Same-sex relationships thrive on honest communication and clear boundaries. Maya Johnson shares hard-won advice from Chicago's queer communities—practical steps for building trust respect and mutual joy without the fluff
Personal Note
This article is written in a personal voice and structured for comfort reading: short paragraphs, clear headings, and practical next steps.
Look. I’ve been there—sitting across from someone I really liked at a dimly lit queer bar in Logan Square, smiling too much, nodding at all the right moments but still feeling this low hum of unease. We were both queer, both into books and riot grrrl playlists, both said all the right things about therapy and boundaries. But something was off. Turned out we wanted completely diferent things from a relationship. Me? I wanted someone who’d text back within a few hours. They wanted space—like, a week without contact space. That’s not wrong. Just not for me.
Same-sex relationships carry a quiet magic. You often come into them with survival instincts already sharpened. You’ve navigated coming out, maybe rejection, maybe isolation. So when you find someone who *gets it*—who shares your history or at least respects it—there’s a rush. A relief. But that relief can make you overlook incompatibilities. You think: *Finally, someone who understands.* And so you stay. Even when the fit is tight.
Being gay or trans or bi doesn’t mean you automatically sync with someone else who is. I dated a non-binary poet once who quoted Audre Lorde like scripture—beautiful, passionate, couldn’t pay their phone bill on time. I’m the type who sets calendar reminders for bill payments. We clashed *hard* about money and responsibility. It wasn’t about queerness. It was about values.
Ask yourself: Do we handle conflict in ways that leave us both feeling seen? Do our rhythms match—like, who initiates sex, who plans dates, who remembers birthdays? One friend of mine with a femme partner noticed she was always the one planning weekend trips. She’d book train tickets and B&Bs. Her partner? Showed up, grateful, but never lifted a finger. After two years she was burnt out. They broke up not because of love but because of invisible labor.
Check this: Track who does what over two weeks. Not the big stuff—cleaning, cooking, remembering mom’s birthday. Write it down. Then talk about it. No blame. Just data.
I used to think boundaries were for cold people. Like, control freaks with spreadsheets tracking emotional access. Then I dated someone who’d show up at my door unannounced after we’d had an argument. He said he missed me. I felt trapped. I didn’t know how to say no without feeling like a monster.
Boundaries aren’t walls. They’re handrails. They help you stay upright when things get steep.
Try this: Name one boundary you’ve avoided setting. Maybe it’s not wanting to be tagged in photos. Or needing a heads-up before your partner brings up a fight at a party. Text it to them today. Plain language: *Hey, I need to talk about something small but important to me. Can we chat tonight?* Not dramatic. Just honest.
One couple I know—a lesbian pair in their 50s—agreed that neither would speak for the other in group settings. Like, no "She hates cilantro" unless she said it first. Seemed tiny. But it built enormous trust over time. They felt *represented,* not interpreted.
There’s this idea floating around that if you’re both queer, you’ll just *get* each other. No explanations needed. That’s dangerous. My ex once said, "You don’t need to tell me you’re sad. I just feel it." But he didn’t *do* anything. Didn’t ask. Didn’t hold space. Just “felt it” and kept scrolling TikTok. That’s not empathy. That’s emotional window shopping.
You still have to talk. Really talk.
Try the 10-minute check-in. Once a week. No phones. One person talks for 10 minutes—anything about the relationship. The other just listens. Then switch. No fixing. No rebuttals. Just listening. Do it over pancakes or on the couch or in the car before you go into work. We tried it after a rough patch. First time was awkward as hell. By week three? We were uncovering stuff we’d buried for months.
Queer relationships often carry extra weight. Family rejection. Healthcare gatekeeping. Job insecurity. When you’re fighting, it’s easy to let that weight spill into the argument. "You don’t care about me" becomes "No one’s ever cared about me, not even my mom."
Ground the fight. Bring it back to what’s real *now.*
Say: "I know this feels big. But right now, I just need to know why you didn’t call when you said you would. Can we talk about that piece?"
One couple I counseled—trans man and queer Latina—had a rule: If either said “time out,” they’d stop talking for 24 hours. No texts. No passive-aggressive Spotify playlists. Just space. After the time, they’d talk with a therapist present. It saved their relationship after a blowout about wedding invitations.
It’s not always deep convos or therapy breakthroughs. Sometimes it’s who remembers to buy your favorite almond milk. Who laughs at your dumb inside jokes. Who lets you cry during *Blue Valentine* without making you feel weak.
My current partner knows I hate surprise plans. So even if it’s just “wanna grab tacos?” they text first. Always. That small consistency—definately—makes me feel safe.
And safety? That’s where love grows.
So. Stop assuming sameness means compatibility. Stop swallowing resentment because “we’re both queer, we should understand.” Set the damn boundary. Ask the awkward question. Track the labor. Listen like it matters.
Because it does
Especially when the world feels loud and unkind. The way you love each other—deliberate thoughtful fierce—that’s the quiet rebellion
