But after a decade of marriage—through job losses, sleepless newborn nights, a global pandemic in close quarters, and the slow, unglamorous work of becoming two different people than the ones who said “I do”—I’ve realized something counterintuitive:

We’ve all seen them: the filtered vacation photos, the anniversary captions dripping with honey, the couple who finishes each other’s sentences. Society sells us a very specific image of the “perfect marriage”—flawless, effortless, and eternally passionate.

I thought if my marriage was “right,” we wouldn’t fight. I thought we’d always want the same things at the same time. I thought love alone would smooth over every crack before it became a canyon.

It’s choosing the same person over and over—even on the days when they annoy you, even on the days when you feel distant, even on the days when “love” feels more like a verb than a feeling.

What the Fairy Tales Get Wrong Fairy tales end at the wedding. Real life starts there.

I used to believe in that myth too.

Marriage is two imperfect people refusing to give up on each other. Humor is the lubricant that keeps the engine from seizing up. So here’s my revised definition: