Thirty years of marriage isn’t a destination. It’s a practice. You wake up, you choose them again. Even on mornings when you can’t stand their breathing. You choose them.
It’s watching their hair go grey. It’s their body changing. It’s knowing their exact mood from the way they close the refrigerator door. That is intimacy. Messy, raw, unbreakable intimacy.
Would I recommend it? Only if you’re ready for the most difficult, most rewarding project of your life. It’s not for the faint of heart. But for the persistent? It’s everything.
So, raise your mug. To the snorers. The sock-leavers. The people who have seen you at your worst and still ask, “You want the last piece of toast?” That’s thirty years. That’s the whole thing.
