You can argue that it's a different world now than the one when Matthew Shepard was killed, but there is a subtle difference between tolerance and acceptance. It's the distance between moving into the cul-de-sac and having your next door neighbor trust you to keep an eye on her preschool daughter for a few minutes while she runs out to the post office. It's the chasm between being invited to a colleague's wedding with your same-sex partner and being able to slow-dance without the other guests whispering.

But there’s a part of me that wonders what it would be like to be the most important person to someone else, to always feel like you were missing a piece of yourself when he wasn’t near you.

Although you hadn't asked why, it had less to do with you not noticing than with you not wanting to hear the answer.

Words are like eggs dropped from great heights; you can no more call them back than ignore the mess they leave when they fall.

The doctors may be mapping out the war games, but it is the nurses who make the conflict bearable.

Who I am, and what I am capable of doing has always managed to surprise me.

You are only as invincible as your smallest weakness, and those are tiny indeed - the length of a sleeping baby's eyelash, the span of a child's hand. Life turns on a dime, and - it turns out - so does one's conscience.