Author’s Note:
This reflection was written from a place of gratitude and growth—not crisis. It shares lessons from the past, not a moment of urgency in the present.
Twenty-Five Years.
That sentence still takes my breath away.
If I’m honest, it feels nothing short of a miracle. Trey and I have shared beautiful memories over the past twenty-five years — moments of laughter, deep love, and joy. We have also walked through seasons that were painful, heavy, and far more real than I ever imagined when we said I do.
Did we always like each other?
That answer is a hard no.
But I do believe we have always loved each other. At least, I know I have loved him — even in the ugliest seasons. And I think that may be the quiet truth of long marriages: you won’t always like each other, but if there is even a mustard seed of love, there is hope.
This year, we celebrated our anniversary in Punta Cana. When we landed, it was pouring rain — the kind that makes you pause and wonder if the universe is trying to tell you something. It brought me back to our honeymoon twenty-five years ago, when I realized one of the tiny diamonds in my wedding band was missing. I thought that was an omen too.
Now I see those moments differently.
Sometimes things go missing.
Sometimes it rains when you hoped for sunshine.
And still — the sun rises again.
What matters most is what we do in those moments.
Over the years, I’ve learned to turn not to the world for guidance, but to God. The world often means well, but when something isn’t His will, the rain seems to linger. When I turn to Him, eventually the clouds move.
And they did.
We woke up the next morning to sunshine — soft and warm.
Strength, Trust, and Learning Again
On this trip, we decided to start a new tradition together: lifting weights.
Anyone who knows me knows I hate weights. Trey knows this very well. But strength matters at this stage of life, so we showed up together — awkward at first, unsure, then slowly finding a rhythm.
It felt like a mirror of our marriage.
We didn’t start strong. We didn’t know what we were doing. And I had to learn — again — how to trust. When trust is broken, rebuilding it takes time. But slowly, steadily, we are.
We spent quiet days by the pool and long walks on the beach. We swam with sharks — terrifying and exhilarating — and I held a stingray, slimy and strange, thinking how familiar fear and courage can feel. At one point, we floated in the middle of the ocean on a platform, receiving massages with nothing but water and sky around us.
I remember thinking, How lucky am I?
And also feeling heavy.
Both were true.
What I’m Proud of After Twenty-Five Years
I am proud of myself for staying.
Not blindly.
Not silently.
But with boundaries.
When we married, we promised for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. And we have lived every one of those words.
I want to say this clearly: if there is physical abuse, you leave. Period. That is a line I will never blur.
What I learned is that boundaries are not punishment — they are protection. They are fences that keep the bad out so the good has a chance to survive inside. Without them, harm grows quietly. With them, even when life isn’t perfect, there can be safety.
Boundaries gave me my voice.
They gave me back me.
They gave me my worth.
I stayed because I finally had myself — not because I lost myself.
Trust Lives in the Body
For many years, I didn’t trust my inner voice. I explained discomfort away. I tried to make everything feel okay so tension would disappear.
It didn’t.
What I’m learning now is that trust lives in the body. When my body doesn’t feel safe, I’m allowed to get quiet — not to disappear, but to listen.
That quiet isn’t shutting down anymore.
It’s discernment.
Healing isn’t linear, and love doesn’t always feel light. Sometimes it feels sober. Sometimes it feels tender and unsure. And sometimes it feels like grief — grief for who I thought I was, who I thought we were, and what I imagined marriage would look like.
But there is also gratitude.
I don’t miss the mean.
I don’t miss the numb.
I don’t miss the version of myself without a voice.
What the Tide Taught Me
On our last morning, I stood at the edge of the ocean and noticed the boundary where water meets land. The tide rolled in and out — never the same, always moving.
That’s what our marriage feels like now.
It rises.
It falls.
It changes.
And the boundary — where water meets land — is beautiful. Necessary. Sacred.
I stopped asking for signs and started asking for trust. God is the truth, the way, and the light. Not every storm is a message. Sometimes it’s just weather passing through.
And it does.
Coming Home, Hope Intact
It rained again as we packed to leave. By the time we drove away, the sun was shining. Our flight home was easy. The flight attendants toasted us with champagne for twenty-five years. I left a gift behind for the woman who cleaned our room, hoping it might bless her.
We came home to a broken dishwasher.
I laughed.
Life, in all its irony.
Good and bad. Joy and frustration. Love and grief — all living together.
We are not promised sunshine and rainbows every day this side of heaven.
But we are promised presence.
We are promised growth.
And we are promised that love, when tended with truth and boundaries, can deepen instead of disappear.
After twenty-five years, I don’t have all the answers.
But I have my voice.
I have my faith.
And I have hope — steady, honest, and still standing.
And for now, that is more than enough.
