Colleen's Corner: Are We Avoiding Something?
©2024, Colleen Irwin. All rights reserved.

When I first met George in 1987, we clicked immediately. At the time, we were both consultants at the same company in Midtown Manhattan, thrown into the hustle of corporate life. From the start, I was drawn to George’s kindness, humor, and intelligence. He was funny in a quiet way, but more than that, he challenged me to think better and broaden my perspective. In a world full of ambitious professionals, we both shared an underlying sense of insecurity that made us feel safe with each other. We became work buddies, grabbing lunch together whenever we could, talking about our daily adventures. It wasn’t just about work, though. Beneath the surface, there was an unspoken understanding between us—a sense of acceptance that I had never experienced before. I am pretty sure he feels the same way.

We both loved to write, which I think is part of why we clicked so well from the start. Whether it was sharing ideas, talking about our latest projects, or just putting our thoughts down on paper, writing always played a role in how we connected and understood each other. I believe that connection grew from there.

Growing up, I had learned how to protect myself emotionally, coming from a family dynamic that didn’t allow for true vulnerability. Then later, from a series of bad romantic relationships, I was very closed off. I later found out George had experienced similar struggles. Our friendship, from the very beginning, felt like a refuge from the world. There was no judgment, just acceptance—an emotional safety net that we both so desperately needed.

Life, as it tends to do, took us in different directions after those early years. George eventually moved to Rochester to pursue graduate school, while I stayed in New York, navigating my own marriage and career. Despite the physical distance, we stayed connected. Phone calls, emails, and the occasional visit kept us tethered to one another. We had this ability to pick up where we left off, even if months passed between conversations. It always felt natural, as if no time had passed at all.

In many ways, it was easy to maintain that level of friendship because we weren’t physically close. The boundaries of our lives were set—he had his world in Rochester, and I had mine in New York, then Florida, and finally Buffalo when I moved there in 2007. We both got married, built families, and created separate lives. But we never really let go of our friendship. He came to my wedding in 1989 and I attended his wedding in 1991 in California. When my son was born in July 1995, George and his wife were some of the first to know. Our sons were born just 18 months apart—George’s son in November 1996—and I loved that connection. I’d often brought hand-me-downs when I visited Rochester, as my trips from New Jersey to see family in Buffalo would lead me to stop by to see them. There was always an ease between us, but at that point, we were both so focused on our families and careers that there wasn’t anything more than friendship.

That started to change in February 2017. I still remember the phone call from him. It was George’s birthday, and I was excited to wish him well when he answered with a somber tone. “I just got served divorce papers,” he said. Hearing those words felt like a punch to the gut. My heart ached for him, knowing the pain he was going through. We had stayed connected over the years, mostly through Christmas cards and birthday messages on Facebook, but this felt different. He hadn’t told me, or most others, about this before. I could hear the weight of his pain, the exhaustion of a marriage that had crumbled around him. We made plans the following week to meet in East Aurora, New York—a picturesque town that felt like it was straight out of a Hallmark movie. That should have been our first sign.

At first, I was just there to offer support. We started talking more often, and before I knew it, we were spending a lot of time together again. George was rebuilding his life, and I was there alongside him. I even helped him dismantle his beloved model train layout in the basement of what had become his ex-wife’s house—a task that felt strangely symbolic. As we undid the model train world he had built, it felt like we were letting go of more than just physical pieces. We were tearing down the barriers that had kept us apart emotionally, piece by piece, without even realizing it.

Even then, I couldn’t admit to myself what was happening. There was a part of me that resisted the idea of us becoming more than friends. George had been a constant in my life for so long—reliable, safe, and supportive. I was afraid of losing that if we crossed the line into something romantic. More than that, I was terrified of being hurt again. I had spent years healing from toxic relationships, rebuilding my sense of self after being let down by men who didn’t value or respect me. I didn’t want to risk going down that road again. George, too, was fresh out of a marriage that had caused him deep emotional pain. Neither of us wanted to get hurt again.

A few weeks earlier, my mentor, Jack Rudy, said something that broke through my fears. He asked me point-blank, “When are you going to realize that George loves you more than anyone in your life ever has?” His words struck a chord deep within me. It was as if Jack had unlocked a door I hadn’t even realized was closed. In that instant, I could no longer deny what had been brewing in my heart for so long. George had always been there for me, loving me quietly, consistently, and unconditionally. And now, he needed me, too. The feelings we both had been suppressing for so long were suddenly undeniable.

That moment of realization came after I asked, “Are we avoiding something?” It led to our first kiss, and from there, everything changed. It felt like the floodgates had opened, and we could no longer hold back. We went from that kiss to being married in seven months. It might seem fast to others, but for us, it was a long time coming. We had almost thirty years of friendship. We knew what we had; we knew all the skeletons. We loved one another and accepted the bad with the good. In some ways, our story is a great country song. In fact, we’ve shared it with several singer-songwriters. We both write a lot, and I’m sure that’s part of our connection. We just get each other. We had spent years not acknowledging it, and now that we were finally together, we weren’t going to waste another moment.

Looking back, I realize we were both avoiding the same thing: the fear of losing what we had built over the years. Our friendship was precious, and for so long, we convinced ourselves that keeping things as they were was the safer option. In fact, our friendship was the one constant, stable, and supportive relationship either of us had during those years. Even when we didn’t speak, and there was great distance in our communication, we always knew we had each other. But avoiding the possibility of romance didn’t save us from heartache. Instead, it delayed the happiness and connection we could have had much sooner.

The truth is, fear often kept me from pursuing the things that mattered most to me—especially love. I had done so much inner work to heal my wounds, and in the end, it was that work that allowed me to see George for who he truly was—my partner, my best friend, and the love of my life. Having done so much inner work, I knew this time was different. George wasn’t just another relationship; he was someone who had seen me at my most vulnerable and loved me through it. Once we embraced our relationship, everything fell into place. Our friendship became the foundation for a deeper, richer connection that continues to grow.

Every step we took separately made the bond we share now even stronger. The years we spent apart weren’t wasted—they were laying the foundation for the love and partnership we now embrace. Today, I feel incredibly grateful that we didn’t let fear win. Our story is one of patience, healing, and rediscovery. And even though it took us decades to get here, I believe our love was always waiting—patiently—for the right moment to bloom. What we have now is worth every difficult moment, every doubt, and every step we took to get here. We no longer avoid what’s in our hearts. Instead, we live each day fully, embracing not just what we have but also the future we are creating together.

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