I remember sitting on opposite ends of the couch, years into our marriage, barely speaking to each other. We were in therapy, and the couple’s therapist looked at us and said we’d be better off apart. At the time, I believed her.
Our marriage had slipped into a quiet disconnection. We were going through the motions, parenting well but partnering poorly. I don’t remember when it started. It wasn’t one dramatic argument or betrayal. It was the slow erosion of everything that matters in a marriage: attention, intimacy, and communication. The space between us got wider, and eventually, we lived like roommates instead of husband and wife.
But we couldn’t leave each other because we made a promise that divorce would never be in the cards for us.
Early in our marriage, we made a pact
Years before we found ourselves on that therapy couch, we both agreed that if we became parents, we wouldn’t get divorced.
It wasn’t a promise either of us took lightly. We both came from divorced families. We knew what it felt like to be caught in the back-and-forth, split holidays, loyalty tests, and the constant calculation of whose turn it was, who you vacationed with last, and who you “owed” the next visit. That quiet damage shapes you. You learn to keep score. You learn not to expect peace. And we both agreed: if we had kids, we’d never put them through that.
So when things got hard, and they really did, we stayed. Sometimes we were resentful. Many times we were mean to one another. Most of the time, we were just numb. There was a two-year stretch where we were simply coexisting. We weren’t even fighting anymore. We were just surviving.
We learned to reconnect and grow again
That therapist’s words stuck with me: “You’d be better off apart.” For a long time, I didn’t disagree.
But we had made a commitment to each other and, more importantly, to the family we were building. As difficult as it was, we kept showing up. Not perfectly, not always willingly, but consistently.
But then one day, my husband made me laugh. That reminded me of why we got married in the first place. We used to laugh a lot. We used to have fun. That was the turning point. That was the part in the long middle of our marriage when we started to grow together again.
We learned that connection is something you can relearn, that intimacy can return, but only if you allow each other to be seen and heard. Forgiveness isn’t a moment; it’s a process. Sometimes, love looks like staying.
It wasn’t easy, but it was worth it
We’re now approaching our 30th wedding anniversary. I find myself most grateful not for how long we lasted, but for how far we’ve come. I’m thankful because staying forced us to grow. We became better partners — more honest, more respectful, more trusting. Not because we willed ourselves to be, but because the pact we made gave us the time and space to get there.
Regrettably, in today’s society, it’s acceptable to just walk away when something doesn’t make you happy anymore. While some marriages do need to end, particularly when there’s abuse, chronic infidelity, or betrayal that breaks trust beyond repair, many relationships aren’t broken; they’re just stuck. If both partners are willing, there is a path forward. It might not be pretty. It will take time, but healing is possible.
The love I have for my husband now is not the kind of love I had at 28 when I was planning our wedding. It’s deeper. It’s calmer. It’s built on shared history, mutual respect, and the kind of trust that only comes from walking through fire together and making it out the other side.
We still have hard days. Every couple does. But now we move past them, together. We solve our problems, together. We choose to laugh a lot. We talk about everything. We prefer being together rather than apart. This joy didn’t come from some big romantic revelation; it came from rebuilding, one brick at a time.
We didn’t stay because it was easy. We stayed because it mattered.
And I’m so glad we did.
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