Bent But Not Broken, Isla, Part One
These were the text messages between me and my girlfriend, Isla1, one Sunday evening in July of 2023. A sudden shift in the cadence and tone of her correspondence with me over the previous days had left a twisting heaviness in the pit of my stomach. It was a shift I had been both expecting and dreading in equal measure.
I had met Isla about three months before this text exchange. Immediately captivated by one another, we would soon embark on what was by far the most intense romantic relationship I had ever been in. From the start, our coming together felt fated. We were meant to be, I believed, evidenced by the seeming inexorability of the forces that brought us together. The intricate convolution in the discovery of our connection and the innocence and beauty of our emotional intimacy convinced me that we’d each found our “soul’s counterpart in another.”2 Disturbingly, though, the gravity of our bond was such that it seemed to be threatening to pull the rest of my life apart. Despite the danger, I couldn’t let it go because I couldn’t let her go, Isla, the cold fusion dark matter star now tearing through the constellation of my life, begging me to give in to the terrifying catharsis of cataclysm and rebirth.
By simple irony or ungentle karma, it was Amy, my wife, that initially brought Isla into my world, just as it was my tie to the first woman I ever fell in love with (many years before), that would result in Amy opening her heart to that woman’s brother, Clark3, about a year prior, which had in turn eventually led to Amy and I opening our marriage.
Amy meets lots of people and makes friends and acquaintances readily, so when in late 2022 she mentioned a new friend she’d made at a new moon ceremony named Isla, I didn’t take much notice. Amy described Isla as a bit younger than us, early 30s, and a very sweet, caring person. Amy also offhandedly mentioned that Isla was really beautiful. This was not the first time I had heard Amy describe someone as “beautiful,” but more than once I ended up not in agreement, so it made little impression at the time.
A few months later, Amy showed me a photo of them together. My attention was immediately fixed on Isla. Young, with dark, shoulder-length hair and striking features, Isla is smiling with her head half-turned, her expression seeming to hint at the knowledge of some tantalizing secret. I was hypnotized. I stared, agog, for several more seconds, and finally whispered “Wow. Isla is really beautiful.”
“I told you,” Amy retorted, rolling her eyes, teasing me.
Not long after, Amy apprised me of a breathwork class taking place one upcoming evening at a community event space near us that offers various spirituality, mindfulness, and wellness classes. Having attended that same breathwork class herself a month before, Amy thought I might be interested. She also mentioned that Isla would be working the front desk that particular evening, so if I went I might get to meet her. The prospect of meeting Isla was more than enough motivation for me.
The evening of the class, I walked into the reception area of the venue and was greeted by a young woman at the front desk. I inquired after Isla, and was told that she had stepped away for a moment. I turned to the door leading into the main event space to see someone coming toward me. My stomach did a little flip as I recognized her as Isla.
Like in the photo, she was stunning, but seeing her in person seemed to electrify me far beyond any expectation I may have had. This was perhaps the most attractive woman I had ever seen in person in my entire life. Isla’s eyes were large and deep and a pale shade of green, both shy and playful. She had perfected the art of drawing those eyes into an expression you would expect to see on a mischievous sprite or fey spirit—the expression of an archetypal creature in possession of a vast well of some primal sexual power, the kind to which men have been in thrall since before our species even descended from the trees. Isla was petite, standing just a few inches or so over five feet, with perfectly toned musculature on an extraordinary feminine physique, and walked with feline grace, her weight slightly forward on the balls of her feet, seeming almost to prowl. When our eyes met, it felt like she knew me, and I knew her, and with this familiarity came the sensation of being almost violently yanked into her orbit.
One of Isla’s most endearing mannerisms is her shy, sly smile, which she delivers with a slight dip of her chin and an upward glance perfectly designed to be irresistible to anyone caught in its line of fire. Like an anti-Medusa, instead of the stone and stillness of death her gaze lashes out with the wildness and cacophony of life, vibrant and alive but every bit as dangerous. As she approached and we locked eyes, she let loose that smile like a broadside. I felt a shiver wick through my body, and sensed I was already hopelessly spellbound. Maintaining my cool, we had a brief chat where I confirmed who she was (as if there was any doubt), told her who I was, and added that I was glad to meet her.
Following my natural impulse to avoid attention, I found a spot against the wall toward the back of the main event space. Isla had mentioned she would also be attending the class, and after I got settled I realized that I had become hyper-aware of her proximity. She was on the far side opposite me, to my left, but a minute or two later she approached my spot against the wall. As she did so, a surging hope swept over me that she would take the open space next to mine, but I was forced to weather a wave of disappointment as she wordlessly stepped past and found a place on the other side of the room to my right. The breathwork class ended up being a very positive and uplifting experience for me, but the evening had left a much deeper, Isla-shaped impression on my psyche that I suspected would be difficult to smooth out.
A day or two later, Isla texted Amy to say she really enjoyed meeting me and that she thought I was “very handsome,” which made me feel pretty amazing, and I began to allow myself just a little freedom to wonder if she might be attracted to me. During this period, Amy and I had taken to regular attendance of a weekly event called Ecstatic Dance, which Casey, a woman I had been seeing previously, had introduced me to. Ecstatic Dance is more or less what it probably sounds like: a dance hall full of people dancing to live DJ music with the general goal of reaching a euphoric or ecstatic state, or simply to move in whatever way feels good to them. People do sometimes dance together, but that is the exception rather than the rule. As it happened, Isla was also a regular attendee of Ecstatic Dance, and now that she was very much on my radar, I was excited at the possibility of seeing her there.
At that week’s Ecstatic Dance, I’d arrived right around the time the music started. I liked this spot for its proximity to the rear where I could both avoid attention and, if necessary, make a hasty exit. Upon entering, I’d seen that Isla was there, and that she was standing only about ten feet in front of my usual spot, which was about three-quarters to the rear on the right side of the dance hall near the doors. This immediately caused some internal havoc, which I sensibly suppressed. We danced separately over the first hour, Isla’s magnetic presence mere feet away making it difficult to focus on anything else. A notion, nascent an hour before, had over that time evolved from a notion into a thought, and then from a thought to an idea, and from an idea to a decision, and the decision was that I was going to ask Isla to dance with me.
As previously mentioned, Ecstatic Dance is an overwhelmingly solo activity, and there is no talking on the dance floor. To ask someone to dance you have to approach, make eye contact, and use body language to indicate your intention. You should expect to receive a nod if they consent to dance with you, or a shake of the head if they do not. This makes asking someone to dance at these events a socially fraught experience, as you are opening yourself up to receiving a very obvious rejection in front of a lot of people. I had come a long way in my willingness to be open to new and uncomfortable experiences, but this still felt very intimidating. I knew I probably had some amount of credibility with Isla as the partner of someone she was friends with, and she had indicated she might find me attractive, but her receptiveness to any continued attention from me was a total unknown. I wrestled with myself for a while. What if she says no? What if she doesn't like dancing with me? What if I make her uncomfortable? These questions were all my attempts to find a way to back out without feeling like I was simply too afraid to step out of my comfort zone. It didn’t help that I was not exactly a graceful dancer.
About halfway through the dance portion, before I had gathered the courage to do it myself, a man I knew as Brad approached Isla and gestured. She nodded. After they had been dancing for several minutes, I got the distinct impression that Isla was not having a great time. Brad was, in my opinion, being overly touchy and physical, and seemed oblivious to Isla’s growing discomfort. I felt a sudden conflict between what appeared to be a legitimate reason to back out, and my desire to be close to her. I soon found myself retreating to the back of the dance hall to sit down and collect my thoughts.
I watched for another minute or so until I saw Isla, visibly uncomfortable, give Brad the namaste gesture which, in this context, means “I’m done.” Acknowledging this, Brad sauntered off, presumably to annoy someone else. Isla appeared fine, but I felt hesitant to intrude so soon after Brad, so I sat at the back of the room for a few more minutes, weighing my feelings. Finally, knowing full well what I really wanted, I thought, “Fuck this,” and stood up, then strode purposefully toward Isla. As I approached, sensing me, she turned. I cocked my head, smiled, and extended my hand. Her face lit up with a wide grin, her sage-green eyes sparkling. She took my hand, and I slid behind her. Gently pressing her backside into me, our fingers loosely intertwined, she led me into her rhythm. I could feel myself drawn into her, and her into me, as though coming into a stable orbit around one another.
We danced, our hands reflecting the interplay of our bodies, touching and separating, brushing teasingly past one another, then circling around again. Eventually, she relaxed further into me, her hair a curtain of floral dark velvet beneath my chin. Lowering, I let my lips alight softly on her head, taking in her scent, breathing her in. Several minutes passed as we danced. I absorbed every moment and movement, reveling in Isla’s nearness and touch. Finally, sensing it was time to let her go, I gently gripped her shoulder, gesturing a “thank you.” She gestured “thank you” back, smiling radiantly. I found a spot by myself for the remainder of the evening, my skin prickling buzzily with the energy of contact. I rode that high for the rest of the week.
Leading up to this, Amy had revealed more about where Isla was in her life. Several years before, she had endured a marriage in which she felt practically invisible to her ex-husband, Luke, which included an unsuccessful attempt to open their failing relationship. This choice ended up only exacerbating Isla’s loneliness and feelings of inadequacy. After they divorced, she had entered a long-term relationship with a man named John. According to Isla, John represented a clear case of narcissistic personality disorder4, and she claimed he had subjected her to years of severe psychological manipulation and verbal abuse. Amy told me Isla had gotten out of that relationship only within the past handful of months, and cautioned me that Isla herself had strongly indicated that she was not in a place to be a romantic partner to anyone.
Not to be deterred, shortly after Isla and I danced I asked Amy if it would be all right if I started texting Isla to get to know her better. I told Amy my intention was to develop a friendship. Was that true? Yes and no. I knew I wanted to have Isla in my life, and I felt willing to accept simply being her friend to have that. However, I also knew that if, by some miracle, Isla was actually interested in me and could somehow tolerate the fact that I was already married, I would almost certainly jump at the chance to have a romantic relationship with her. Amy was supportive of my request, but repeated her warning about Isla's traumatic background, which extended back to her childhood. I tried not to be dismissive, but truthfully I was already floating away toward fantasy land. Caution having been dutifully urged, Amy gave me Isla's number, and I texted her the next day. Isla said she was glad I had reached out, and we began a casual back and forth over text. Within a week we'd arranged to get coffee together.
Our first meeting was enjoyable, but the vibe was definitely “just friends.” We met at a cafe we both liked called Greenhouse Effect. I arrived first, finding a small table near one of the windows along a narrow stretch of the main room. Isla arrived a few minutes later, taking the seat across from me. This was actually the first time I'd ever seen her in person during daylight hours, and I was, once again, genuinely in awe of her. This was also the first time I'd been able to really look into her eyes. Large, round, and deep, they are her dominant facial feature and utterly inescapable. You wouldn't be far off if you were to visualize actress Saoirse Ronan with dark hair, a slightly more olive complexion, and eyes the cool, piercing green of Chivor emeralds. Her demeanor was diffident but friendly, and she moved with the ease and poise of a dancer, speaking in a lilting, hushed tone that only served to command even more of my attention.
We talked for an hour or two. Isla began by telling me more about herself, her interests, passions, and preferences. Probing deeper, she revealed a bit about some of her past relationships, which eventually transitioned into a discussion about me and Amy. Having had some experience herself with non-monogamy, Isla admitted she could see why a couple might try such a thing, but she couldn’t understand why anyone would do it if they were generally happy together. The risk was simply far too great, and for what benefit? From her perspective, opening a relationship was simply a prelude to splitting up. Specifically, she struggled to understand why Amy had risked losing me for Clark. Amy had told her enough about the both of us for Isla to have drawn her own conclusions. I was, in her words, “a good man,” which was, in her experience, an exceedingly rare find. For Amy to push me to my absolute breaking point–and for me to stick around anyway–was almost incomprehensible. I sensed no small amount of judgment, even some envy, in her voice as she mulled over Amy’s apparent recklessness and my continued dedication, which no doubt contrasted sharply with the injuriously indifferent treatment Isla had received from her ex-husband, Luke, when their marriage began to run aground. Perhaps she wondered what Amy might have that she might not, what quality of Amy’s elicited such patient and steadfast dedication from a good and decent man. Perhaps she was curious about what it would be like to be loved by such a man, a man like, for example, the one she thought might be presently sitting across from her. As we wrapped up our conversation, I knew immediately I wanted to see her again.
We continued texting casually after that, but I was already hanging off her every word. A couple of weeks later, Isla informed me that she'd had a rough weekend, and that talking about it with me in person might be good for her, so we made plans to get together again. I was aware that I was developing genuine feelings for Isla, so I went into our second not-a-date with the intention of getting a clear sense of whether or not she felt anything more than friendship toward me. If not, I resolved, I would start working to move past those feelings into simply being a friend to her.
We met for lunch, and then walked to a nearby park, hanging out (literally) on the playground equipment, accompanied by the shouts of playing children and the quacks of the ducks splashing in the nearby creek. Isla confessed she had recently been dating someone but had just broken up with him after getting the sense that he, like so many men in her life, did not care about her, but rather only what she could (or could not) do for him. As we talked, I could feel her reaching for me, asking to be held by me, wanting to be close to me, and not just as friends. High on the drug of Isla's intoxicating attention, I did not stop to question my transparently self-serving assumption that a romantic relationship with me would be a good thing for her.
After that second meeting, the subtext of our dynamic became noticeably more intimate. The frequency and depth of our text conversations grew. We began sharing increasingly personal details about ourselves, our weaknesses, our dreams and aspirations. I loved talking to her.
(long-winded, meandering monologue about “integration” cut out here…)
Thoughtful, perceptive, and attentive, she picked her way skillfully through my thinking with insightful questions that sent me into rapt analysis before returning with questions of my own. I felt important, cared for, and really seen by her. We also had a lot in common. We envisioned our lives populated with the same things–purpose, peace, connection, adventure–and saw the world in many similar ways. We were both fascinated with Jungian psychology, obsessed with self-improvement, and spent a lot of time immersed in the teachings of various spiritual gurus such as Ram Dass and Eckhart Tolle. We had a lot of the same worries and a lot of the same insecurities. I loved learning about her, how she thought, what made her happy, and what made her sad. I wanted all of it. I wanted all of her.
I believe I can pinpoint the moment I began to fall in love with Isla, the moment my attraction to her tipped over from a straightforward crush based primarily on a powerful physical attraction and into something deeper. That moment occurred one evening while Amy was out for the night and I was home with our boys. After the boys had gone to bed, I decided to get high and bake bread, as I did every so often. Isla texted me, asking what I was up to. I told her. She thought the notion of “getting baked and baking bread” was funny and fascinating, which made me feel like the coolest person on earth (I’m not). Then she shared a song with me she thought I might like. The song was “Good Love” by Zola Blood. As I listened I actually had to stop what I was doing, such was the emotional response I had. It was and is one of the most haunting and beautiful songs I’ve ever heard. I listened through it several times before telling Isla how it had affected me. She asked why it had made such an impression. After some thought, I answered:
There’s something about that sound that speaks directly to the part of me that grieves when something precious is lost and can’t ever be gotten back, but also understands that’s what made it so precious to begin with.
I was feeling so much for Isla already, and this was like a sign that she was a being of a shared soul, of my own essence, the sort of person you might be fortunate enough to cross paths with maybe a handful of times in your entire life. Fittingly, this sentiment, and the musical masterpiece that evoked it, perfectly captured how I came to feel about Isla–precious, lost, beautiful, and tragic.
As we got to know each other, my unease with not having yet firmly established a mutual romantic interest grew, and I decided to tell her how I felt. During a particularly involved conversation, I admitted that I felt nervous being so vulnerable with her because I really wanted her to like me. I was almost certain she would (gently) reject my interest. She had previously told me she did not intend to date for a while after her most recent breakup. Separately she had also told both me and Amy that, after what had happened at the end of her own marriage, she had a strict policy against being involved in non-monogamous relationships or with married men. An interminable two hours later, she responded. However, instead of the anticipated rejection, Isla replied that she did have feelings for me, and suggested we get together to talk about it in person.
My heart pounded in my chest with a mixture of anxiety and adrenaline. I was over the moon. Never before in my life had something like this, something I was once convinced was total fantasy, become reality. I had only developed such feelings this quickly for one other person, more than a decade earlier, but she had not felt the same way. Similarly, before I met Amy, I had spent nearly a decade dating women that either didn’t return my feelings or, if they did, had a way of showing it that always left me feeling anxious, uncertain, and unappreciated. Now this sweet, smart, gorgeous woman, someone I did not believe until that moment I stood any real chance with, was telling me she had feelings for me! Not about to risk the opportunity by stopping to take a proper survey of the field, I launched myself off the starting block.
Background
This story, or at least the bulk of it, occurred over the space of a few months, from sometime in May of 2023 until August of that same year. It is intended as the penultimate chapter in a broader work-in-progress memoir that chronicles the unintentional deconstruction and subsequent reconstruction of my marriage to my soulmate, best friend, and wife, Amy.
Several months prior to the events in this account, Amy realized she was falling in love with a friend of hers, her male running partner, Clark. Amy did not cheat on me, nor did she shut her feelings down. Instead, in a moment of profound trust in herself, me, and in our marriage, she asked me for the green light to begin a relationship with Clark. For reasons detailed fully in the broader memoir, I gave my consent. What followed was by far the most difficult period our ten-year marriage had encountered, and one of the most difficult periods of my life. We came within a hair’s breadth of calling it quits more times than I can remember. We screamed, slammed doors, cried, separated, and reunited, over and over. With each iteration of this cycle, we faced the choice to quit or keep going, and each time we chose to keep going, even when that was the harder thing to choose.
Several months later there was finally light at the end of what had been a very dark tunnel. Along the way, we had made the difficult decision to formally open our marriage as a way of acknowledging that our old way of being together was over, and we needed to build something new if we wanted to stay together, which we did.
As this chapter begins, Amy and Clark had, only a few weeks before and after a tumultuous on-and-off relationship spanning about eight months in total, finally broken up for good. I had also just experienced the end of my first relationship outside of my marriage to a very lovely woman named Casey. Casey and I had ended things very amicably, the relationship having simply run its course. Despite the scars we’d inflicted on one another, Amy and I were in a really good place. We felt certain we were through the worst, and could conceive of nothing that could knock us off course after everything we’d already been through.
… Then Amy made a new friend.
All names have been changed other than my own and Amy’s, as have some minor details to protect the privacy of those mentioned.
This is a line from the comedy Wedding Crashers, perhaps not the best model for “true love.”
See “Background” section at the bottom of this entry for more details.
It has lately become gauche to casually label as “narcissists” people who are actually just highly immature or selfish, and obviously I only have Isla’s side of this story, but given the entire picture she painted for me I’m inclined to believe John had some kind of personality disorder. It is, of course, not lost on me that this could also be true of Isla, but I don’t see any solid evidence of that.