The Border Only Love Can Cross
a goodbye to my friend
“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go.” — Jamie Anderson
A Devastating Loss
Adam David Burgoyne died on December 6, 2024, at just 39 years old.
Regular readers of my Substack may recognize Adam as one of my dearest friends, someone I've mentioned fondly on several occasions. Just weeks before he died, he wrote a guest post: “On American Patriotism, by a Based Canuck.” In it, he expressed his happiness at President Trump’s re-election and reflected on how the world benefits from America, Americans, and American patriotism.
Adam was delighted by the readership and comments on that post. Nervous about the process, he implored me to critique it harshly and edit it meticulously, to make it the best it could be. (His first draft was nearly perfect.) His love for America and Americans shined through, and he was thrilled to see so many of us rediscovering pride in our country.
Readers got to know Adam most intimately through a story I shared about one of his visits to stay with me. During a hike, I slipped and fell, catching myself with the arm attached to my bad shoulder, aggravating an old injury. His stoicism in that stressful moment taught me a powerful lesson about masculinity, endurance, and those times when, instead of being coddled or rescued, what you truly need is to be pushed.
Adam is survived by his fiancè, A.J., and his loving family, whose heartwarming stories I heard many times, though I never had the privilege of meeting them.
The world lost a uniquely wonderful man when Adam died. Publicly, he was best known on Twitter as a brave voice against the excesses of gender ideology, particularly the targeting of childhood innocence. He was deeply proud to speak up on this issue, a cause he embraced with passion and ferocity.
Yet Adam was more than just a powerful voice on Twitter.
He was a recovered addict with years of solid sobriety, a profound transformation in his life for which he was deeply grateful.
He was a gay man whose understanding of his sexuality had matured. Having left youthful promiscuity behind, he fell deeply in love and looked forward to building a stable family with his partner.
Above all, he was a truly wonderful friend.
Adam’s Cause of Death
Adam passed away from an aortic aneurysm shortly after a visit to the ER, an experience he detailed in what became his final Twitter thread.
In the wake of tumultuous global health initiatives and consequentially shifting narratives, many have been quick to ask whether Adam's death was related to the COVID vaccines. He told me he had been vaccinated, and boosted, receiving a total of four shots.
Whether they contributed to his death is a question we cannot answer—and likely never will.
For some, a place to put their pain is illusory, and the vaccines are a perfect candidate. But we cannot pretend to know.
What we do know is that a wonderful young man—a fit, healthy athlete in the prime of his life—died suddenly, leaving everyone who loved him bereft of answers that could ever make it seem fair.
I wish I had something more definitive—something more comforting—but I do not.
A Warrior For Kids
I first met Adam on Twitter and had the privilege of his friendship for several years; long enough to see him cycle through multiple Twitter accounts. Later, he joined my private Discord server, a kind of virtual water cooler where a small group of us, including Adam, would gather. Like many small Discord servers, it has its cycles: stretches of chatting all day, every day; then quieter periods as lives grow busier; and eventually, a return to more frequent conversation.
Our private communication began in late 2020 and led to several in-person visits, starting in June 2022. From that visit on, when our friendship was truly cemented, we spoke several times a week, right up until his death.
Adam was appalled by the excesses of gender ideology. He felt a righteous fury at the idea of children—many of whom would otherwise grow into healthy gay adults—being subjected to transition long before they could truly consent.
He encountered this madness firsthand, occasionally facing pressure to date females who identified as males. While he acknowledged they posed no physical threat to him (the dynamic typically at play in the opposite scenario), he found the expectation both annoying and insulting.
He spoke loudly and proudly about these and other ways that gender ideology harms society. As part of a group of gay adults who stood against this madness, he took his position boldly and without compromise. Yet Adam was more than just an anti-Woke warrior, and his tribe extended beyond the like-minded gays he affectionately called “homocons.”
Adam prized humor, intelligence, authenticity, and—most of all—effort. Even when people stumbled, he respected all who were clearly trying to do the right thing, and improve themselves.
Adam was among the most contented, happy, truly joyful people I’ve ever known.
He loved life. He loved his life. Kind, generous, and thoughtful, he brought warmth to everyone around him.
Adam was fully present, both with his friends and for his friends.
He exuded a confident, considerate masculinity that made everyone feel both respected as an equal and protected by his unwavering love and loyalty.
First Visit, Full of Firsts
Adam visited me for the first time about nine months after I moved into my current home, roughly a year into my first post-college job. He was my first overnight houseguest and the first person to cook for me here.
Our visit was wonderful, entirely free of the potential awkwardness that can come with meeting an internet friend in person for the first time.
Adam loved cooking and was delighted to discover that I had never made my own sauces. Without hesitation, he insisted we drive to the grocery store, where he picked out the ingredients. Back home, he gave me a cooking lesson: homemade teriyaki sauce, à la Adam.
Adam’s kindness shined brightest when I confessed a deep anxiety. Before his visit, I had worried that my sleep disorder might worsen with a male houseguest, even one I trusted. I warned him I might have a nightmare—and that my nightmares can be loud.
He hugged me and said not to worry, not to feel embarrassed if it happened, and not to give it another thought.
During each of his visits, I slept peacefully every single night.
Adam loved the outdoors, and we took many long walks, soaking in the beauty of the Vermont countryside. He was especially delighted by how easily we could see cows up close, simply by going for a walk.
Adam loved my photos and often asked me to send more whenever I went for walks. He found real joy in watching the foliage change along the roads we had walked together and often reminded me how much he had enjoyed my company—and how much he looked forward to future visits.
Adam adored the mathematical decor in my apartment, confessing—with his usual blend of humility and self-awareness—that although he loved coding, he knew his math skills were weak.
I told him about the Project Euler coding challenges and shared how much I enjoy teaching math to people eager to learn.
He eagerly took me up on my offer to “blather about mathematics anytime,” each conversation brightening my day. He often pinged me on Discord with questions about mathematical ideas or concepts and was endlessly patient when I rambled on about prime numbers and other joys.
Adam was also close friends with
, whose podcast he loved. Whenever Adam visited, Josh would come over, and Adam would cook for both of us.Adam made every meal from scratch, teaching as he went. He showed me how to sprinkle vegetables with sugar and salt to make them bleed, enhancing their flavor. With a deep understanding of flavor profiling, he taught me how to balance acidity and sweetness with such aplomb that I asked if Canadian high schools taught culinary skills.
Those were perfect nights, filled with laughter and easy friendship, for which I will always be grateful.
The Solidity of His Sobriety
Adam overcame a serious drug addiction and remained steadfastly sober through COVID, even as lockdowns took away the crucial lifeline of in-person meetings. We discussed his days of active addiction many times, and it was obvious that he had transformed himself, fully and utterly.
During one of Adam’s visits, we went on a hike—the same hike where I injured myself. Knowing that cannabis is legal in Vermont for adults, he recommended it for pain relief, giving me a detailed explanation of how and why it might help. His ability to conquer addiction stemmed, in part, from his profound understanding of it, and he used that knowledge to help me.
Following his recommendation, we went to the dispensary, where I picked up a tincture. I found the effects disagreeable and only tried it once.
A few months later, as I threw away the rest, I remembered that Adam was a recovering addict. I marveled at the thought: the tincture had sat on my shelf, within his reach, for days.
Yet only the one dose I had taken was missing. And it had never occurred to me to worry about it, either. Adam simply wasn’t a drug user anymore, and sobriety was as obviously part of him as his warmth, grace, character, and everything else that defined him.
Telling One of His Secrets
By the time of Adam’s death, A.J. and I had grown from online-only friends to exchanging snail mail and Christmas presents. I was eagerly anticipating meeting him in person once Adam moved to the U.S. after their marriage.
A.J. and I remain in touch, and he graciously gave me permission to share these stories.
When Adam visited me last year, his relationship with A.J. was still new—but he was already certain that A.J. was The One.
In the story of our hike—where I hurt myself, and the trip back to the car was long and painful—I wrote that Adam distracted me to help me endure:
“He distracted me with stories about a potential new love interest, as well as letting me blather about prime numbers to help distract myself, but the journey got harder as we went.”
That was true, but it wasn’t the whole truth.
The whole truth, which I was both delighted and devastated to share with A.J., was that Adam spent that time gushing about him. Adam was absolutely smitten, a singular departure from his typical stoicism in all the time I’d known him. He went on and on about A.J.’s exceptional character, marveling that he had found someone he didn’t just love, but respected and admired.
A.J. made him a better person, effortlessly. And Adam was deeply grateful. Referring to our mathematical conversations, he said, “A.J. is the Venn Diagram of hot, based, smart, and in-recovery. I am so, so lucky. I cannot believe how lucky I am.”
That evening, after our hiking adventure—on the night I wrote about it—we were back in my apartment. Adam cooked dinner and brought me my plate, letting me rest my injured shoulder.
After we ate, he worked on Codewars problems while I wrote the essay. The silence was lovely and companionable. At one point, he brought me a fresh soda without my asking—a small gesture of care that I felt deeply. I remember thinking, He is such a lovely human being. I hope he knows that.
The golden silence lingered until I asked if it was okay to mention A.J.
For the next twenty minutes, we painstakingly negotiated the exact phrasing I’d use. Why? Adam was already desperately in love, but he wasn’t yet sure A.J. felt the same. If A.J. read the post, Adam didn’t want to tip his hand too soon.
Surprised by this concern on his part, I said something like, “I really had no idea that gay dudes did the who’s-more-invested dance, too.” He laughed and asked me, “Why would we not?”
That night, Adam and I talked for hours about male intimacy. He shared stories from his “slutty” youth and told me about the first guy who broke his heart.
In the beginning, there was Adam and Steve. (Yes, really.)
We explored the hows and whys of why men and women experience intimacy so differently on average, covering everything from evolutionary psychology to the effects of sex-based socialization in the West.
Before that conversation, I already knew Adam was smart, thoughtful, self-reflective, and mature.
But that conversation showed me something new: Adam was a natural teacher.
Adam Had Found The One
Four days before he died, Adam told me that he’d be back in America very soon—A.J. had agreed to accompany him to Vegas. When I asked if they were going to get married, he first sent a gif of himself being coy, to make me laugh:
Then, after confirming the engagement, he let me know that there wasn’t going to be a wedding to invite me to. He and A.J. were more focused on buying a house than planning a one-day event.
Like many men who love men, Adam had a hedonistic, promiscuous youth—but he was proud to have grown beyond that phase of his life. He eagerly anticipated marriage: building a stable partnership, buying a home, and becoming part of one of the bedrock units of American society.
Based Meals and Inside Jokes
Adam wasn’t just a wonderful cook. He was a prodigy when it came to baking pies. His creations were as delicious as they were beautiful, postcard-worthy masterpieces of taste and artistry.
This year, as last, Adam spent Thanksgiving with A.J.’s family but made sure to check in about the Friendsgiving Josh and I were having together.
On his first visit, he bought pie tins and made pie for me and Josh. My cookware was a housewarming gift from my friends
and Bret Weinstein, whose podcast we listened to together while he was here.When I told him who had given me the cookware, it sparked an inside joke between us, inspired by the “In this house…” yard signs we saw all over Vermont while I was driving him around.
The joke began as, “In this house, even the cookware is based!”1 and eventually morphed into “BASED MEALS ONLY.” Adam often asked about what I was cooking, and if a recipe caught his interest, he’d say it “sounded based.”2
We also shared a few uncanny coincidences—like the day Adam sent A.J. flowers while I sent flowers to a friend.
This delighted us, and from then on, we’d share quirky updates about our days by asking if the other had experienced something similar. This ranged from work-related musings like, “Did anyone send you any really dirty datasets today?” to personal jokes like, “Was your grocery store out of watermelon-scented carpet powder too?” These small, silly exchanges never failed to make me smile.
Adam always made sure I knew how much I mattered to him—that I was often on his mind and that my being part of his life was something he truly enjoyed, valued, and appreciated.
Carpe Diem: How Adam Lived
Adam loved life—every moment of it. He cherished being alive, and he deeply loved the life he had built.
He saw himself as immensely fortunate—having survived addiction, embraced comfortable sobriety, found a job he enjoyed, and built a loving relationship with a man he adored.
Gratitude infused Adam’s life with love, which he expressed in the stoic, practical ways that defined him.
He showed that love by seizing every opportunity for joy, celebration, or helping the people he cared about.
One of my favorite stories about this side of Adam’s character is the story of Josh’s 50th birthday present. Adam and I had begun conspiring to do something special for Josh, but nothing seemed grand enough for such a milestone in the life of someone we both deeply loved and respected.
Then something wonderful happened. Josh, a collector of kerosene lamps—lovely antiques that are as practical as they are beautiful—tweeted, five months before his birthday, about seeing his “dream lamp” on eBay and wishing it weren’t so expensive.
Adam immediately suggested that we go in together to buy it, which we did. Though he couldn’t attend the occasion in person, he chose and mailed a card for me to take to the lunch where Josh would open the gift. I sent Adam a picture on the spot.
That was Adam: the chance to be a wonderful friend would arise, and he would seize it without hesitation.
Reeling from the news, I sat by this lamp in Josh’s living room and cried.
I will never forget Adam’s pure delight in making a friend’s dream come true.
Love With Nowhere To Go
Carpe diem defined how Adam lived, embracing each day with a profound awareness of how blessed he was.
He lived with both the desire and the willingness to share his blessings with those he loved.
Today. Not tomorrow.
I wish I had internalized that lesson sooner. When Adam proposed visiting in October to enjoy my favorite time of year—peak foliage—I regretfully declined. I had just started a new job and worried I’d be too anxious and stressed to be a good host, let alone take time off.
Instead, I suggested we plan for him to come in April.
I called him to explain that my new job would demand all my focus for a while and that we should postpone until spring. He understood completely and was fine with it.
I said something like, “Winters are so long and dark, and it’ll be awesome to have your visit in spring to look forward to,” alluding both to the season itself and my tendency toward seasonal depression—something Adam had helped me cope with every winter since we met. He happily agreed, saying he looked forward to doing Codewars problems with me and seeing how much my coding had improved by the time he arrived.
Then he said, “The next time I’m there, the days will be long. We’ll go for walks and say hello to the cows and enjoy the light together.”
Goodbye, Adam. I was so fortunate to know you, to love you, and to call you my friend.
You made the world brighter simply by being in it.
Your legacy is the light you carried. You lit the world with the same ease and grace of every breath you took.
Now you have gone where only love can follow.
But your memory is a lantern, casting a glow on the path ahead.
I will carry it forever. And I will always miss you.
Some Pictures From Our Visits
Thank you for reading this eulogy. Comments are now closed, but if you knew Adam and you’d like to comment about him, please email me at hollymathnerd at gmail dot com. I will open them again to allow you to do so.
“Based” is a slang term that essentially means “principled,” referring to someone who sticks to his or her principles regardless of what others think.
Ibid. (Adam studied a little Latin while teaching me French. That was for you, buddy.)
I’m so sorry for your loss. He sounds like he was a wonderful man. May his memory be a blessing.
Cheese and crackers Holly I'm sorry. I saw a tweet from him less than a week ago so this is shocking.
My condolences and prayers for you and all of his.
Please avoid regret if you can. If you can't, feel free to reach out.
We can't know everything. You did the right thing at the time with your October plans.