I don’t respond constructively to change. Never have. And this arguably is the most monumental change I’ve encountered thus far in my 25 years. Becoming not just someone’s partner, but their most significant relationship on earth—hello…pressure!
Now is a good time to state for the record that I’m a perfectionist. Like the most perfectionistic perfectionist you’ll have the discomfort of meeting.
I think too fast, and I think too much. I enforce impossible standards and crave the competition—the intoxicating rush—of pushing harder, going further, reaching higher, being greater. I use independence and individuality as defense mechanisms against the indelible wounds that trust can leave behind.
Nobody’s gonna tame this free spirit or crush this spitfire persona. That’s been my attitude for longer than I care to admit. Not exactly the conditions you’d associate with marriage material.
But I’ve realized something: when I approach the altar next weekend, I’m changing more than my last name, street address or relationship status on Facebook. I’m casting aside over a decade’s worth of deluded—and because why pretend otherwise, isolating—thought patterns.
This union doesn’t just signify a circumstantial shift…but a heart shift. Or in my case, overhaul.
The guy I’ll soon call “husband” is about a hundred traits I don’t deserve. Patient. Gracious. Romantic. Sincere. Devoted. Understanding. And then there’s me. Compulsive. Rigid. Obstinate. Snarky. Unemotional. I’m a complicated wreck of a human, but he accepts those complications without hesitation.
My anxieties have driven other men away, and still he remains. My sarcasm would be a deal-breaker for the average person, and still he forgives. My stoicism can alienate even the thickest skins, and still he gazes past the facade. These barricades don’t dissuade him, so why this power struggle to relinquish them?
That’s the million dollar question—with a deceptively basic response.
I’ve never considered myself lovable. Which makes receiving love an awkward proposition. But only two options remain: force him to the brink with my neuroses…or invite him into those chaotic, imperfect spaces most people don’t know exist. And believe he’s prepared to take that plunge.
The decision is mine alone. So, from this moment onward, I’m choosing “door number two.” Because a wedding passes in just a blur. But a marriage—that’s for life. Might as well make it meaningful.