The first time I walked into the new apartment, what struck me was the emptiness. The place was plain but nice, and someone had taken the time to paint each room a different shade. But what stood out the most was how different it looked, and felt, from the home I’d shared with my wife and two children for the past decade. Everything has changed, I thought as I looked around the near empty space. And everything included me.

It’s been almost exactly two years ago since that day in that apartment—the day I left my home, after separating from my wife, and moved several small towns over in Maine. The day that the gears of my gender transition began to turn forward in earnest. Suddenly, I found myself solely responsible for furnishing a living space for the first time in my life, and I had no idea how to make that happen. I let my ex keep most of the furniture. For the new place, I bought mostly modular pieces and assembled them on my living room floor. By the time I was done, I realized something else: I needed a place to lay down and stretch out. So then I had to buy a couch.

I vividly remember the day it came into my life. Armed with my share of our meager marital savings, I slowly picked through the local big box discount furniture store, choosing the cheapest mattress, frame, and furniture for my children’s room. I intentionally left the couch purchase for last. I made my way over to that section of the store, apprehensive about what I would find. Then The Couch grabbed my attention. It was beige, with gold thread woven throughout. I could tell immediately that it would contrast nicely with the pale blue walls of my new living room.

Most importantly, it was longer than the rest of the loveseats and sleepers and L-shaped sectionals. I grew to 6’2” when I was still an eighth grader; my height has given me trouble pretty much ever since. Most couches have proven too petite for my lanky frame. It’s always hard to find seating that allows me to fully stretch out. But this one, snuggled into the corner of the unassuming homewares emporium, accomodated my body easily. When I sat down, it felt right.

The only problem was the price tag. At $900, the couch was listed at several hundred dollars more than other sofas I was considering. It was perfect for me. But not so much for my bank account.

Standing there in the store, I considered my savings and the looming costs of my impending gender transition. Between laser hair removal of my beard and other distant surgeries, I knew my medical journey could run upwards of tens of thousands of dollars. Was it worth diverting some of those funds to living room furniture? The longer I stood there, staring at the tag, the more unsure I felt about spending that much. Not to mention: unsure about making decisions that I had never made alone before.

Then I thought about how stressful things had been the last few weeks—preparing to move out, the anxiety and worry of living alone for the first time—and I found myself giving into the purchase. The truth is, I wanted something that didn’t make me feel like I had to perform physical origami when I just wanted to watch television; something that fit me instead of the other way around. So, using my brand new post-divorce credit card, I bought the damn thing.

After about a week, the couch was delivered, and I placed along a wall in my living room, satisfied with the decision. It looked nice, but it didn’t take long for me to realize that my luxurious new napping spot had put some major pressure on my already tight budget. I knew transitioning would be expensive, but I hadn’t been prepared for quite how much so. New shoes and blue jeans. New slacks and blouses to wear to work, not to mention versatile skirts and dresses. Makeup and little things like costume jewelry. Hormone Replacement Therapy and laser hair removal. It adds up. I fretted about all the money I’d spent on the couch—money that could be going to other things. I wondered if I had made a mistake.

PHOTO: Courtesy of author

The author’s beloved couch

Then, six months after I bought the couch, my friend Lisa reached out: Her girlfriend had dumped her, on Thanksgiving no less. She had moved to the Midwest several months earlier for this relationship. Now, without any options, she was desperate. Though we weren’t particularly close at the time, I told her she could stay on my couch until she got back on her feet.

A week later, Lisa showed up in her banged up Mazda6, which was packed to the brim with her possessions. The couch became her new residence, and I found myself happy to have a roommate. By that point, I had been living alone for months. Lisa was lively and kept me entertained with all her political chattering—before moving away, she’d been working on legislative campaign—but I also knew she was stressed about money. The longer Lisa stayed, unemployed and burning through her savings, the more desperate she became. And I was still learning how to juggle part time care of my kids, a full time job, and a fast growing freelance writing career.

We were both trying, painstakingly, to find our way. Most of the time, Lisa and I alternated between hysterically laughing, incessantly crying, and having middle of the night meltdowns as we went through some of the darkest days of our lives. Those months were hard. But we were lucky to have each other. Lisa and I got through it all by hanging on the couch, binge-watching The West Wing, drinking wine, ordering takeout, and giving each other the support that, looking back, we both desperately needed.

Eventually, Lisa wound up reconciling with her ex and going back to the midwest. We both needed to move on‚ and forward, in our lives. I was sad when she left: I may have lost full control of the television remote, but over the course of six weeks, we had become best friends. As her Mazda disappeared around the corner, I knew I would miss her.

But I also realized that I was looking forward to having the place to myself again. Lisa being around every day had helped me become ready to live on my own. As I settled back down on the couch, alone, for the first time in months, I was was alone. What had changed was now I had memories: of wine, of laughter, our The West Wing obsession, our friendship. Now lovingly broken in, the couch had become something new: the site of one of the most trusted relationships in my life.

The extra cash I splashed to buy it—instead of anything less than the perfect fit—is nothing compared to the friendship I now share with Lisa. Turned out, the extra couple hundred dollars on my credit card bill had been worth it. In a way: the couch saved us both.

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