THE QUIET WORK THAT KEEPS US MARRIED

I’ve been married to David for seventeen years now. Not the sparkling Instagram version of marriage—the real one, with stretch marks, unpaid bills, a teenager who slams doors, and mornings where we both reach for coffee before speaking. People sometimes ask me, “What’s your secret?” as if there’s a single trick. There isn’t. But there are habits I’ve learned (often the hard way) that have kept us from drifting into roommates-with-rings territory.

First, I stopped waiting for him to read my mind. Early on, I believed if he really loved me, he’d just know when I was upset about something small—like him leaving dishes in the sink again or forgetting to ask about my day. I’d go silent, hoping he’d notice. He rarely did. That silence built walls faster than any argument. Now I say it plainly: “I’m feeling overlooked today. Can we talk about it?” It’s not romantic. It’s not poetic. But it’s honest, and honesty is the only thing that cuts through resentment before it hardens.

I also protect small pockets of kindness. Not huge date nights (we can’t always afford them or find babysitters), but micro-moments. I make his coffee the way he likes it even when I’m annoyed. He leaves little notes on the bathroom mirror when he travels for work—“You got this today.” Those tiny deposits add up. When life gets stressful—a job loss, a sick parent, our daughter’s anxiety flare-ups—they remind us we’re still on the same team.

Sex is important, but I’ve learned it’s not the barometer of everything. Some seasons we’re in sync; others we’re exhausted, distracted, or just not feeling it. Forcing it creates pressure. Instead, we focus on non-sexual touch—holding hands on the couch, a back rub while watching TV, sleeping tangled together even if nothing else happens. Physical closeness without expectation keeps the thread alive until desire returns naturally.

I stopped keeping score. Who does more laundry? Who handles more bedtime routines? In the early years of parenting, that tally lived in my head and poisoned quiet moments. Now, when resentment creeps in, I remind myself: we’re both carrying invisible loads. His stress at work shows up differently than mine. Acknowledging that out loud—“I know you’re wiped from the late nights; thank you for still showing up”—diffuses more fights than any apology ever could.

We also give each other space to be individuals. I have book club and long runs with friends. He has his fantasy football league and garage projects. Those separate lives don’t threaten our marriage; they feed it. Coming back together with new stories keeps conversations interesting after so many years.

Forgiveness is the hardest habit, but the most necessary. We’ve both messed up—big and small. I said cruel things during postpartum depression. He shut down during a rough financial patch. We could have weaponized those moments forever. Instead, we practiced repair: “I was wrong. I’m sorry. How can I make this right?” No excuses, no “but you…” clauses. And then we let it go. Truly let it go. Bringing up old wounds in new arguments is like pouring salt on healing skin.

Lastly, we check in regularly—not just “How was your day?” but deeper: “Are you happy? Is there anything you’re afraid to tell me? What do you need from me right now?” We do it over takeout on the couch or during walks after the kids are asleep. Those conversations aren’t always easy. Sometimes they reveal drift we didn’t notice. But talking about it early prevents bigger fractures.

Marriage isn’t a fairy tale that ends at “I do.” It’s a daily choice to stay curious about the person beside you, even when they’ve changed—and so have you. It’s not glamorous. It’s rarely dramatic. But after seventeen years, I look at David across the room and still feel lucky. Not because everything is perfect, but because we’ve both decided the quiet, consistent work is worth it.

If you’re in the thick of it right now—tired, questioning, wondering if this is all there is—know that small, repeated choices matter more than grand promises. Show up. Speak plainly. Touch gently. Forgive quickly. And give grace to the messy, beautiful human you’re choosing every day.

That’s how we’ve kept ours alive. One ordinary, imperfect day at a time.

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