A couple is dancing at dusk
Seasons seem to endure forever in life. Then mornings are when you wake up to know that a whole decade has passed. You’re older, changed, and you have a bit more than hazy recollections of all of your past self. You notice that the other person has changed when you roll over and find him lying next to you. It isn’t always a wrong thing; it’s simply that you don’t like the person you were in love with years or even decades ago—this unfamiliar face in your bed.
When you read this, somewhere near the coast of Mexico, my husbands and I will toast. It’s our tenth anniversary in July, and we have thus arranged a seafront retreat to reflect on the vows we exchanged once. But if you like, our route to the beach was not necessarily a stroll. Far from that.
It was a cold January day when we met 12 years ago, and the Colorado sky seemed so pure that you practically could drink it. Our nice meeting grew into an exciting summer relationship, typically summer romances, and I moved to college in autumn. In an attempt, we tested our destiny over the great distance and tried our luck—and it succeeded. Two years later, we married in the same Colorado sky with thunderclouds this time.
It was me that first changed. It is not simple to start with, but even harder to navigate a new marriage. I began to ask about my faiths and worldview. And my morals did not change; my preferences, friends, ambition, and dreams. And my dreams did not change. See, when we were married, I was young (really young), and I scarcely knew who I was, and even less who I was. My husband changed more gradually, whereas my metamorphosis was evident. He, too, has compressed and enlarged from several job moves to the degradation of his earlier ideals.
We also progressed in separate directions as we changed independently. Many seasons had passed when my spouse and I did not comprehend or know one another. It was challenging to remain calm during these interrogatory moments, and I often wondered: How can we ever find ourselves back?
But people are changing; we should not stay. Life events and difficulties shape us and mold us into various versions. Like clay, even though we think that we are cast in our ultimate form, we remain foldable and morph into unanticipated forms. And our partners, too, do it. Staying together was not always the easiest decision, but we have found this reality during these times of significant change: growth – as people and marriage – has not come without its reward. It’s not simple, but it may be valuable.
Naturally, not every relationship ends permanently, and every individual and every couple is aware of the most extraordinary things about their trip. We understood that the other person was on our side to follow my husband and me, even if we no longer knew that individual. Only as we grew out of our earlier selves, we just had to learn how to develop together.