On commitment

A love story

Image from our wedding day by Gareth Paget

Two weeks ago, I married my partner of fourteen years. We’re both in our fifties and it’s the first time either of us has taken this step.

It has brought some soul-searching for me about what commitment means, and what I’m agreeing to by signing that little (big) piece of paper.

I suspect, like most things in life, commitment is a journey. When you begin a new chapter of a journey, you cannot know what's in store. You may have a rough outline, an itinerary, some expectations, but how things will unfold is a mystery to be determined by forces greater than us.

As I embark on the journey of marriage, there are some knowns – my partner and I have spent almost fourteen years living our lives in tandem, twelve of those under the same roof. I know many of his quirks and habits. I know he has a lot of stuff, tidiness is not his strong suit, and I will find his socks and tech gear littering my home. I know he works hard and is a deeply generous man, almost to a fault. I know that his love language is often expressed through acts of service. I know that he is patient and kind, and that every so often his patience tank runs dry and he snaps. I know I can't talk to him easily in those moments but it passes after a good sleep and his heart opens again. I know he's a sensitive guy, who's not afraid to be emotional. I know this is why I fell in love with him. I know that he's my favourite person to watch a movie with. I cry embarrassingly easily. I cry at everything, sometimes even the trailers, and I know that when I turn to him, 99 times out of 100, he'll be crying too, in the same moment, for the same reason.

I know that he's a soul mate.

How we met felt very pre-destined. The first time we met, he was off to see a French movie called 'The first day of the rest of your life'. I get goosebumps as I type those words. The next time we met, by chance, was at a festival, at sunset, on one of my favourite beaches. I was sitting on the dunes watching the sky turn from blue to grey and subtle shades of pink. He casually plonked himself down next to me. I'm usually awkward and anxious with strangers, especially guys I like, but it was so natural and effortless that my soul felt like I'd known him forever. I was travelling overseas shortly afterwards and we kept in touch via email. Short occasional messages at first, morphing into long heartfelt sharings of our daily lives, doubts and struggles. By the time I returned from that trip three months later, I knew that we were going to be together, though we hadn't yet shared our first kiss.

I've always been ambivalent about the institution of marriage, it hasn't always worked out so well for the people I see around me. But when he asked me to marry him, out of the blue, on our 13th anniversary, I knew the answer would be yes. With him, it was a no-brainer. I knew I wanted this man by my side as I make the journey towards elderhood.

Our relationship is not perfect - show me one that is. I know the places where we get stuck, the differences in how we communicate, what we find funny, how we express love. I know the ways that I will continue to frustrate him - when anxiety leads me to want to perfect and control things - and he will continue to frustrate me - when he doesn’t voice his needs, then becomes angry and resentful that I don’t read his mind. And I say yes to this too. If every relationship has its challenges, I say yes to this particular set of challenges. I say yes to continue to show up and do the work, to continue to grow myself and our relationship, and to meet the challenges along the way. To grapple with the painful reflections of my own rough edges, to apologise and repair when the fault is mine. To try to be gracious and forgiving when the shoe is on the other foot. To listen and concede that my way is not the only way, my needs, not the only needs.

I’m saying yes to the unknown. Perhaps our marriage will succeed, perhaps it will fail. Perhaps we will grow old together, perhaps one or both of us will walk that journey alone. Perhaps one of us will become the caretaker of the other as disease redefines our roles. Perhaps I will bury him. Perhaps he will bury me.

Perhaps also, we will discover the beauty that can be found in staying and going the distance, uncovering deeper and deeper layers of ourselves, each other, and our relationship. Perhaps we will be there for each other through the darkest and most joyful times, and in doing so there will be a depth of knowing unsurpassed elsewhere.

I can’t write a post about commitment without also mentioning this.

There’s a deeper commitment than the one we make to another person, and that’s the one we make to ourselves. In relationships, we are ultimately two separate individuals on two separate life paths. We get to walk a part (I hope a long part) of this journey together, until ultimately our souls will depart on their separate journeys once again. The deeper level of commitment to self can require us to break our vows to another to honour ourselves. This is not something I take lightly, but something I hold sacrosanct for both myself and my partner. If staying with me means compromising his own life path, he should ultimately choose himself. If there ever comes a time when our relationship is harming our personal growth or well-being, we should have the freedom to walk away, married or not.

To me, commitment means saying yes to the unknown. Setting a compass towards an intention, and being curious about what we will meet along the way. Commitment means closing some of the escape routes, dropping the fantasy of tantalising alternative paths. Knowing there is ultimately no right path or wrong path. On every path, you will run into yourself. You will run into pain, you will run into heartache. Commitment is knowing this and choosing a path anyway, then doing what needs to be done to try to make it work.

Tell me, what does commitment (in marriage or otherwise) mean to you? I’d love to hear your thoughts and reflections, as always, in the comments below.

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