Lisa O
People often talk about marriage as if it’s either heaven or hard work. After three decades with someone, you realize it’s neither of those things most of the time. It’s something quieter than that. There are parts nobody mentions because they’re too ordinary to make a good story. But those ordinary parts matter more than you’d think. They’re what actually hold things together when nothing else makes sense.
You stop trying to win arguments.
Somewhere around year fifteen, maybe twenty, you just stop caring about being right. It’s not because you’ve become a better person. You’re just tired. The argument about where to eat or whose turn it is to call the plumber no longer seems worth the energy. You let it go before it even starts. The coffee gets cold while you’re both staring at your phones anyway. Nobody wins and nobody really loses either.
Silence becomes its own language.
You can sit in the same room for hours without talking, and it doesn’t feel wrong. Someone’s reading. Someone’s half-watching TV. There’s no pressure to fill the space with words. You know what the other person is thinking most of the time anyway. It’s not romantic, but it’s real. The clock on the wall ticks loudly enough that you both notice it. Sometimes that’s all the conversation you need for an entire evening.
Your spouse becomes like furniture.
This sounds terrible, but it’s not meant that way. They’re just there—part of the landscape of your life. You don’t marvel at them anymore, but you’d notice immediately if they weren’t around. It’s the same chair you’ve sat in for years. Comfortable. Familiar. You don’t think about it until it’s gone or broken. Your hand reaches for theirs without thinking about it anymore. The gesture is automatic now. You’re not even sure when it began to be that way.
You forget what you used to fight about.
There was this huge fight, maybe ten years ago. One of you slammed a door. The other one didn’t talk for two days. Was it about money or something one of your parents said? It’s gone now. You both remember being angry, but you don’t recall why. These days, when something from back then comes up, you just look at each other with this blank expression. Neither of you bothers trying to piece it together anymore.
Date night becomes staying up late.
Going out loses its appeal over time. You’d rather sit on the back porch with a drink after the house is quiet. No reservations. No getting dressed up. Just the two of you and whatever’s on your mind that week. The neighbor’s dog barks at something in the dark. You both ignore it. These nights end up meaning more than any expensive dinner ever did.
They know your patterns better than you do.
Your spouse can predict when you’ll get grumpy or need time alone. They know you’ll forget to eat lunch if you’re busy. They see the signs before you do. It’s not mind-reading. It’s just decades of watching the same person move through the world. You leave your keys in the same wrong spot every time. They’ve stopped pointing it out and just check there first.
You become weirdly codependent on small things.
You can’t remember where anything is in the house without asking them. They handle certain tasks, and you handle others, and neither of you could switch if you had to. It’s not planned. It just happens. One person knows where the spare batteries are. The other knows which drawer has the scissors. You’ve divided up the world without ever sitting down to discuss it. The system works even though it makes no logical sense to anyone else.
You both get boring together.
Your idea of a good time is completely different from what it was at thirty. You’re in bed by ten. You eat the same meals on rotation. You’re okay with that. Getting old and predictable with someone feels less sad when you’re both doing it. The TV stays on the same channel most nights. Your friends stopped inviting you places, and you’re fine with it. It’s not depression. It’s just where you are now.
Their annoying habits become almost endearing.
The thing that drove you crazy twenty years ago barely registers now. They still do it. You still notice. But it’s part of who they are. You’ve got your own annoying things anyway. Complaining about it seems pointless. Their toothbrush sits in the holder at the wrong angle, like always. You’ve moved it a thousand times and given up. Now you just leave it and don’t think twice about it.
You stop keeping score.
Who did more that day or that week doesn’t matter the way it used to. Sometimes they carry more weight. Sometimes you do. It evens out over thirty years. You’re too tired to track it all anyway. The dishes sit in the sink until someone gets around to them. Eventually, one of you just does it without making a thing about it.
Bad days don’t mean bad marriage.
Some weeks, you’re ships passing, and that’s just how it goes. You’re cranky, or they’re stressed, and the whole house feels off. It doesn’t mean anything’s actually wrong. You’ve had enough years together to know this mood will shift on its own. The garbage is collected on Thursday, just as it always is. By the weekend, you’re sitting together watching something stupid on TV, and it’s fine again.
You realize love changes shape.
What you felt at twenty-five isn’t what you feel now. That’s not good or bad. It’s just different—fewer fireworks and steadier ground. You’re building something that takes time to see. It’s less about passion and more about who shows up when things break. The thermostat is adjusted without asking who last touched it. That feels like love now, even if it doesn’t sound like it.
You stop trying to change them.
They’re not going to become a different person. You’re not either. Whatever you thought you could fix or improve about them twenty years ago remains. You’ve made peace with it. They’re doing the same with you. The closet stays organized their way, even though it may not make sense to you. You’ve quit arguing about it and are now just working around it. Some battles aren’t worth fighting after all these years.
You both just get tired.
Everything takes more effort than it used to. Getting up from the couch, planning a trip, and staying up to watch a movie. You’re tired together. That sounds depressing, but there’s something comforting about it. You’re both slowing down at the same pace. The lawn needs mowing, but it can wait another day. You’re not putting things off out of laziness. You just don’t have the energy you used to.
You can’t imagine it any other way.
Even with all the boring parts and the hard years and the fights you don’t remember, you can’t picture your life without them in it. Not because it would be tragic. Just because they’ve been there so long, they’re part of how you see everything. The house feels different when they’re gone for the weekend. You notice the quiet, and it feels wrong somehow. It’s been thirty years, and they’re still the person you want around most.