I’ve spent a long time sitting in resentment. Letting anger settle into the cracks of my marriage, stacking up the ways I’ve felt unseen, unheard, unappreciated. And if I’m honest, I know he’s been doing the same. It’s a vicious cycle, feeding off itself. My hurt fuels his hurt. His withdrawal fuels my withdrawal. Neither of us moving, neither of us budging—both of us waiting for the other to go first.
But I’m done waiting.
Yesterday, in therapy, I had an epiphany that knocked the wind out of me. My therapist asked me to think back to the time we got married—to remember the love, the reasons we said yes to each other. And I stumbled. Because the truth is, we didn’t get married at a natural "this is the next step" moment in our relationship. We got married because I had exhausted every option to stay in this country. It wasn’t a grand romantic gesture—it was a necessity. A piece of paper so we wouldn’t have to say goodbye.
And yet, despite that, we always knew we’d make it real. We always promised each other that one day, when the time was right, we’d do it the way we wanted.
And we did.
I had forgotten, but as I sat there in that therapy session, I remembered. I remembered climbing The Haʻikū Stairs (also known as the Stairway to Heaven. A steep, steel staircase on the island of Oʻahu, Hawaii) in the dark, crawling under fences, sneaking past guard lights, freezing in the wind as the sun started to rise over Oʻahu. I remembered being annoyed—so annoyed—that Jon ran ahead to stop a stranger just to take a picture. I rolled my eyes. I wanted to keep moving. But when I turned around, he was down on one knee.
That moment. That feeling. That’s the real marriage. Not the signature on a piece of paper. Not the logistics of staying or leaving. That moment, on that mountain, in that freezing wind—that’s when I knew this was real.
And somehow, in all the fights, all the unspoken words, all the daily friction of life, I lost sight of that.
But I see it now. And I see the choice in front of me.
I made a vow—to love in sickness and health, in good times and bad. And right now? This is the bad. This is the part no one prepares you for. The part where love doesn’t feel easy, where the weight of resentment is heavier than the memory of why you chose each other in the first place.
But I did choose him. And I am choosing him again. Not because it’s easy. Not because he’s doing everything right. Not because I have some perfect vision of how this will play out.
I’m choosing to fight for this because I see what’s happening between us. And I know that if one of us doesn’t break the cycle, nothing will ever change.
So I went first.
It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t dramatic. It was an energy drink—two new flavors I hadn’t seen before. I brought them home and simply said, I got you these. Thought you might like them.
I saw the hesitation in his eyes. The quiet calculation—What’s the catch? Why is she doing this? But I didn’t explain. I didn’t expect a reaction. I just let it be.
And then, this morning, I took another step. I sat down and said, Can I tell you something?
He looked at me, guarded. Silent. Eventually, he nodded.
I told him, You don’t need to say anything. You don’t need to respond. I just want you to know—I see you. I know you’re hurting. I know you’re disappointed. But I’m here for it. I’m here for all of it.
That’s it. No expectation. No demand. Just truth.
I don’t know where this journey leads. I don’t know if or when the shift will come. But I do know that love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a decision. And today, I’m making the decision to stay and fight.
This is The Journey Back to My Marriage.
And this is just the first step.