and kissing shores. To take something so free and demand that it only occupy one space or cease to exist, to tell the water it can never leave the ocean, to prevent it from ever creating lakes or rivers, feels unreasonable. To strip it of this power is to refuse one of its greatest strengths: love’s endurance.
The attempt many queer folks make at seeing love in this way is an important effort that should be celebrated…even though, sure, it may sometimes be poorly executed. This poor execution often comes from the fact that we aren’t given a script in our society for transitioning relationships in this way. Even if we know we want to do so, we may lack the tools. If there’s anything building a long-term relationship with an ex has taught me, it’s that complete and utter honesty and creating boundaries accordingly goes a long way. (Every partner I’ve had has loved my ex, sometimes even more than me, so I can solidly say I’m an expert.)
Queer love, in itself, challenges a homophobic world’s narrative that we are disposable and undeserving. Allowing this love to endure, staying connected and in community with each other, then becomes even more important for us. The very thought of tossing aside the queer folks that have watered me even in droughts never sat right with me. The idea that I must toss away this person that, in every role and iteration, had only ever made my life more beautiful felt like nothing short of a homophobic lie. To remain friends is a direct rejection and subversion of that narrative to choose to see each other as more than what we provide, to refuse to discard each other on a moment’s notice. We attempt to see each other as full humans worthy of connection, even in change. Prioritizing our desire to stay in community comes with its challenges, but it also fortifies a necessary structure in an oppressive world. We need each other.
These friendships aren’t always easy, and keeping them healthy takes work; they require honesty and strong communication, vulnerability and intentionality. But difficult things can still be worthwhile.
I’m best friends with one of my exes, as well, and completely agree with all of this.