I turn forty this year. Honestly, that number still feels surreal. Like… when did that happen? But the calendar doesn’t lie. And out of those forty years, I’ve spent twenty-six with one man—my now-husband, then just my childhood buddy who slowly turned into everything.
I know, twenty-six years sounds wild. We started as friends who shared silly secrets, slipped into dating through our awkward teenage years, and somehow, despite all the chaos of growing up, ended up getting married.
What surprises me most isn’t that we’re still together. It’s that I’m still not bored with him. Not even close. Sure, we’ve had our share of blowouts. There were moments—so many moments—when I wanted to pack my bags and walk out. I’ve been mad, heartbroken, cold, even convinced I hated him. And yet, I’ve always come back. The love has always been right there, waiting—sometimes buried under layers of ego and exhaustion, but always there.
I think about this a lot. This one relationship—your person—it’s the one you invest the most in. The one where the stakes feel highest, where the mistakes cut deep. And because you chose this relationship, every disappointment hits differently. That’s why people say, “choose wisely.” But then again, love doesn’t always care for wisdom, does it? The heart’s rarely a logical creature.
Still, after everything—moves, jobs, parenting, the long stretches of emotional silence, the highs, the lulls—we keep finding our way back. Just like we used to, all those years ago. Maybe not with the same butterflies, but with something more grounded. Something real.
The truth is, relationships don’t stay magical on their own. They need tending. With time, they need even more effort. More awareness. More care. During our late twenties and early thirties, we were in full hustle mode—careers, kids, bills, building a life. Somewhere in that rush, we stopped noticing each other.
But life has a way of slowing you down. And when it did, we found each other again—older, wiser, kinder versions of ourselves. We learned to fall in love again, this time with who we’ve become, not just who we were.
And I’ve gotta say, I love this version of us. This quiet, steady place is where I see the man next to me. Not just as my husband, but as my constant. The one who’s been there through every version of me—every breakdown, every glow-up, every change in direction.
What we often forget over time is to try. We slide into comfort zones and slowly start taking each other for granted. We chase solitude because we’re tired from work, from parenting, from life, and in all that craving for “me time,” we forget “we time.” And then one day you wake up and realize you miss that closeness. Not the drama or intensity—just that gentle belonging.
For a while, we drifted. It worked, sort of. We were content, but not quite happy. And it took time to figure out that what we really missed was each other. Turns out, together is our happy place. That’s what aging teaches you—what matters.
We’ve watched marriages around us crumble. Ones that looked solid. One we thought was Rocksteady. And I’d be lying if I said I never thought about walking away myself. I did. Many times. I imagined a life on my own, free of the push-pull. But every time I got close to that edge, something in me held back. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was love. Maybe both.
But I’m glad I stayed.
Because here we are, still choosing each other. Still arguing over the stupid stuff, still finishing each other’s thoughts, still making plans, still trying. It’s not perfect, but it’s ours. And that’s more than enough.
After all these years, I still feel happy with him. I still feel like I belong. And that, at forty, feels like the biggest blessing of all.
Your Turn
Have you been in a long-term relationship that’s evolved over the years? Have you ever drifted, only to find your way back? I’d love to hear your story. Drop it in the comments or just send me a message. Something is comforting in knowing we’re all figuring it out, one season at a time.