10 things I’ve learned from a 10-year relationship
More than 28 dates later
A decade ago today, I was walking to the Scolt Head pub in De Beauvoir to meet a stranger for a first date. I realised I didn’t know what he looked like, so I text, “I’m the one in the reddish dress with wet hair”. He replied, “I’m the one in the bright pink Bermuda shorts.” Oh god.
Luckily he was joking, and he’s still joking right now on the sofa, ten years later, as I write this. It is WILD to think about the series of events that were set in motion just because we bothered to respond to each other’s messages on a dating app a decade ago. There were obvious consequences: we fell in love, moved in together, got married, had a daughter, then another, moved to a new town. But these “milestones” aren’t the things I’m marvelling at today. It’s the expanse of life we’ve travelled through.
In ten years we’ve given each other orgasms and thrush, given our houseplants silly names (RIP “fern cotton”), picked each other up after job rejections - a delicate moment for anyone’s ego - then celebrated getting jobs the following year; hiked up mountains, cried tears of joy together, been fucking terrified together, and scrubbed poo off the carpet on our knees together. I think of all the objects that make up the detritus of our life: books with declarations of love written on the inside cover, failed pregnancy tests, positive ones, takeaway boxes, all those calpol syringes, weird holiday souvenirs, his grandmother’s coffee grinder that I broke, which he was so annoyed about, and our childhood teddies (Oscar and Raffles) that now sit side-by-side on our own child’s bed.
Sometimes when I look at Dan now, for a second or two I can see it all: his smiling face on our first date, the look in his eyes when he first said “i love you”, his look of concentration building a lamp the first night we moved in together, his face in that hospital room, in the corridor at 3am on a sleepless night, the red flash of the thermometer on his cheeks in the dark, his face in the kitchen singing on a Sunday morning, in the garden last week, dancing with Vega and Joni in the sun. Occasionally all these versions of him, and our life, show on his face in the same moment, like one of those flicker books you had as a kid, and the feeling is so intense that I know my old assumptions about long-term love were wrong. It’s not this safe, steady, mundane companionship, devoid of excitement. It can be just as intense as the first rush of falling in love, maybe even more alive and exciting. You get to fall in love again and again, and each time, the layers of history make the falling part feel even deeper, and riskier, because you realise just how much you have to lose.
The stranger feeling is knowing that it might not have happened. One hangover, and I might not have replied to that first message. One message from another stranger on the app that day and we could’ve been distracted. A different day in my period cycle and I might have interpreted a message a different way. Just one small change and Dan’s coffee grinder might still be intact, but the world we’ve created wouldn’t exist.
Thinking about all this made me reflect on some things I’ve learnt, like…
Forget everything you know
When I’m interviewing someone at an event, I read their book, I prep questions, I write them out, then rewrite them in a particular order, grouped in themes. But when I get on stage I don’t look down at my notepad, because I want to look the person I’m speaking to in the eye, and I also want the conversation to go wherever it goes in a natural, interesting way. I think this is a good strategy for love, too. It’s helpful to read about it, to learn about it, to think deeply about it. But I think there comes a point when you have to trust that you know enough to give it your best shot, and give in to the moment, without overthinking every move. Just as you’re not saying “mirror, signal, manoeuvre” in your head every time you check your mirrors while driving. This is what I try to remind myself now: take love seriously, learn about it, then allow yourself the freedom to let the moment surprise you, without trying to control it.
You have to keep your past alive somehow
When we moved, I wasn’t just sad to leave behind the house we’d brought our babies home to. I also felt emotional that we were leaving behind the area we’d fallen in love in: that pub we went to on our first date, the street we first kissed on, the cafe we ate hungover breakfast in, all the restaurants we sat outside, flirting and drinking negronis on the steps. The history of our relationship exists in that area, and even though life had changed, we could still walk those streets and say to our kids as we passed The Scolt Head, “Mummy and daddy met right there!” We were also leaving behind people who knew us before we became parents, which felt significant too. Everyone we meet now only knows this version of us, so where does the other one go? It’s important to keep it alive somehow, I think, so that you can draw on those positive feelings when things get hard. It’s not about wanting to live in the past. More about paying tribute to who you were, and how you’ve grown, and how far you’ve come together, in a way that recognises your shared history is what makes your relationship irreplaceable. (It’s also nice to remember that you once had a hairless chin.)
Are you annoyed at your partner, or are they just the closest person you can take your frustration out on?
I’ve learned to ask myself this, because there are times when I feel so annoyed - probably about the fact I haven’t slept - and no one else cares, and there’s no one else around, so I take it out on Dan for no reason. It’s hard not to do, but at least now I try to call myself out and say, “I’m sorry, I’m not really annoyed at you, you were just in the vicinity.”