Courtney Bates-Hardy · for CBC First Person

· Posted: Feb 28, 2026 4:00 AM EST | Last Updated: February 28

This First Person column is the experience of Courtney Bates-Hardy, who lives in Regina. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. You can read more First Person articles here.

The silence was unbearable.

My spouse of nearly 10 years was sitting on the gray couch in our sea green living room, having asked to talk. 

At that point, the silence had stretched so long, I didn’t know what to expect. I wanted to say, "Spit it out already," so we could start dealing with whatever it was. It couldn’t be worse than this silence.

“I think I might be trans, or maybe non-binary,” she said. 

My mind swirled. It was as if all my thoughts had been swept into space. I stayed still and silent, trying hard to listen and not react too quickly. My brain tried to come up with something to say or ask or do. 

What came out was, “I don’t think you’re trans. I think we’d know by now.”

In fact, we didn’t know.

Neither of us really had the opportunity to know ourselves before we got married. I’d gone to a small Christian school for most of my life, where I was taught very rigid ideas about marriage, sexuality and my role as a woman. My spouse had moved from small town to small town as the child of an RCMP officer, where she struggled to fit in with other boys her age.

As a child, Bates-Hardy says she was taught rigid ideas about marriage, sexuality and her role as a woman. (Submitted by Courtney Bates-Hardy)

We got married fresh out of university. At that time, we had met only one other trans person, who wasn’t yet fully out.

The next few weeks after Carrie came out to me were full of emotions, questions and many conversations. I needed time to adjust. She needed time to figure out who she was as a woman. I was afraid I wouldn’t know her anymore once she started transitioning. What if she changed into someone I didn’t like? Would we get divorced?

When you’re married to someone for a long period of time, you’re both bound to change. The only question that mattered was: could we change together?

Bates-Hardy's partner, Carrie Biner, has written about her experience. Read it here:

We agreed we would wait six months before making a decision about our marriage. 

We also decided on her name together — my only request was that our first initials still match, like they had before.

Carrie's workplace was the first place she told, and her colleagues responded by creating a trans-inclusive employee support plan for her workplace.

I'd also been exploring my own identity. A decade before my partner came out, she had suggested that I might be queer. Her comment sparked a years-long reckoning with myself. I had years of internalized homophobia to unlearn from home, school, and church, until I finally accepted that yes, she was right.

We came out to our families, her to her family and me to my family. Her family was supportive; most of mine was not.

We told our closest friends, then made separate posts on Facebook like true millennials, reintroducing ourselves and our pronouns. 

Each time I had come out to people was terrifying, but I imagined it was only a fraction of the terror she’d felt telling me that first time.

Reactions were mixed as I started telling people about her transition. Some offered congratulations, others told me, “good for you for staying,” as if I was doing something heroic or unusual. I had very few people to turn to for support, but I was determined to adjust. 

There was never an “aha!” moment where I suddenly realized that we would stay together. There were many small moments that led to that decision: the first time I did her eyeliner for her and showed her how to do a winged tip, or the time I scolded her for walking alone after dark without her phone. There were all the conversations we had about what it means to be a woman, and what kind of woman she wanted to be.

One afternoon, her mom reached out and took my hand while we were birdwatching in her backyard. She leaned in and asked me, earnestly and quietly, to take care of her child. I remembered the promises I’d made in front of our families and friends at our wedding, and I assured her that I would.

As time has gone on, Bates-Hardy has reflected on the vows she made to her partner on their wedding day. (Submitted by Courtney Bates-Hardy)

I realized that our partnership had always been the foundation of our relationship. It was our willingness to have difficult conversations and keep learning about one another. It was the understanding and grace she gave me as I lurched awkwardly through each change in our lives.

It helped that I’d gone through some of that earlier reckoning with my queer identity. I knew who I was and who I wanted to be. Now I had to live it, openly and loudly, even if it made some people uncomfortable or if it meant that some people left our lives.

A couple of years after she came out, Carrie admitted she was terrified I would kick her out of our house, having heard such stories from other queer and trans friends. It had never crossed my mind. I needed time, and she needed time. We had to learn who we wanted to be all over again and trust that we were still mostly the same.

We got on with living our lives. Some people have chosen to exit our story, and that has been painful. But we keep turning to each other on that grey couch in our sea green living room, where we ask questions and listen and learn about each other all over again.

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