Twenty Fucking Years: On Love, Marriage, and Finding Each Other Again
Love is such a peculiar thing.
It's simultaneously one of the most universal human experiences and one of the most deeply individual.
There are so many kinds of love.
The love we have for our children. The love we feel for our parents, siblings, friends, and the people who become family somewhere along the way.
There's the dizzying, all-consuming love that makes your stomach flip and your brain temporarily abandon all rational thought.
There's the quiet love that exists in familiar routines, in knowing how someone takes their coffee, in recognizing the sound of their footsteps coming down the hallway.
And then there's the kind of love that develops over decades.
The kind that has been tested.
Stretched.
Occasionally beaten to absolute shit.
And somehow manages to survive.
Love is constantly changing.
Evolving.
Expanding and contracting as we move through different seasons of our lives.
And I think one of the most fascinating things about loving someone long-term is discovering that you don't simply fall in love with a person once.
If you're lucky, you fall in love with them over and over again.
Sometimes with the same qualities that drew you to them in the beginning.
Sometimes with entirely new qualities you never could have anticipated.
And sometimes, after a period when you aren't particularly sure you even like the person standing across from you.
Which brings me to my husband.
Twenty. Fucking. Years.
I have been with my husband for twenty years.
TWENTY FUCKING YEARS!
I started dating this man when I was seventeen years old.
Seventeen.
An age when I was still figuring out who I was, what I believed, what I wanted, and probably making some truly questionable fashion decisions.
Now, at thirty-seven, I am still completely smitten.
Not in the exact same way I was at seventeen, mind you.
That would be a little concerning.
At seventeen, love was exciting and impulsive. It was butterflies and anticipation and wanting to spend every possible moment together.
At thirty-seven, love is still exciting, but it's also a man who knows exactly how much coffee I need to become a functional member of society.
And who, remarkably, continues to provide it.
There is something incredibly romantic about that.
I can say, without hesitation, that I am happier in my marriage today than I have been at any other point in our relationship.
Not because our lives have suddenly become perfect.
They haven't.
Not because we no longer disagree.
We do.
Not because either of us has miraculously transformed into some flawless version of ourselves.
Absolutely fucking not.
But because I think we've finally learned something that took us an awfully long time to understand.
Loving someone and knowing how to love someone are not necessarily the same thing.
You can love a person with every fiber of your being and still struggle to communicate with them.
You can want the best for someone and still fail to recognize what they actually need from you.
You can spend years showing love in the ways that make sense to you, only to discover that the person receiving it speaks an entirely different emotional language.
And sometimes, learning that language takes twenty years.
Or, in our case, a little heartbreak along the way.
It Hasn't Always Been Sunshine and Foot Rubs
Now, before anyone imagines the MacDonald household as some blissful sanctuary of marital perfection, let me clarify something.
It has not always been peachy.
Not even fucking close.
There have been periods in our marriage when we were so disconnected that it felt as though we were living entirely separate lives.
We were in the same house.
Raising the same children.
Managing the same responsibilities.
Sleeping in the same bed.
But somewhere along the way, we had stopped really seeing each other.
We were like ships passing in the night.
In the same ocean, navigating the same storms, but no longer swimming together.
It's a strange kind of loneliness, feeling disconnected from someone who is physically right beside you.
I think it's especially difficult when that person has been part of your life for so long that you can barely remember a version of yourself without them.
When you've grown up together, your identities become intertwined in ways you don't always recognize.
You build routines.
You establish expectations.
You learn each other's habits, strengths, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities.
And sometimes, without realizing it, you begin responding to the person you remember rather than the person standing in front of you.
Because people change.
Of course they do.
How could they not?
The girl I was at seventeen is not the woman I am at thirty-seven.
Thank fucking God.
And my husband isn't the same man he was twenty years ago, either.
We've experienced adulthood together.
Marriage.
Parenthood.
Disappointments.
Accomplishments.
Periods of incredible happiness and periods when simply getting through the day felt like enough.
All of those experiences have changed us.
And there were times when we didn't do a particularly good job of changing together.
A few years ago, we officially separated.
That's a difficult thing to write, even now.
Not because I'm ashamed of it, but because there's a certain vulnerability in acknowledging that something you love so deeply came close to falling apart.
We had reached a point where continuing in the same direction wasn't working.
Something needed to change.
And, for us, that meant spending time apart.
I won't pretend it was some beautifully orchestrated period of enlightenment.
It was difficult.
It was painful.
It was uncertain.
But it also gave us something we hadn't realized we needed.
Perspective.
Time to examine ourselves independently.
Time to consider what we wanted, what we needed, and what we had contributed to the distance between us.
Time to recognize that loving someone doesn't automatically make you good at being their partner.
And perhaps most importantly, time to decide whether we wanted to find our way back to each other.
We did.
But we didn't return to the exact relationship we'd left.
We couldn't.
And I don't think we should have.
We had to build something different.
Something more intentional.
Something that allowed room for the people we had become, rather than constantly trying to recreate the people we used to be.
I think that's where our marriage truly began to change.
Not when we decided to love each other again.
I don't think the love had ever entirely disappeared.
But when we began learning how to love each other better.
Romance Looks a Little Different These Days
At seventeen, I probably thought romance meant grand gestures.
Flowers.
Fancy dinners.
Surprises.
Passionate declarations of undying affection.
And don't get me wrong, I still appreciate those things.
But these days?
Oh, these days, my definition of romance has expanded considerably.
My husband rubs my feet.
Not occasionally.
Not as some elaborate bargaining strategy.
He just does it.
And I fucking love it.
He makes me coffee.
A lot of coffee.
An arguably concerning amount of coffee.
He knows my relationship with espresso is less of a casual preference and more of a deeply committed partnership.
He organizes my medications for the week.
He drops a protein shake beside my desk because he knows that when I'm writing, I can become so absorbed in whatever fictional catastrophe I'm constructing that I forget to eat.
He pays attention.
And I think that's one of the most romantic things a person can do.
Pay attention.
Not just to the big things.
Anyone can remember an anniversary with enough reminders.
I'm talking about the little things.
The things that require noticing another person.
Their habits.
Their moods.
Their needs.
The subtle changes in their behavior that suggest they're overwhelmed, tired, excited, or simply in need of a little extra tenderness.
My husband knows me well enough that sometimes he recognizes what I need before I've even figured it out myself.
And I have come to appreciate just how extraordinary that is.
Because love isn't always a grand declaration.
Sometimes love is a protein shake.
Sometimes it's a foot rub.
Sometimes it's someone quietly taking care of a responsibility because they know your brain is already carrying seventeen others.
And sometimes it's a man making your tenth coffee of the day without asking whether you really need another one.
Which, for the record, I do.
But the Laughter? Holy Shit, the Laughter.
Of all the things my husband does for me, the thing I cherish most is his ability to make me laugh.
And I don't mean the polite little giggle you offer when someone says something mildly amusing.
I'm talking about the kind of laughter that takes over your entire body.
The kind that starts somewhere deep in your stomach and builds until you're completely incapable of maintaining even a shred of dignity.
The kind where you're gasping for air, tears are streaming down your face, and every attempt to regain composure somehow makes the situation worse.
And then come the noises.
The shrieks.
The snorts.
The truly unflattering sounds that emerge when your body has apparently decided that breathing is optional.
My husband can make me laugh like that.
Even after twenty years.
Especially after twenty years.
He knows exactly which absurd observation will send me over the edge.
He knows when I'm being serious and when I'm just being dramatic for entertainment purposes.
He knows how to pull me out of my own head when I've been overthinking something for far too long.
And he can turn an otherwise ordinary moment into one that leaves me doubled over, wondering whether I might actually die laughing.
There is something profoundly intimate about being that ridiculous with another person.
About having someone who knows all your quirks and doesn't merely tolerate them but actively enjoys them.
Someone who has seen you at your least attractive, least reasonable, least impressive moments and still thinks you're worth making laugh.
To me, that's magic.
Because life is hard enough.
There are bills and responsibilities and disappointments and a seemingly endless stream of things that need to be handled.
If you can find someone who makes all of that feel a little lighter, hold on to them.
Especially if they can make you snort.
An Unlikely Pair, to Put It Mildly
One of the funniest things about our relationship is that, visually speaking, we don't exactly look like two people who would naturally gravitate toward each other.
My husband is a big man.
Over six feet tall.
Burly as fuck.
He has an entire arm sleeved in religious imagery.
Crosses.
Archangels.
Saint Jude.
Symbols of faith and devotion.
He wears a giant crucifix around his neck.
He looks like a man who could either help you move a refrigerator or deliver a very passionate sermon about the importance of salvation.
Possibly both.
And then there's me.
Five foot one.
And a half.
That half inch is important, and I will not be entertaining arguments to the contrary.
I'm a bit of a wild card.
My tattoo sleeve is an assortment of tarot cards, ferns, evil eyes, astrological symbols, and words that hold personal meaning.
My entire right hand is blacked out, with plans to eventually add a white skeleton hand over the top.
Because apparently I looked at my hand one day and thought, You know what this needs? More skeletal anatomy.
A perfectly reasonable artistic decision, if you ask me.
So, imagine the two of us walking through a store together.
My enormous, heavily tattooed, crucifix-wearing husband beside his tiny, tarot-covered wife with a blacked-out hand.
We get some looks.
And I can only imagine what people think.
Honestly, we probably look like he's kidnapped me and is taking me somewhere to find Jesus and have my demons professionally removed.
Which is especially funny because he knows damn well that some of those demons are part of my charm.
But despite our outward differences, we work.
Somehow, we flow.
We don't need to be identical.
We don't need to have the same interests, personalities, or ways of expressing ourselves.
We don't even need to understand every single thing about one another.
We just need to remain curious.
Curious about what the other person thinks.
What they believe.
What makes them happy.
What scares them.
What they're becoming.
I think that's something people sometimes forget about long-term relationships.
You can know someone for twenty years and still have more to learn.
In fact, I hope that's always the case.
I don't want to reach a point where I believe I have my husband completely figured out.
I want him to keep surprising me.
I want to discover new things about him at forty, fifty, sixty, and beyond.
And I want him to have the same opportunity with me.
Because if we're fortunate enough to grow old together, we're going to become entirely new versions of ourselves along the way.
I'd like to meet all of them.
And Yes, We Still Get Freaky
I feel this deserves its own section.
Because somewhere in the cultural conversation about long-term marriage, there's this bizarre suggestion that passion inevitably disappears after enough years together.
That romance becomes routine.
That attraction fades into something resembling a comfortable friendship.
And perhaps that's true for some relationships.
But I am happy to report that after twenty years, my husband and I still get freaky like teenagers.
Thank fucking God.
There is something wonderful about maintaining that kind of attraction through the years.
Not because we look the same as we did when we were seventeen.
We don't.
Our bodies have changed.
We've aged.
We've lived.
We've created a family.
We've accumulated a few more wrinkles, scars, and stories.
But I think attraction can become something richer when it's accompanied by genuine familiarity.
There's a freedom in being desired by someone who knows you so completely.
Someone who has seen every version of your body and still reaches for you.
Someone who knows the insecurities you carry and doesn't see them as obstacles to affection.
Someone who can make you feel beautiful on a day when you haven't given your appearance a second thought.
Passion doesn't have to belong exclusively to the young.
And intimacy doesn't have to become less meaningful with age.
In some ways, I think ours has become better.
Less about trying to impress one another.
More about enjoying one another.
More comfortable.
More confident.
More playful.
And yes, occasionally still ridiculous.
Which seems appropriate for us.
Loving Someone Through Their Many Versions
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about our relationship is that we've both changed so dramatically, yet we've managed to find our way back to one another.
I sometimes think about the people we were when we first met.
Two teenagers with absolutely no understanding of what the next twenty years would bring.
We couldn't have anticipated the challenges.
The children.
The decisions.
The places we'd live.
The arguments we'd have.
The moments that would nearly break us.
Or the extraordinary happiness we'd eventually find.
I certainly couldn't have imagined that the man I started dating at seventeen would become the person who knows me better than almost anyone else in the world.
That he'd be the one bringing me coffee while I write novels.
That we'd be raising children together.
That we'd have an entire shared history filled with stories no one else could fully understand.
There's something almost overwhelming about that.
To have someone who remembers you before you became who you are now.
Someone who can look at you and see the teenager, the young adult, the new parent, the exhausted parent, the woman figuring herself out, and the woman still becoming.
All at once.
And to be able to offer that same recognition in return.
I don't love my husband because he's exactly the same person I fell in love with twenty years ago.
I love him because he isn't.
I love the man he's become.
I love the effort he's put into himself, our relationship, and our family.
I love that we've both had to confront parts of ourselves that weren't always easy to acknowledge.
I love that we've learned to communicate differently.
To listen more carefully.
To recognize when the other person needs support rather than solutions.
And to celebrate each other's accomplishments without feeling diminished by them.
We compensate for each other's shortcomings.
We appreciate each other's strengths.
And perhaps most importantly, we've learned that being on the same team doesn't mean agreeing about everything.
It means remembering that the person across from you isn't the enemy.
Even when you're frustrated.
Even when you're hurt.
Even when you really, really want to be right.
Which, for me, is obviously never an issue.
Obviously.
The Work Behind the Happiness
I think one of the most misleading things we're taught about love is that finding the right person should make everything easy.
As though compatibility somehow eliminates conflict.
As though loving someone enough will automatically solve every problem.
As though a successful relationship is one that never encounters serious difficulty.
I don't believe that anymore.
I think a successful relationship is one where both people are willing to keep learning.
Where both people can acknowledge their mistakes.
Where apologies mean something because they're accompanied by changed behavior.
Where you can have difficult conversations without treating every disagreement as a threat to the relationship.
And where both people genuinely want the other to be happy.
Not just happy in the relationship.
Happy as individuals.
Because I think that's where some couples lose themselves.
They become so focused on being a unit that they forget they're also two separate human beings.
With individual interests.
Dreams.
Fears.
Needs.
And identities that deserve room to exist.
My husband and I are different people.
We always have been.
But I think we've finally figured out how to appreciate those differences rather than allowing them to create distance.
We share core values.
We love our children.
We care about our family.
We want to build a life that feels meaningful and fulfilling.
We want to laugh.
We want to feel safe.
We want to enjoy one another.
And we want to keep choosing this life together.
Those are the foundations.
Everything else can be negotiated.
Well, almost everything.
I'm still not negotiating the importance of my half inch.
Is Love Enough?
Here's where I think things get complicated.
Because while I believe love is extraordinary, I don't believe love alone is always enough.
You can love someone and still be deeply unhappy.
You can love someone and still find yourself in a relationship that isn't healthy.
You can love someone and still need to walk away.
And I think it's important to acknowledge that.
Not every relationship should be saved.
Not every separation needs to end in reconciliation.
Sometimes the most loving thing you can do is recognize that two people are no longer good for one another.
But sometimes, when both people are willing, something remarkable can happen.
You can rebuild.
You can learn.
You can create something better than what existed before.
That's what happened for us.
And I don't take it for granted.
I know how fortunate I am to be able to look at my husband today and feel more connected to him than I ever have.
To genuinely enjoy his company.
To look forward to our conversations.
To find him attractive.
To feel supported.
To know that when life becomes overwhelming, I have someone beside me who isn't merely sharing the responsibilities but actively trying to make the experience easier.
And I hope he feels the same way about me.
I hope he feels loved in the ways that matter most to him.
Not just in the ways that come naturally to me.
Because that's the work, isn't it?
Learning to love someone as they need to be loved, while still being honest about who you are and what you need in return.
It's not always instinctive.
Sometimes it's awkward.
Sometimes it requires admitting you've been getting something wrong for years.
Sometimes it requires starting over.
But when the effort is mutual, it can be so incredibly worth it.
Here's to Another Twenty Years
I have no idea what the next twenty years will bring.
I imagine there will be more changes.
More challenges.
More unexpected turns.
There will undoubtedly be moments when we irritate the absolute shit out of each other.
There will be disagreements.
There will be days when life feels heavy.
And, if history is any indication, there will be an extraordinary amount of coffee.
But I hope there will also be more laughter.
More ridiculous conversations.
More quiet evenings.
More celebrations.
More adventures.
More opportunities to learn something new about the person I've already spent more than half my life loving.
I hope we'll keep reaching for one another.
Keep making each other laugh.
Keep finding reasons to be curious.
And keep remembering that the relationship we have today wasn't handed to us.
We built it.
Sometimes beautifully.
Sometimes clumsily.
Sometimes while making an absolute mess of things.
But we kept learning.
And today, I wouldn't trade what we have for anything.
So, if you've found someone who makes you laugh until you snort, who makes you feel safe, who celebrates your successes, who supports your growth, and who still makes your stomach do a little flip when they walk into the room, appreciate them.
If your relationship is healthy, the love is mutual, and both of you are willing to put in the work, don't underestimate what you might be able to build together.
It won't always be easy.
Sometimes it will be frustrating.
Sometimes it will be exhausting.
Sometimes you'll have to confront things about yourself that you'd much rather pretend aren't there.
But sometimes, on the other side of all that work, you discover a love that feels deeper and more extraordinary than anything you could have imagined at seventeen.
At least, that's been my experience.
Twenty years.
A separation.
Two children.
Countless changes.
An obscene amount of coffee.
And one enormous, crucifix-wearing man who still makes his tiny, tarot-covered wife laugh until she can't breathe.
Turns out, the greatest love story of my life isn't about finding the perfect person.
It's about two imperfect people who kept learning how to find each other.
And after twenty fucking years?
I'm still smitten.
I'm curious: For those of you in long-term relationships, what's one thing you've learned about love that you wish you'd understood when you were younger?
Because if there's one thing twenty years has taught me, it's that love doesn't come with an instruction manual.
And even if it did, I'm fairly certain my husband and I would have lost the fucking thing by now.