Eight Years

Tonight we celebrate eight years of marriage. Not eight years of perfect — eight years of real.

Eight Years

We’re heading to The Angus Barn (because Marcus knows my weakness for their chocolate chess pie) and I keep thinking about how different we are now than we were at 25 and 23, standing at the altar thinking we had it all figured out.

We didn’t. We broke a little in year six and seven. Not in any dramatic, made-for-TV way. Just in the quiet way that marriages break when you’re both tired and overwhelmed and forgetting to actually see each other. We went to counseling. We did the work. We remembered how to talk to each other instead of past each other.

The cracks let the light in. (Yes I’m quoting Hemingway. Nursing school wasn’t ALL anatomy.) We’re more intentional now. More grateful. Marcus still makes me laugh until my sides hurt, and I still catch him looking at me like he can’t believe I’m real. The difference is now we know how precious this is. How much work love actually takes. How worth it that work is.

Eight years down. Forever to go. Pass the chocolate chess pie.