Marriage. It’s this thing I grew up believing was the pinnacle of happiness, the ultimate life goal. The happy ending. And because I wasn’t raised inside that picture-perfect version of it, I yearned for it. My parents divorced when I was two. Back then, people called it a “broken home,” and I carried that label like a scarlet letter, always an outsider looking in.
So, what I knew about marriage didn’t necessarily come from personal experience. It came from what I observed, read, or watched. The ’90s sold me a version of marriage wrapped in a bow: you fall in love, make a lifelong promise, have a fancy party, and everything after that unfolds like a well-written script. Cue the sunset.
But here’s what they didn’t tell me: what comes after the wedding? What happens when the honeymoon phase fades, and life moves in with its chaos and clutter? What happens when you find yourself loving and resenting marriage in the same breath?
The Illusion of “Forever Happiness”
Some days marriage feels more like a business arrangement than a bond of love. Some days the majority of our conversations revolve around logistics, school pickups, bills, and calendars, rather than laughter, connection, or life-long dreams.
Why doesn’t anyone talk about how lonely marriage can feel, even when you’re never technically alone? Or how resentment creeps in without a warning sign, slowly building in unnoticed corners of your life? The mental load, the exhaustion, the way one partner is focused on work while the other is keeping the household together by a thread. The raw honest truth about marriage.
The Tug-of-War Between Self + Partnership
I remember the day my husband found my writing journal left open on my desk. It held a writing prompt I had scribbled months before: “Fifty words on why I hate (fill in the blank with something that you are expected to love but have mixed feelings about).” And I had written “marriage.”
It wasn’t meant for him. It wasn’t even meant to hurt. It was a prompt. A raw, unfiltered thought I had intended to explore through writing.
But the look on his face, the devastation, the hurt, it was all just hanging there in the air. I was caught off guard surrounded by this feeling of something I didn’t recognize at first. Guilt? No, it was something else. Embarrassment. Like I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. The thought, “Does he not share these feelings, ever?” circling my brain.
Marriage is Not Just Mine
This moment jolted something in me: recognizing that marriage is not just mine. It belongs to both of us. And while it is shared, the experience of it is still deeply personal. Sometimes you need space to hold your feelings, even the messy ones, even the ones you’re not proud of. You are still an individual. You are still growing, evolving, becoming someone new. But so is your partner. And somehow, you are supposed to keep meeting each other in the middle, even as you change. That can be hard.
There are moments where I feel like I’ve lost parts of myself, where I have prioritized my children, my home, my responsibilities over my own dreams, my personal growth, my own wants. I see my husband, his focus unwavering on his career, on providing for our family, and I wonder if he sees me.
Not the wife. Not the mother. Not the house manager. Me.
The resentment doesn’t stem from a lack of love. It stems from the imbalance. From the way life demands so much from both of us, yet in such different ways. From the exhaustion that settles into our bones, making it harder to connect, harder to communicate, harder to be the people we once were.
The Beauty in the Struggle
And still with all these feelings, I choose him, our marriage, our family. Even on the hard days. Even when the connection feels distant. Even when the silence feels heavier than words. I choose the shared memories. The small moments. The history. The grit. The grace.
Because love isn’t just the good stuff. It’s also showing up when you’re tired. It’s choosing to stay when walking away might feel simpler. It’s holding on even when life tries to pull you apart.
There are days I fantasize about solitude, about the ease of making decisions for just myself. And then there are days when I look at my husband and feel so deeply grateful that he is my person. Despite the struggles, despite the resentment that can bubble up in the hard moments, he is still the one I want to navigate life with.
Marriage is work. It’s beautiful. It’s brutal. And sometimes, both at once. And that is okay. If you’re in a similar season, questioning, tired, disconnected . . . you’re not alone.
Here are four practices that have helped me find my way back to myself + to my partner:
1. Write the unsaid (then decide what to share).
Create space to process your thoughts privately. Journal the hard stuff. The resentment. The unmet needs. The identity struggles. Writing helps untangle emotions. And when or if you’re ready, share pieces of that truth with your partner–not to blame, but to connect from a place of honesty.
2. Schedule an emotional check-in, not a “date night.”
Instead of a “date night,” carve out time once a week (even 15 minutes) to ask:
- How are we doing emotionally?
- What feels good?
- What feels heavy?
It’s not about fixing everything. It’s about being seen, heard, and acknowledged.
3. Revisit the versions of you that existed before marriage.
Pick one thing you used to love before marriage and parenthood; something that made you, you. Reconnect with it. Invite your partner to do the same. Then, share what you rediscovered. Passion and individuality feed connection.
4. Write a living “we” document.
Create a shared note or journal where you and your partner each write what’s working, what’s not, what you’re grateful for, and what you miss. Update it monthly. It becomes a reflection tool–not for judgment, but for growth. (Here are a few creative journal prompts if you need help getting started.)
The Invitation
Marriage is not about having it all figured out. It’s about being brave enough to talk about it when you don’t. And if you’ve felt the weight of silence around your struggles, I hope this reminds you: you’re not alone.
This is exactly why communities like Detroit Mom matter. We write, we share, we connect. We talk about the hard things, so no one has to sit in them quietly.
So read more stories. Share your own. Start the deeper conversations. And most importantly, keep growing, not just together, but individually too. Because marriage is not a destination. It’s a practice. And practicing love, even when it’s hard, might just be the most radical act of all.
