We’re more weathered now - and I've never loved him more.
On marriage, presence, and choosing each other through every season
This past weekend, my husband and I went on a date night for the first time in months. The last time we went out together like this, I was eight months pregnant with our now baby. It was long overdue and it came at the perfect time. Right after we defined our roles in our household, saw the fruit that came from it and have gotten to a place where we feel more rooted overall.
We went to our favorite restaurant, perched on the 8th floor of a resort right by the ocean. Before our reservation, we had some time to enjoy the beach. We sat on loungers as the sun began to set. The same wind that had canceled our paddle boarding plans ended up being the very thing that energized me. I took in the crispy, salty air—the kind that makes you breathe a little deeper without realizing it.
Ahead of us in the most dreamiest setting; were two young kids, a girl and a boy, jumping in the waves, laughing as the water chased their little ankles. I found myself watching them with an unexpected tenderness kind of feeling.
Then I looked at my husband.
His eyes were catching the light just right. Still that same beautiful hazel and I was struck by how wholesome and handsome he looked. He is truly my soulmate. I thought about how we would exchange stories about our childhoods at the beach before we met and how much we enjoyed that time with our families. I thought about the true innocence of that child-like nature.
There is a brilliant naivety that allows us to be present in a way that adulthood so often resists.
We can get there, we just have to work extra hard to.
It takes effort to train ourselves to be present, in a world that has conditioned us to be distracted.
When we were that little, the rush of cold waves hitting our legs and the sand beneath our feet were all we knew. We weren’t thinking about bills, or income or groceries or what we’d make for dinner or running through our brains of endless logistics. We weren’t managing calendars or carrying mental checklists. We weren’t taking in content from millions of different peoples lives flashing on our screens. We weren’t broadcasted too much of what happened in the outside world unless we were sitting in front of a television, watching the news.
We were simply right there, fully in the moment, fully where our feet were.
Then life goes on.
It expands.
When I looked at him, I was in awe all over again but it wasn’t because of what you would think.
I noticed how weathered we’ve become. Our skin isn’t as smooth as when we first met eight years ago in our twenties, by the river near that bridge. There are more lines, a few more gray hairs, hidden but there. There are subtle signs showing of long days and short nights. Of responsibility layered on top of joy.
Between moving our whole life down south, raising two little ones, ending old businesses to grow new ones, tending to our homes and investments, and everything in between, life has left its mark on our skins and in our eyes.
That’s the worldly, fleshly side.
There’s also the invisible side: the spiritual wrestles, the work of breaking ties with generational strongholds.
And yet, there’s something deeply beautiful about looking weathered.
Looking weathered doesn’t mean we’re worn out. It means we’ve weathered through the storms of many seasons of life. It means we’ve been touched by life and life has touched us back— deeply and meaningfully. It means we didn’t run from it or try to preserve ourselves in some untouched version of who were once were. We stepped in … all the way. We carried it. We let it shape us.
It means we stayed.
It means life came at us and we didn’t turn away from it.
We chose it.
Presence looks a lot different now. It’s no longer jumping waves without a care in the world. It’s showing up no matter what we’re feeling and still choosing to be there. Still choosing each other. It’s standing side by side in the responsibilities we built together. Having the ability to respond to the life unfolding. It’s planting our feet firm in the life we created together.
As the sun sank lower and the sky was turning into warm hues of yellow and orange and the kids kept chasing the water, I realized something simple and steady:
We’re still here.
Different waves now but we’re still standing in the water.
Deeper but standing—
Right where our feet are.
Being present, not in a way that just happens to us but in a way that we earned.
What a luxury it is to get to grow old with someone.
It turned out to be the most beautiful evening together.
And man, I swear I fell in love with him all over again.
God is good.
God is good.🍵
Warmly,
