Pollinated by Nostalgia
Picture it: you're curled up on a late Saturday night, sheet mask on, devouring pizza and reruns of Golden Girls under in your backyard when, suddenly, your phone lights up. It's the guy you were sure was permanently archived in the Museum of Bad Decisions. Your stomach does a synchronized cartwheel with your heart.
And then, like clockwork, your internal monologue begins: Do I block, bless, or booty-call?
Recycled romances occur when old flames and one-night stands circle back like daffodils. I've witnessed more comebacks than a mid-2000s boy band, pre- and post-transition. But when history repeats itself as an unexpected "hey stranger," a cocktail of nostalgia, ego, and questionable judgment begins to fizz.
So, how do we decide whether to give them the key to our secret garden...or triple-bolt it shut?
The Reality Check: Who Are You Now?
Spring has sprung, which usually means old flames and one-night stands thaw out. Memory has the effect of smoothing the edges of what happened in previous relationships. Who hasn't found themselves romanticizing the good moments while minimizing the ugly ones? The cheating, the microaggressions, or the time(s) they voted for Trump.
For trans folks, especially those who begin later in life, there are multiple layers in our experience. The version of us that a former partner knew may look different, whether it be our newly chosen name or how we look. Or, our trans journey has expanded into its own universe, and we need the right gardener with the right skills to tend to our needs.
That's why the first step is a reality check: not on what was, but on who you are now:
- Did they respect your identity last time around? Have they shown genuine trans-affirmation since?
- Do you share fundamental values today, or does your new self have non-negotiables that would doom the sequel?
- People evolve, but not everyone levels up. Has your ex displayed tangible change, or is it the same old script with prettier fonts?
Fail two out of three? Slam that door, love.
Nostalgia is seductive. It wafts in with sweet notes of lazy Sunday pancakes, inside jokes, and attending events as a couple rather than solo. But nostalgia, like a TikTok filter, paints selective colors. Sometimes, you need to ask yourself if you're missing them or the you that existed back then.
The Not-So-Secret Garden: The Case of Auntie and Mr. Rosebud
Proof that Auntie doesn't always take her own advice, now picture this: early January 2025. I reconnected with an old flame, let's call him Mr. Rosebud. We first met on a dating app in 2019. Our moment wasn't a blooming one, ending disastrously as he always came around intoxicated. He apologized, and we shared our personal journeys since we met: I had gotten cuter and more fabulous; he was still handsome and sobered up, primarily due to a court order that forced him to quit drinking and take urine tests.
But as the late, great Pope Francis once said, "Who am I to judge?"
Our late-night conversation turned into a day of us hanging out together. My dog adored Mr. Rosebud but craved attention like her mother. He ended up spending the night after making dinner. The following day, he cleaned my apartment, cooked breakfast, and walked the dog while I worked. He stayed another night. Then another. Then another. On Friday, he was ecstatic as his urine test was clean. I didn't quite yet understand his excitement, but it was Friday, and I was ready to relax. He came back to my apartment with several bottles of alcohol. Then, he revealed his secret of manipulating the system for his benefit.
Any respectable woman would've immediately bid him adieu and proceeded to live her best life. Sadly, nostalgia prevented me. It was not just the smoothed-out nostalgia that kept the attraction. It was the nostalgia of a younger me—yes, five years younger, but one who was equally reckless with life. That recklessness was, in its own way, liberating. And I partially yearned for it from the rigors and rigidity I built around myself.
I soon learned how nostalgia cost me my time, space, and energy.
Mr. Rosebud practically lived in my apartment for over a month. It felt less like a lover and more like a roommate living in my apartment; he chose to stay up late and watch Netflix while I went to bed in preparation for the next work day. And, with him being jobless, he was always there. This was the first time I wished I had worked in an office: he was in my space from dawn to dusk, doing little save taking out the dog (he eventually groaned about cooking and cleaning). Somewhere, I lost the energy—the courage—of telling him to leave.
Because with each charming smile and handholding, each kiss and sex session, the strength to say goodbye dissipated like a comet's tail.
Fate would eventually get rid of him. My. Rosebud eventually went back into rehab after several failed tests. Meanwhile, I breathed a sigh of relief as he packed his belongings ahead of his sojourn.
A Walk in the Park
A few weeks later, cozy and alone watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, I reflected on life over the past few years. From the name I gave myself to the circle I socialized in and how I crafted my presentation, I had truly become the woman I yearned to be in my youth. The confidence, self-assuredness, and self-sufficiency, especially as a Black trans woman, are empowering. But some men won't see it as enticing but as intimidating. In the brief re-tryst with Mr. Rosebud, I also yearned for another nostalgic feeling.
The nostalgia of being "chosen" at a time when I felt deeply unseen.
In a twisted way, I thought there was some comfort in letting a man pay for dinner despite knowing I could afford (and possibly eat) it all, deferring to him on the choice of movie to watch or (sighs) UFC match to buy. And that, instead of proving him right, allowing him to win an argument might boost his ego. The irony is that I was never raised to think this way (I grew up around equally empowering and ambitious women). But somehow, giving him a "win" in some form would make him stay.
But I'm not a mere English rose–I'm an exotic flower. This new person I had become, with a new name, voice, and everything, was far beyond his worth. And any hopes of continuing anything with him would hold no real value.
Continuing to meddle in the garden of romantic nostalgia would have been interacting with a memory cosplayer, not a real partner.
So, please take it from Auntie: When an ex reappears, hunt for the impulse underneath. Is it loneliness? Fear of dating apps? Hormonal chaos? That awareness is your seatbelt before you board the nostalgia ride…and open your literal and emotional door to past hookups.
Remember: Second chances are not freebies; they're loans withinterest.
The Glow-Up Audit: A Self-Love Toolshed
Like a well-tended field, time apart should come with evidence of growth: therapy, accountability, activism, or at least no longer hating vegetables. So, take into account what I'd like to call the Glow-Up Audit:
- Accountability Letter. Have they articulated what they did wrong without deflecting? A genuine apology doesn't contain the phrase "if I hurt you."
- Effort Ledger. Are actions matching words? One apology does not make a pattern. Continuous respect is the new platonic-to-romantic currency.
- Support Statement. In the era of rising transphobia, will they show up publicly? They don't deserve you at midnight if they don't clap for you in daylight.
They're not partner material if your ex can't pass the audit. That's just nostalgia with a side of crabgrass.
Remember, whenever that ex tries to plant themselves back into your life, anchor every decision in radical self-love. Loving yourself so fiercely that it's mistaken for vanity is how we survive.
Keep Blossoming
As for my quick romance with Mr. Rosebud, thankfully, he's still in rehab. When he finally reached out, I told him I couldn't afford to have him back in my life and wished him all the best. It still feels hard to say this to someone who has always been warm, open, and welcoming.
Open the door or deadbolt it when it comes to an ex? Well, the answer isn't a universal rule. But know that whatever choice you make, Auntie is here, reminding you always, "Choose you first, darling. Always you."
And remember, exes, like seasonal flowers, may come and go. But only you can decide when and to whom you give access to the inner garden of your heart.
'Til next time,
Your Lovable Trans Auntie
Your Lovable Trans Auntie is our go-to advice column for life’s biggest (and messiest) questions—love, work, identity, and everything in between. With a signature blend of warmth, wit, and just the right amount of sass, Auntie offers readers a uniquely trans perspective that’s as affirming as it is entertaining. Whether dishing out heartfelt wisdom, practical advice, or a little tough love, Auntie is here to remind everyone that they’re never alone on this journey
Got a crush but don’t know how to tell them you’re trans? Wondering how to deal with that coworker who still “forgets” your pronouns? Trying to navigate family drama, dating dilemmas, or just figuring out who you are? Auntie’s got you. Submit your questions to voices@equalpride.com.
Courtesy Kevin Aviance
Courtesy Kevin Aviance
Courtesy Kevin Aviance
