This week marks 25 years. I’m not saying that as a flex. A lot of years can pass in a marriage without meaning very much — I’ve watched it happen to people I love. So I’m not here to wave the number around.
I’m saying it because 25 years is long enough to actually know something. And what I know is that it didn’t happen by accident.
We’re actually friends. Not in the way people say that as a formality. He’s the person I want to tell things to. We laugh — a lot, still — and that has carried more weight than I can explain.
He shows up for our kids the same way he shows up for us. Equal parenting. Not as a negotiation, not because I asked. I can’t overstate what that does for a marriage.
We almost never yell at each other. We’re not perfect at conflict — I’m a natural communicator, he isn’t. That gap is real and we’ve had to work with it.
He finds me amusing. The things that frustrated other people — he finds funny. I’ve always been accepted as I am. Not tolerated. Actually seen. That’s the thing that holds everything else together.
25 years of choosing each other. Not every day is easy. But it’s always worth it.