Relationship Dynamics

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One of the challenges of being broadly easygoing and optimistic is that compatibility tends to reveal itself more through friction than through preference. As long as a few core conditions are met, there’s actually a wide range of ways a relationship can work — which makes it easier to notice what disrupts alignment than to narrowly define what creates it.

Because I’m highly self-sufficient, fast-moving, and comfortable operating at a fairly high level of intensity, relationship success for me depends less on accommodation and more on ease. I’m not looking for someone to keep up, nor someone who needs to be buffered or managed. I’m looking for someone who feels naturally oriented beside me — where my pace, curiosity, and engagement with life feel energizing rather than overwhelming.

This isn’t about superiority or expectation. It’s about fit. When compatibility is present, very little needs to be negotiated. When it isn’t, even small differences create unnecessary drag. The purpose of outlining these dynamics isn’t to restrict possibility, but to make the path to success clearer for the right person.

I’m fairly location-anchored at this stage of my life. I’ve built a long-term career in mental health at a hospital where I’ve worked for over a decade. I could earn more elsewhere, but I care deeply about my work, my staff, and the patient population I serve. While mental health isn’t a lucrative field, my life is stable, secure, and sustainable — and that matters more to me than chasing marginal gains.

I’ve also invested heavily in building a home that reflects how I live. It’s a fully solar, ecologically sustainable space that I’ve poured time, thought, and care into — not just as a house, but as a long-term environment designed to last well beyond me. It’s quirky, intentional, and deeply rooted. Walking away from that wouldn’t be impossible, but it would take a genuinely compelling alternative rather than simple convenience.

The same applies socially. I’ve cultivated a rich, diverse network of close friendships over many years. I think of myself as a “human collector,” and those relationships are an important part of my life and identity. Uprooting from that ecosystem isn’t something I’d do lightly.

Because of all this, I’m not particularly drawn to indefinite long-distance relationships. I stay busy, and real, in-person connection — being able to see, hear, touch, and share space — matters to me. That said, I’m open to distance when there’s a clear trajectory toward eventually living in the same place.

I’m also unusually comfortable accelerating cohabitation when it makes sense. I don’t see “playing house” as a risk so much as a practical way to evaluate real compatibility. In the past, I’ve successfully navigated relationships with partners whose careers involved travel or geographic flexibility, as long as connection needs were being met and there was a shared understanding of direction.

This isn’t about rigidity — it’s about honesty. I’ve built a life that works, and I’m looking for someone whose life can realistically intersect with it, not compete with it.  

My greatest joy comes from shared experience. The old saying holds true for me: the couple that plays together tends to stay together.

I’ve had relationships where mutual respect, affection, and compatibility were present — where stepping into something deeper would have been easy. But in at least one memorable case, the mismatch was simple and honest: “I could never handle the conventions or all the chaos you thrive in. My joy is quiet weekends and low stimulation.” There was no judgment there, only clarity. Our happiness lived in different places.

And while I do have friends who I can, and do share my adventures with, I'm not looking for complete separate of home life and adventure life.  I take real pride in being part of a power couple: costuming together, attending events as a coordinated unit, showing up with intention and playfulness. Small, joyful acts of alignment that say, we’re doing this together.' 

I love building a visual history of those moments — not for performance, but for memory. Experiences fade; memories blur. Shared photos become anchors. They preserve not just what we did, but how it felt to do it together.

Most important of all, though, is willingness. There’s nothing more bonding than knowing your partner is there by choice — not tolerating your joy, not accommodating it, but genuinely sharing it. That’s why spaces centered on creativity, costuming, and communal enthusiasm tend to be where I find my people. When something like Dragon Con is a yearly highlight rather than an obligation, compatibility tends to reveal itself naturally.

An adventure partner isn’t about constant motion or spectacle. It’s about shared enthusiasm — choosing the same moments, and choosing them together

I believe in unconditional love. Mine is persisting, even after break-ups. I don't look at past failed relationships with a jaundiced eye of love to hatred turned, but instead an appreciation of the time spent together and the unfortunate decision that a future was unsustainable. 

I’ve been happy in monogamous relationships, open dynamics, swinging relationships, sexless partnerships, loosely structured non-monogamy, and my present bachelordom.  I’m adaptable by nature. I don’t cling to form for its own sake.

What I do care about is intention — specifically the pairing of agape and pragma. I’m ultimately looking for someone who wants to build a life together: to team up, align priorities, and move forward with shared purpose — while being deeply, unquestionably in love. The rest is structure and flavor, negotiated honestly.

But I don't hold myself to unrealistic expectations. If I expect to enforce monogamy, then it falls upon me to be able and willing to meet the needs of my partner. If I am otherwise unwilling or unable, monogamy is just a mechanism of control to assert that the needs of another are not worthy of being met. I have no interest in control or jealousy.

All relationships exist within negotiation: which needs we meet directly, which we compromise on, and which we consciously release in service of something greater. I believe the most successful relationships focus less on control and more on facilitation — ensuring that needs are addressed rather than denied. Where facilitation isn’t possible, transparency and consent matter.

That said, while I’m capable of sharing eros, philia, and ludos — desire, affection, and play — my capacity for agape does not divide cleanly. When I love, my emotional center commits fully. I want my partner to feel unmistakably chosen, prioritized, and honored by that focus.

People often say, “I can love more than one person,” and perhaps that’s true in theory. But time, attention, presence, and emotional energy are finite. In practice, dividing them always means each person receives less. So I believe that our partners should always receive as much of us as they need. 

No one will ever be my lesser love.

While I may be outgoing and energetic, I genuinely adore quiet nights together — curled up on the couch, sharing a show, a movie, or simply each other’s presence. I don’t need to be entertained. Whether alone or together, I stay engaged with life. To me, intentional rest and shared stillness are just as purposeful as productivity.

I enjoy doing things with a partner as much as I enjoy parallel play. Video games, board games, skating, hiking, long walks — all great. Reading while I game? Crafting while I write? Perfect. I place a high value on presence without obligation. Being together doesn’t require constant interaction to feel connected.

I’m also very tactile. Small, casual contact is grounding for me — a hand, a foot, a shoulder. Even when we’re not actively cuddling, I’ll probably find some small point of contact. Physical closeness is a quiet language I speak fluently (and being caressed is my greatest weakness. The world stops.)

I tend to be fastidious and keep a clean, orderly home. I do best in relationships where domestic responsibility is shared without prompting. Gender roles don’t factor into this at all — I’ve almost always been the more diligent cleaner in past relationships. What matters isn’t perfection, but effort and awareness.

I think of it as relational socialism: each person contributes according to their ability, and both benefit from the result. The only real friction point for me is effort aversion. Shared life works best when both people show up willingly, not reluctantly. No one should have to be his or her partner's parent.

 I’m one of those people who genuinely doesn’t need alcohol or substances to have fun — joy comes naturally to me. That said, I’m not opposed to them either.

I’m a social drinker. I don’t drink alone, but I’ll happily share a glass of wine with a partner or have a few drinks when we’re out. It’s infrequent and intentional. I’ve had maybe two hangovers in the past decade. When I do drink, I become more playful than anything else — giggly, affectionate, energetic, and a little impish. I’ve never been a destructive or volatile drunk, largely because I don’t enjoy being out of control.

Philosophically, I lean libertarian on substance use and strongly support legalization and responsible use of things like THC and psilocybin, especially given their documented therapeutic potential. At the same time, I’m realistic enough to recognize that not everyone has the same relationship with self-control, and some people genuinely need firmer boundaries.

I’ve never struggled with addiction myself, so I don’t pretend to fully understand that experience. But I work in mental health, and I’ve seen enough to approach the subject with empathy, realism, and very clear lines around sustainability.

 I’m deeply family-centric — just not in the traditional sense. The way my life unfolded led me more toward found family than inherited family.

Both of my parents passed when I was in my twenties, and I was always the liberal black sheep in a very Evangelical Christian family. I maintain limited contact with extended relatives, but they aren’t a meaningful part of my daily life. My true biological family is my brother and his two boys — and I take enormous joy in being the very enthusiastic “cool uncle.”

I always wanted to be a father. In my marriage, circumstances made that impractical, and the most responsible choice was a vasectomy. We agreed that if parenthood ever became part of the plan, adoption would be the path. In hindsight, it’s not surprising that I gravitated toward children’s mental health — it became a way to invest that paternal instinct outward, to guide, support, and positively influence kids who genuinely needed it. It scratched the itch in a meaningful way.

In the absence of a large traditional family, I’ve built something intentional instead. I collect humans — people whose presence, kindness, and perspective make my life better. I maintain several overlapping friend circles with a wide range of personalities and backgrounds. I have just as many close women friends as male friends, and that’s never been an issue in my relationships because I’m deeply protective of the trust and value of those bonds. Some guys can have truly platonic friends. 

While I enjoy the freedom of a child-free life, I’m not categorically opposed to children. I do think there are two broad kinds of parents: those who become only parents, and those who retain their identity, curiosity, and vitality alongside that role. The latter are deeply attractive to me.  An emotionally healthy, self-aware parent who still knows who she is? That’s compelling.

Children are not a deal breaker in the least, so long as we have enough time to connect as adults. 

 Because I’m naturally expressive, playful, and emotionally open, I’m drawn to people who lead with the same energy. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and I’m most engaged by partners who do as well. There’s very little that disengages me faster than coyness, game-playing, emotional withholding, or playing hard to get. Directness is attractive. Sincerity gets my attention.

At the same time, the way I move through the world tends to draw two very different kinds of interest. In personal and social spaces, I often attract people drawn to brightness — the color, enthusiasm, and momentum. Professionally, I tend to attract people drawn to stability, competence, and leadership — those who respond to decisiveness, responsibility, and grounded purpose.

What’s proven rare is someone who genuinely integrates both.

I’m looking for a partner who can be expressive, playful, curious, and a little wild — and who is also emotionally regulated, responsible, and anchored in her own life. Someone who can revel in joy without chaos, and hold stability without becoming rigid. That balance — vitality paired with groundedness — is what I’m most drawn to, and what I’ve found hardest to find.

It’s not about extremes. It’s about integration.

 When my former partner and I discussed marriage, the question of last names came up. Tradition, by itself, has never meant much to me — I had no desire to symbolically claim someone or replicate patriarchal defaults. Instead, I suggested something more representative of who we were. We chose values rather than ownership. Because she loved science, I gave that name to her. I adopted Philosophy as my middle name — a choice that felt far more honest.

Philosophy has always been central to how I move through the world. I naturally deconstruct, diagram, and analyze what drives me — what motivates my reactions, where my instincts come from, and how to refine them. Self-knowledge isn’t an abstraction for me; it’s a practice.

Working in mental health, I take therapy seriously. I don’t live in it, but I respect it. I tend to do a check-in after major transitions — especially breakups — not because I’m broken, but because perspective matters. That same mindset carries into relationships. One of my greatest strengths — and occasionally a weakness — is that I fight hard for what I invest in. I don’t abandon ship at the first sign of turbulence. If I’ve committed my heart, I’ll apply effort, reflection, and accountability until it’s clear that sustainability truly isn’t possible. When things get difficult, I’m usually the partner suggesting couples therapy — not as a last resort, but as a tool to make sure I’m showing up as well as I can.

In one such session, a partner admitted that she struggled to ask questions directly and joked that she wished men came with an owner’s manual. The following week, I showed up with one.

Our therapist later remarked that she’d never seen someone define himself so clearly — and that if more people took the time to articulate their operating systems, relationships would be dramatically easier to navigate.

That level of self-disclosure is one of my greatest vulnerabilities. But if you’ve read this far and feel genuinely curious — lets grab a smoothie, and if you want to know more, we can see where it goes.