Новые мемуары актрисы и дебютной писательницы Sophia Bush, And I Will Tell You Mine: Notes from a Life in Progress, полны откровений — но, пожалуй, самая волнующая из них? Новость о том, что она и ее партнерша по истекшим трем годам, бывшая профессиональная футболистка Ashlyn Harris, теперь жена и жена.

Bush и Harris сыграли свадьбу на частной церемонии в северной части штата Нью-Йорк летом 2025 года. На ней присутствовали дети Harris, Sloane и Ocean, которым Bush с гордостью является мачехой.

Масштаб события идеально подошел счастливой паре. «Когда вы доходите до этого этапа жизни, начинаете разбирать, что принадлежит вам, а что всегда было отчасти для всех остальных», — говорит Bush Vogue по Zoom, рядом с ней сидит Harris. Она добавляет, обращаясь к жене: «Ты играешь на стадионах перед 60 000 человек с 15 или 16 лет, а я начала играть персонажа для десятков миллионов людей, когда мне было 21. Быть исполнителем — спортсменом или актером — огромная привилегия, но она также связана с определенными издержками».

«Дети просто бегали и радовались, а мы рвали цветы на участке, и наша дочь Sloane держала их в руках. Для них это было очень весело, потому что это был не день под давлением, который слишком тяжело дается маленьким детям», — говорит Harris. Затем Bush вспоминает, что в свадебную ночь они всей семьей жарили зефир у огня. «Это было очень трогательно и совсем без давления. Я никогда этого не забуду, и мне кажется, что свадебные дни не всегда бывают такими», — говорит она.

Скромный список гостей пара компенсировала тем, что после свадьбы лично объехала друзей и родственников по всей стране, чтобы сообщить о браке. «У нас были личные встречи со всеми, кого мы любим, и когда мы завершили все это, как нам сообщить новость? Потому что я не хочу и дальше сидеть на панелях или давать интервью и говорить: “Моя партнерша”,» — говорит Bush, а затем снова обращается к Harris. «Ты не моя партнерша, знаешь? Ты моя жена. И мне так потрясающе это говорить».

О каминг-ауте и видимости

Размышляя о публичном каминг-ауте — сначала как пары, в обложечной истории Bush для Glamour в 2024 году, а теперь как молодоженов, — Harris говорит: «Этот разговор не о Sophia и обо мне. Мы знаем ту любовь, которую разделяем. Мы понимаем, насколько священна и чиста наша любовь. Но видимость важна, потому что все еще есть дети, которые прячутся и не чувствуют, что их видят, и если мы оставим место и пространство хотя бы для одного человека, это, возможно, стоит той небольшой цены, которую мы заплатим спокойствием в публичном поле». Harris и Bush давно участвуют в пространствах ЛГБТК+ -активизма, и обе входят в совет Human Rights Campaign (HRC).

Ниже — эксклюзивный отрывок из And I Will Tell You Mine: Notes from a Life in Progress, в котором Bush описывает необыкновенно обычный и прекрасный день, когда они с Harris сказали друг другу «да».

We chose each other quietly. After so many years of having so much of my life dissected and turned into headlines for people who don’t know me, there was something sacred about letting this belong to us first. Maybe that was why I found myself thinking so often about the stories that had shaped us long before we ever found each other. The stories we inherited. The ones we carried. The ones we hoped—if we were lucky—to live our way into.

Ash spoke to me about the gorgeous legacy of her grandparents, a love story that was her lighthouse. Knowing it was there had gotten her through a tough childhood; she’d spent her life trying to get back to a shore that felt like home. They’d met at fifteen and were together for more than sixty years. She showed me pictures of them, young and beautiful on the beach in sepia-toned film. Her grandmother was always in red lipstick and red nail polish, her grandfather the kind of man who would drive her to every appointment and wait in the car reading the paper until she was done, just so he could be the one to drive her back home. When he died, her grandmother sat her down and told her plainly she knew she’d be gone soon too…because the other half of her was gone.

It was impossible for my heart not to be changed by hers. Ash had spent so long training herself to be exceptional. At any cost. And then I got to watch her learn she was already enough. That she didn’t have to earn love. That she could carry it, the best and the worst and plenty of horribly unfair things, and make something wonderful from it all. It was breathtaking to witness.

That was what I wanted my life to look like. This is who I wanted to spend it with.

And she wanted to spend it with me.

As that beautiful realization settled in, a friend asked how I could still believe in marriage knowing what I knew about how it could end. It surprised me how quickly and clearly I knew the answer. That if in ten years she and I grew into different people and didn’t want to be together, I would rather get divorced all over again—and do it with the love and tenderness I’d always thought was the goal in the first place—than miss my chance at being married to her at all. I felt it in my bones.

After asking each other what seemed like a thousand times, we called city hall and walked in a few days later. We pulled into the parking lot, positively giddy. When we got out of the car, I took her picture standing in front of the blue door.

Then I called my best friend Nia. We were taking all the kids upstate the following weekend, and tacking on a wedding to the state fair felt perfectly wholesome.

«Hey», — начала автор Vogue Culture. «I’m sending you a link, and I’m going to need you to click it immediately.»

«Are we getting married this weekend?!» I could hear her smile through the phone.

«I’m in.» On the other end of the line, I heard her pause. I knew she was already reading the web page to get herself ordained.

«Yay!» I said. «Apparently, it only takes five minutes.»

«Okay, I’ll call you right back. Love you both so much!» she said.

I took Ash’s hand, and we grinned.

What felt like just a few seconds later, my phone chimed. “Two minutes and thirty-six seconds,” Nia wrote.

I laughed, replying, “Always my overachiever. Love you so.”

I’d organized clothes for all the kids, my godson included, but realized, as I unpacked my bag, that I hadn’t grabbed an outfit for myself. There was no shortage of workwear at the farm, but Ash had packed a tuxedo, and so wearing a Carhartt bib didn’t feel appropriate. I went down to the basement to rip through some boxes—one of many I still haven’t unpacked because I’d been living more and decorating less (I’ll get around to it, eventually)—and I found it. A dress I’d worn years ago to a party—funnily enough, with Nia when she was pregnant. It was black velvet with gold flecks shimmering through it. I’d loved it then because the pattern reminded me of space, and now it reminded me of the starry sky we’d all looked up at over the fire pit the night before. It felt just right. Nia would be standing next to me as I wore this dress again, all our kids running around us, as I married my person, who just happened to have grown up a few miles down the beach from Kennedy Space Center.

We tucked our handwritten vows into a Mary Oliver book. On the page we picked, a poem starts with her saying, “I did think, let’s go about this slowly,” and ends with “but, bless us, we didn’t.” I didn’t want to wait one more minute to call her mine.

Then, Nia handed us the book, and the rest of my life began.

We wept. We laughed. We exchanged rings. The invisible string pulled tighter around us.

When our photos came, they were perfect. Just us. Pure joy. The backyard and the sunset. Easy, and by that, I mean at ease. And it was ours, just ours.

Mary Oliver’s “Instructions for Living a Life” are as follows: “Pay attention, Be astonished, Tell about it.” For a long time I thought telling meant explaining. Making a case for your reality. Providing enough context that everyone would understand. Now, I think it means something else entirely. I think the kind of telling she encouraged is the sort that only happens after you’ve lived something long enough to know what it means to you. Means for you.

Telling matters. It is also okay for the telling to take time. It is okay to move as slowly as you need. Giving yourself the space to figure out how you feel about something, to journey through your own life and learn, in the time, you are meant to? I don’t think there’s any other way.

I am telling you now to give it as a gift of sorts, and I am a recipient of that gift too.

Because Mary was right. Telling it has been important for me. It’s been freeing and gorgeous and absolutely hideous too. This is not for the faint of heart. I’ve come to learn my heart is so much more tender and sensitive than I was able to admit for ages, so much tougher and capable of seemingly impossible feats of strength too.

The second of Mary’s three instructions? “Be astonished.” I am. I am astonished by the beauty I have come to find and hold to my heart in this lifetime. I will search for it in every single one. Because what I know now is it’s written in the stars. And the sun too.

There is a photograph from that magical day—the two of us at the edge of the woods, the sun bursting through the tree leaves just so. And there we are, standing in the bucolic countryside in each other’s arms with a full halo of gold and green light wrapped around us in a perfect circle like a wedding ring. It was so beautiful. Nature had wrapped us in its magic hour. It felt like a sign, if you believe in that sort of thing. I do.

After all the years of searching and striving and performing, I look at that photograph on our wall every day. When I do, I hear the same tender voice murmur from deep inside my chest…You are in the right place. And for the first time, I believe it. Not because of a home. Not even, first, because of a person. But because I finally found my way home to myself. And now I get to love us both, she and I. How lucky I am.

This is the first chapter of my life that feels truly, wholly, divinely mine.

Adapted from the book And I Will Tell You Mine: Notes from a Life in Progress by Sophia Bush. Published by Flatiron Books, an imprint of Macmillan Publishers, on October 27, 2026.

And I Will Tell You Mine: Notes from a Life in Progress