Five years later, I stood in a barn in upstate New York, staring at a horse that looked uncannily like Thunderclap.
"He's gentle," the instructor assured me. "Rescue horse. Used to be abused, so he needs patience. But he's sweet once he trusts you."
"What's his name?" I asked.
"Justice," she said.
I laughed. Of course. Justice.
Jesse came up beside me, slipping his hand into mine. We were here for a magazine story I was writing about urban millennials learning to ride horses, of all things. The irony was not lost on me.
"Thinking of punching him?" Jesse asked.
"Thinking of petting him, actually."
"Growth."
"Maturation."
We stood there for a moment, the two of us, five years older, five years braver, wearing rings on our left hands that we had exchanged in a ceremony surrounded by friends and family: my parents, finally, truly accepting; Jesse's parents, beaming with pride; Dakota, officiating; Tyler, livestreaming; the whole messy, beautiful community we had built.
"Remember," Jesse said, "when we thought this would be impossible? When we thought we'd have to choose between being ourselves and being loved?"
"I remember."
"We were wrong."
"We were kids. We were scared."
"We were brave," Jesse corrected. "We just didn't know it yet."
I looked at him, my husband, my partner, my best friend, and then at Justice the horse, who was watching us with dark, patient eyes.
"Hey," I said to the horse. "I'm Charlie. I'm gay. I'm married. I'm happy. And if you bite me, I won't punch you, because I've learned that violence isn't the answer. But I will firmly tell you no, and I will expect you to respect my boundaries."
Justice blinked. Then he ambled over and nuzzled my hand.
"See?" Jesse said. "Progress."
"Progress," I agreed, and fed the horse an apple, and walked out of the barn into the sunlight, holding my husband's hand, ready for whatever came next.
Because that was the thing about being yourself, I had learned. It wasn't a destination. It wasn't a checkbox you ticked and then moved on from. It was a practice, a choice you made every day, in every interaction, with every breath.
Some days it was easy. Some days it was hard. Some days you had to punch a horse. Some days the horse just wanted an apple.
But every day, if you were lucky, you got to do it alongside someone who loved you. Not despite who you were, but because of it. Every day, if you were brave, you got to add your voice to the chorus of people demanding that the world expand its definition of normal, of acceptable, of worthy of love.
I was Charlie Brennan. I had punched a horse, fallen in love with my best friend, and learned to be myself in a world that didn't always make it easy.
And I was just getting started.