Unconventional relationships have been the thread running through my life lately, and this one might be the most unexpected of all.

I met him in the early days of COVID—not at USAID, where he also worked as a foreign service officer, but in the unlikeliest of places: our neighborhood dog-walking circuit. At first, I wrote him off. With a Texas accent and an athletic build, I assumed he was like the rest of our slightly mercenary neighbors. But one day, he asked if I wanted to hang out. I wasn’t sure if it was a date, and by then I was already quietly exploring the idea of solo motherhood. So I kept it casual: “I like craft beers,” I said. We ended up at the Dew Drop Inn, where I discovered I didn’t actually like craft beer—but I would learn to, through him.

He didn’t want kids, but I figured: why not enjoy the connection for what it was? And so began a companionship that stretched through seasons of change. We took our dogs to the Arboretum, cooked dinners at home, crafted cocktails, and—perhaps my favorite—rewatched the entire Bond series from beginning to end.

Eventually, his career took him to Armenia. We visited, we kept in touch. This past winter, I told him I was moving forward with implanting my embryo. He was supportive, though clear that fatherhood wasn’t part of his vision. We agreed it was time to continue our journeys separately.

And then came DOGE—the dismantling of our agency and the scattering of our professional identities. Suddenly, we were both untethered. In the midst of that upheaval, we leaned back toward one another. He shipped his dog back to me while closing down the USAID presence in Yerevan, and now, for the moment, we are living together again.

It’s not a conventional arrangement. He cooks (because the smell of meat makes me nauseous), takes care of the dogs, and helps me manage the turbulence of pregnancy and uncertainty. He’s steadying my mental health in ways I didn’t even know I needed. We are not partners in the traditional sense, but he has become something else entirely—an anchor in transition, a witness to my choices, and most likely, a “funcle” to my daughter.

And the truth is: I’m deeply grateful. As I step into new motherhood, I’m relieved I won’t be doing those first fragile three months alone. I don’t know where any of us will be in the years ahead—geographically, professionally, or emotionally—but I do know this: whatever unfolds, he’ll always be part of her story, and in the long run, he’s a funcle through and through.

From the outside, it may look odd: a would-be diplomat turned roommate, a relationship that doesn’t fit neatly into romance, friendship, or family. But from the inside, it feels simple. It is comfort, in a season of loss and reinvention. It is proof that not all relationships have to fit the mold to matter deeply.

Sometimes, the people who walk into our lives during uncertain times are the ones who steady us most.