The 777 rules for couples: The kitchen chair

my husband walked past me in the kitchen. Didn't say anything. Just... walked past. Like I was a chair.

I looked down at my phone. We'd been in the same house for 4 hours. The only words exchanged? "Did you pay the electricity bill?" and "There's no milk."

That was it. That was our marriage in year seven.

Not fighting. Not hating each other. Just... nothing. Like two people sharing a Netflix password and a mortgage.

I remember sitting on the bathroom floor that night. Not crying. Just... tired. Wondering when we became this. When did "I can't wait to see you" turn into "oh, you're home"?

The morning everything cracked open

Saturday. He made coffee. Brought me a cup. Sat down across from me - actually sat, didn't just grab and go - and said, "I miss you."

Not "I love you." We said that still, automatically, like saying "bless you" when someone sneezes. But "I miss you." Like I was already gone.

And I got angry. Weirdly angry. "I'm RIGHT HERE. Every day. How can you miss me?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. Or maybe like he was seeing me for the first time in months. "You're here. But we're not. When did we stop being us?"

I wanted to blame him. Wanted to say he worked too much, didn't talk enough, forgot my birthday last year (he did). But I knew. I knew I'd stopped too. Stopped asking about his day. Stopped reaching for his hand. Stopped... trying.

We were so busy being married, we forgot to be together. The 2 AM Reddit Thread That Saved My Life

The thing we found in a panic

That night, desperate, I fell down an internet rabbit hole. "How to save marriage." "Reconnect with husband." All the usual garbage. 47 articles about "date nights" that felt like homework. "Communication exercises" that made me want to vomit.

Then I saw it. Some stupid thing called the 777 rules. Sounded like a slot machine. Or a cult.

But we were desperate. So we made a deal. Just try it. If it's stupid, we laugh about it later. If it works...

Week one: The date that wasn't dinner

First seven days. We had to go on a date. Not "let's grab food because we're hungry." An actual date.

I made him pick. He chose mini golf. Mini golf. I hadn't played since I was twelve. We were terrible. He hit the ball into the parking lot. I got it stuck in a fake waterfall. We laughed until my stomach hurt.

Driving home, he reached over and held my hand. Like it was natural. Like he used to.

We talked. Not about bills or his mom's health or the leaking sink. About stupid stuff. That movie he watched as a kid that scared him. Why I hate cilantro (it's not just the taste, it's the betrayal). The vacation we never took but always talked about.

Three hours. Just... talking. I remembered why I liked him. Not loved him - that's different, that's obligation. Liked him. Enjoyed his company. Wanted to be near him. Why we were roommates with wedding rings for 3 years

Seven weeks: The night we ran away

Second part of those 777 rules. Every seven weeks, a night away. Not at his sister's house. Not a work conference. Away. Together.

We couldn't afford fancy. Found some cheap Airbnb two hours away. Looked like someone's grandmother's house. Doilies on everything. Smelled like lavender and old books.

We brought wine we couldn't pronounce. Sat on a porch swing that creaked. And we talked about the hard stuff. The resentment I'd been holding about his job. The way he felt like he couldn't make me happy anymore. The fear that we'd made a mistake, that we were too broken, that "us" was already dead.

It got ugly. I cried. He got quiet. For a minute, I thought we'd driven two hours just to break up properly.

But then he said, "I don't want to be right. I want to be happy. With you."

And I realized - we'd been keeping score for years. Who sacrificed more. Who tried harder. Who was the worse partner. Like winning that argument would fix anything.

We didn't have sex that night. Just held each other in that creaky bed, listening to someone's wind chimes. Felt closer than we had in years. The 777 rule for healthy marriages and how it works

Seven months: The trip we almost didn't take

Third part. Every seven months, a real getaway. Not a night. A vacation.

We almost skipped it. Too expensive. Too hard to arrange coverage at his work. Too many excuses that felt responsible but were really just fear.

But we did it. Seven days. Some beach town we'd never heard of. No plans. No itinerary. Just... time.

Day three, we got sunburned and drunk on cheap beer. Day five, we had a fight about directions because I can't read maps and he can't accept help. Day six, we made up in the ocean, waves knocking us around, salt in our mouths, laughing like idiots.

I saw him. The man I married. Not the stressed guy who forgot to unload the dishwasher. Not the silent presence passing me in the kitchen. The man who once drove three hours to bring me soup when I was sick. Who knows all the words to terrible 90s songs. Who still looks at me sometimes like I'm the best thing he ever found.

What the 777 rules actually are

I'm not saying that number is magic. Seven days, seven weeks, seven months - it's arbitrary. Could be 5-5-5. Could be 10-10-10. The number doesn't matter.

What matters is the structure. The commitment. The "we are doing this, no matter what life throws at us."

Because left alone, we drift. Everyone drifts. Work, kids, laundry, the endless minutia of staying alive - it eats your time together until you're just two people sharing a space.

The 777 rules for marriage aren't about perfection. We still forget dates. Still get annoyed. Still have weeks where we barely speak.

But now we have a system. A reminder. A way to pull ourselves back before the gap gets too wide.

The thing nobody tells you

Those 777 rules for couples? They're not really about the dates. Or the nights away. Or the vacations.

They're about proving to each other - and yourselves - that you're still choosing this. Still choosing each other. Again and again. Even when it's hard. Even when you're tired. Even when Netflix and separate beds feel easier.

My husband still walks past me in the kitchen sometimes. Still forgets milk. Still drives me absolutely insane.

But now, sometimes, he stops. Touches my shoulder. Says, "Hey. Date night Thursday. Don't forget."

And I don't. I won't. Not again.

Because I remember what almost losing us felt like. And I'll do whatever stupid number game it takes to never feel that again.

the full framework we used here: 777 Rules for Couples PDF

What saved your relationship when you were drifting? Tell me below...