This summer, during the hottest week of the year, Daniel and I celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary by taking a vacation to Montreal. To some couples, ten years is just the beginning. And I get that. It is a beginning, of sorts, but it’s also a big freaking deal. We’ve been married a whole decade!
The other night, we were talking about it: Did we regret getting married? Did we have any idea what we were getting into? Would we do it again? Daniel and I have never been one of those couples who gush - we’re quite pragmatic. Do I love him more than I did ten years ago? I have no idea. How do I quantify something like that?
I know this: if I were to have met Daniel five years ago, I don’t know that I would have fallen in love and married him.
And that’s ok.
When I did meet him, we were crazy young. But we were mad for each other. Really. There were sparks. We had no idea what we could do together, but didn’t care. We just got married. And we were (mostly) happy.
And life came at us, hard. There were job losses, scary diagnoses, piles of medical bills. We both had to grow up and fast. I don’t know that you can do what what we did without hating each other or making it work. And during the process, we learned that we were both different than when we married, for bad and good.
So I don’t know that if we had met now, as we are now, that we would have gotten together. But we are married and happy (most of the time). I can’t tell you exactly how much I love him, but it’s a lot. I know that I’m glad he’s here and I’m glad I’m not alone. He says the same thing to me: I’m glad you’re here and that I’m not alone.
And we keep on waking up next to each other every morning, reaching out for the warmth, knowing it’s there.