Sometimes, I try to remember when I became afraid of believing it would all be okay. I assume it was when I was a small child and things rarely seemed to work in my favor. I’ve had therapists suggest this is rooted in early mistrust of my caretakers (feasible) or lingering trauma from a marching-band–related incident (not impossible but much less feasible).
My single mother worked hard, but as the eldest sibling of four kids, holidays were typically disappointing for me, and worse, my birthday landed two weeks after Christmas… and two days after my much cuter baby sister’s. It felt like a cosmic setup. The chronic disappointment was torturous, so I opted out. I wouldn’t need to stop crying over another heartbreaking near-miss if I just chose to never again expect to get what I want.
As an adult, I started dating my now-husband, Kelly, in college during our last year of living on campus in Muncie, Indiana, but I refused to call him my boyfriend. Our first date had been wonderful, but within weeks of four-wheeling, skeet shooting, talking, kissing, and revealing our amorous intentions toward each other, he found out he’d been accepted into an arts internship in New York City. In a matter of months, he’d be sharing a room in a brownstone turned dormitory, working with poets and other writers, professionals in the industry we both hoped to be employed in someday.
I was happy for him—I even helped him celebrate the news—but I also assumed it meant that whatever flame flickered between us would soon die out. Typical, I thought, just as I was realizing how much I wanted him. But it didn’t make sense to me that two people in their early 20s would make a risky commitment right as one of them prepared to start building a life in the most exciting city in the world. It wasn’t low self-esteem; I just knew I wasn’t that lucky.
I told Kelly we should break it off. He said, “But I really want to keep spending time together.” And even though I was certain it was a bad idea, I agreed. We spent the rest of the semester sharing meals, throwing parties, attending literary readings, throwing literary readings that were also parties, sleeping together, laughing together, and, in doing so, falling in love in a way I refused to accept.
“For seven years, I’ve wondered if I’m walking into the biggest letdown of my existence.”
Our time felt limited, so I tried to cherish it, knowing it might never be this way again. Knowing I might not ever be this happy with anyone else. But at least I hadn’t fooled myself into thinking this would be forever, a consolation as disappointing as it was unsatisfying.
When the time came for him to leave our little college town, we parted on great terms. Still, I sobbed for days, convinced I would never see him again.
It was almost two years after the first lap around one another’s hearts that Kelly came back for me. He’d left New York once his internship ended and moved with a friend to Seattle. I’d left our college town and moved to Indianapolis. He called and asked if he could come to my apartment and say hello.
I was excited to see him but also determined not to get my hopes up about rekindling our romance. I’d worked to convince myself to move him firmly into the Friend Category, no matter what my heart told me. I didn’t want to want him. No, that’s not true. I didn’t want to lose him because of how much I wanted him.
When I answered his knock, a controlled smile donned like armor, he took my face in his hands and bent down to kiss me. When the kiss ended, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Are you seeing anybody?” I shook my head before taking his hand and bringing him inside.
Getting what I wanted felt unfamiliar, especially when what or who I wanted wanted me back.
I didn’t expect him to stay with me that night. I didn’t think he meant it when he said he wanted to try again with intention. But he did.
We went on like this, me expecting this time to be the last time and him continuing to show up anyway. I’m ashamed to say I tested him. Before I’d agree to be in a real relationship, I laid myself bare. I told him what I wanted from my life and what I wanted from a partner. Love, support, encouragement, accountability, loyalty—all of it. I thought the details would scare him off.
He responded, “I’m not everything you want or need—yet. But I believe I can be.”
When I then told him I had gotten a job offer in New York and would be moving there, I expected him to remind me that he never wanted to live in New York again and that our relationship couldn’t sustain an even longer distance from each other. I prepared my heart to break. But he said, “I’ll meet you in New York.”
When my dear grandmother passed away three weeks after Kelly moved from Seattle into my Brooklyn apartment, he told me everything was going to be okay and held me when I woke up from grief-induced nightmares. He sat at the far end of my desk while I wrote about hard things so I didn’t have to be alone. He nursed me back to health, physically and emotionally, on numerous occasions and insisted I seek and receive help for my mental health. And while neither of us ever had grand designs on marriage, three years after moving across the country so I could live my dreams, he proposed.
I said yes, and I meant it, but I still waited for that hovering other shoe to drop. In the darkest corners of my mind, I left room for my old friend Disappointment. I waited to feel stuck or unsure or abandoned. I waited for what felt familiar.
Those feelings never bloomed. And trust me, I looked for them: Most days since we got married, seven years ago this September, I’ve wondered if I’m walking headfirst into the biggest letdown of my existence.
Is that seven year itch going to show up now? How easy is it to know if you’re falling out of love? Does the fact that I’m still having so much fun with my husband even mean anything?
What I’ve ultimately decided is that those are moot questions. If I’m honest with myself, the worrying and avoidance have never saved me from disappointment, not even once. They’ve only been tools I used to rob myself of the excitement and joy I’ve always been entitled to. At some point, I have to decide that the pleasure of my marriage is sweeter than the anticipation of bitterness. In fact, I’ll make that decision now. Because that’s what I truly want.
