What No One Tells You About Happily Ever After
The night we were supposed to go to a concert, I couldn't breathe.
That same damnable panic attack, the kind I’ve tried to manage over the years.
Every sound too loud, every breath not enough.
I was supposed to meet The Balkan Storm there, and I did make it, barely. I pushed myself through every moment, from getting dressed to getting in the car, parking, and walking in.
And I managed it so well that later, he told me he had no idea I was struggling. Meanwhile, I thought it was painfully obvious I was thisclose to hurling.
Some days, even a simple dinner out feels impossible. For some reason, I currently battle anxiety, overstimulation, and triggers that don't seem to have an expiration date.
The working theory is that after everything I've survived, my brain is finally in the space to process them.
In other words, the reward for finally feeling safe and loved is your brain saying, "Hey, remember all those times I didn't get to fall apart? Cool, here they come, so buckle up."
This isn’t my everyday. It’s not who I am; it’s just my Achilles’ heel for now. The kind of issue no one sees, not even him, unless I say otherwise.
And this man- he doesn’t try to fix it. He just quietly and steadily walks with me through it without judgment.
The funny thing is, we each think the other one is the calming influence, the grounded, disciplined one. We both not-so-secretly think we're the crazier one.
Like that line in Deadpool: "Your crazy matches my crazy".
He thinks he's a lot. But I think he fits perfectly.
And on the days when my anxiety flares and I feel more fragile than I am, he doesn't make me feel anything but loved.
And believe me when I say, compared to my past experience with marriage, this kind of support still catches me off guard in the best way.
But this isn’t just a story about him, or me, or even the marriage. It’s about the life we built when no one thought we would, when even we weren’t sure we could.
It’s about what happens when you lean into hope from the kind of practiced faith that comes from romanticizing your life and living with intention. Love you nurture and believe in before it even exists.
I wasn’t looking for a husband, but I also knew I wasn’t going to settle for anything less than the right one who could be the one.
I still believed in love, I just stopped believing it was meant for me. I’d spent too many years shapeshifting just to earn affection.
I finally stopped asking what others wanted and started asking what I needed.
And so, one night after another heartbreak, I sat alone by the fireplace, pen in hand, making a list. (Sounds so deliciously Gothic, doesn’t it?).
Page after page, I wrote down the qualities that mattered. I wasn't trying to manifest a man; I just wanted a written record of what healthy actually looked like.
He had to have ambition, a sense of humor, self-respect, emotional intelligence, and a full life of his own.
A man who valued a strong woman because he’d done the work to become a strong man. Someone determined to leave a legacy, even if it was just in the hearts of his kids.
I didn’t believe such a unicorn existed, and honestly, I wasn't waiting around for him to. I just wanted to become the kind of woman who'd recognize him if we ever crossed paths.
And then, not long after that, we did.
A mutual friend (who swore she wasn't setting us up) introduced us at a volunteer meeting for a military support organization. He was the area chair - all charm, confidence, and charisma.
My kryptonite.
The moment we locked eyes, there was an instant familiarity, the kind that makes your brain go, 'Oh, there you are.'
The minute we sat down and our friend began talking us up to the other, I knew exactly what she'd done. But I didn't mind.
He must have felt it too, because he asked me out right after that meeting.
I didn’t know that this wasn’t just a turning point for me, but for him as well. He’d just come out of a long relationship that had drained him with expectations he never signed up for.
He’d spent years giving everything to everyone until finally, he chose his own peace. And that bothered people.
Some couldn’t handle it and refused to accept it. Sadly, that included family. But he chose me, and once he did, that was it.
I'll be honest - at the beginning, as right as it felt, part of me was convinced I was just a rebound. I mean, no man fresh out of a relationship wants anything serious, right?
Shows how little I knew him.
There came a time during our first year of dating when I told him, calmly and plainly, that if he didn’t know after a year or two whether he wanted to marry me, then he actually did know.
And if so, we’d part ways, no pressure, no drama. I wasn't playing games; I was simply being honest about what I wanted in my life.
He didn't even flinch. He just nodded, took it in, and several months later, he proposed out of nowhere. We married the following spring.
When we told that story at a recent wedding, the men at the table accused me of "using an ultimatum". That isn't true at all, 'cause there's a huge difference.
Boundaries say, “This is who I am.” Ultimatums say, “Do what I want.”
Big difference. So there.
Flounces out with dramatic hair toss.
It reads all nice and neat when you write it out like that, but back then, my brain still didn’t trust it. I didn’t know how to relax into something good, especially when I had no frame of reference.
I’d become so good at surviving bad love, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize the good kind.
My grandfather used to tell the story of the moment he met my grandmother. He heard a voice say, "She will be your wife."
And grandpa was no woo-woo mystic. He was a Navy man through and through, all logic and no BS. But to his dying day, he swore that the voice he heard was real.
When I met The Balkan Storm, I heard it clear as day: “This is the man you’re going to marry". I’d never heard that voice before, not even with my first husband.
And I’m not woo-woo either.
But I was still cautious. I still felt it was all too good to be true. He saw it, though, and he told me almost from the jump not to hold back with him.
That I could say the weird thing like, “I could get used to this,” and he wouldn't be spooked by that.
And sure, he bought flowers and planned surprises, but the proof of his devotion was in his consistency.
Like how he called me every single night from his long-planned, long-distance motorcycle trip with his best friend, just days after we met.
How he came to see me while I helped care for my dying grandfather. How he stepped in to help without even being asked, like he was already part of my family.
The saying is true: if he wanted to, he would.
I never believed it until I saw it for myself.
Before he was my husband, he was a hotshot chef in D.C. In his twenties, he was that chef - featured in national press, magazine spreads, Zagat, best-of lists, and named “Chef of the Year” at age 25.
He led four-star teams and cooked for people who arrived with security details and motorcades. And while he’s proud of that season of life, it shaped him without defining him.
He knows what pressure and perfectionism can do to a person's soul. He knows how to stay calm when everything around you is on fire. And he brought that same ethic into the life we’re still creating together.
In the early years, it was everything we'd imagined: motorcycle getaways with nowhere to be, tasting menus we saved for, late nights in unfamiliar towns where everything felt like a new beginning for us.
We lived with intention. And even with a daughter to raise, we diligently carved out space and time for ourselves.
When we ran off to our private “weddingmoon " in Italy, we promised we’d return for our tenth anniversary, which happens to be tomorrow. The day after our wedding, someone took our photo on the Terrace of Infinity, the place I'd only seen in a photo and knew, instantly, that's where we'll get married.
Once I shared that dream with him, it stopped being mine and became ours.
But life happened, and we’ve got schedules, budgets, hearings, and new kids. We’re not in Italy this year, we’re in the freakin' weeds.
Maybe we’ll make it back for our twentieth.
Even though our lives look markedly different right now, we still share the same values and the same stubborn refusal to let anyone but us write our ending.
These days, our intimacy involves an unspoken prank war that started when I refused to wear an "I Voted" sticker after a recent local election. I vote because it’s my civic duty, and those ugly stickers scream ‘participation trophy’ at me.
Naturally, he took this as a challenge in light of a petty squabble we'd just had.
The next morning, he stuck his sticker right on my bathroom mirror. So I moved it to his. He slapped it on my sink faucet. I hid it in his underwear drawer. He tucked it in my bath towel. I slipped it onto his laptop. He snuck it onto the dashboard of my car.
And so on.
The funniest part of it all is that we’ve never spoken a word about it. It’s just this ongoing, low-grade silliness that cuts the tension while keeping us connected.
It's proof we're still choosing us.
So, the answer to what no one tells you about living happily ever after is that it requires constant effort.
You have to keep investing in yourself so you've got something left to invest in each other. Happily ever after is endurance. It's a marathon that never ends, so don't take the track shoes off right after the wedding.
It’s intentional living in real time, because we’re still saving for that someday beach house in a country with better espresso. We’re still choosing each other because that's the way it always has been and will be.
So no, it’s not a fairy tale. But it is one hell of a love story.
✉️ Real love. Real life. Messy, funny, and worth it.
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More Reads
- This pairs with The Best Thing I Never Got: one about marriage, the other about career pivots.
- For the quieter side of loss, read The Grief I Deserved.
- Second chances are the heartbeat of Beautiful Lies.
Heather P. is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing darkly funny, brutally honest stories about trauma, resilience, and healing.
Her platform, Unfinished Business, has been read in over 30 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and raw essays on reinvention, grief, and the absurdity of real life.
Heather writes personal essays about trauma, resilience, and reinvention—stories that explore emotional survival, healing, and humor in everyday life.
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