We met just before lockdown, sharing a croissant and a walk along the L.A. River. I reveled in how kind and quiet he was, how different from the toxic men I’d chosen in the past. He is the first good man I fell in love with. I fell with my whole heart.

Three years in, though, we’re in a rough patch. More accurately, it feels like taking 60-grit sandpaper to skin. In our one-bedroom apartment, where we live and work, I often feel more isolated with him than when I’m alone. I tell him I’m unhappy. He finally acknowledges he needs therapy.

The week of his first session, I sit, arms crossed, in my own therapist’s office, evaluating our chances of survival. Because of a dark period in my late twenties (and said toxic relationships), I’ve been doing a trauma therapy called EMDR, cognitive behavioral therapy, Al-Anon meetings, seated meditation, walking meditation, intuitive eating, and more self-care rituals than I’d care to count. None of it makes my current reality any less lonely or disorienting.