What does it mean to be in love? Is it the butterflies, the late-night conversations, the shared dreams of a future that feels like a John Hughes movie? Or is it something else entirely—something quieter, more pragmatic, and maybe even more real? I’ve been married for eight years, and I can tell you this: my marriage is not a love story. It’s not even close. But it’s also not not a love story. It’s something else, something that exists in the gray area between obligation and affection, between convenience and commitment. And honestly? It works.
My wife and I met in college, which is where most people meet the person they’ll eventually marry. But unlike most couples, we didn’t fall in love. We didn’t even really date. We were friends, sure—the kind of friends who bonded over shared interests and mutual respect, but not the kind who stayed up all night talking about our deepest fears or whatever. She has Asperger’s, which means she’s brilliant in ways that defy explanation (she works in IT and makes more money than I do) but struggles with things most people take for granted, like driving a car or tying a child’s hair bow. I’m religious, which means I grew up believing that marriage is less about passion and more about building a stable life. So when she proposed the idea of getting married—not out of love, but out of practicality—it made a weird kind of sense. She needed someone to rely on. I wanted a family. We were both terrible at dating. It was the least romantic proposal imaginable, and yet it was also the most honest.
Our marriage is, for lack of a better term, a business arrangement. But it’s a business arrangement that involves three kids, a shared mortgage, and a sex life that is both highly scheduled and wildly unpredictable. My wife is the CEO of our physical relationship, meticulously planning out our encounters like she’s organizing a quarterly earnings report. She’s into kinks I didn’t even know existed until she introduced them to me, and while I’m not exactly a willing participant in all of them, I’ve learned to go along with it because, well, that’s what partners do. It’s not romantic, but it’s functional. And functionality, it turns out, is underrated.
The thing about a marriage like ours is that it forces you to redefine what love even means. I don’t feel the kind of love you see in movies or read about in novels. I don’t write her poetry or surprise her with weekend getaways. But I do care about her in a way that feels deeper than romance. When I broke my elbow a few years ago, she cried like I was dying. Not because she’s overly emotional—she’s not—but because the thought of losing me, even in some small way, was unbearable to her. And when she has one of her meltdowns, which usually involve her hitting herself or retreating to a quiet room, I’m the one who steps in to make sure she’s okay. That’s love, right? Maybe not the kind that gets immortalized in pop songs, but the kind that keeps two people together through the mundane chaos of everyday life.
Our kids are another layer of complexity. They know their mother is different, and they’ve learned to adapt to her quirks. My oldest daughter, who is wise beyond her years, once told my wife, “You’re in here,” while tapping her chest, “even if your mouth is stuck.” It was one of those moments that makes you realize how much kids understand, even when you think they don’t. My wife may not be the warm, doting mother you see in commercials for minivans, but she loves our kids in her own way. And I’ve learned to fill in the gaps, to be the parent who’s always there for bedtime stories and soccer games. It’s not traditional, but it works.
The question I get asked most often is whether I’m happy. And the answer is yes, but not in the way people expect. I’m not happy because I’m living some idealized version of married life. I’m happy because I’ve found a way to make this arrangement work, to build a life with someone who understands me and accepts me for who I am. It’s not perfect, but perfection is overrated. What we have is real, and in a world where so much of life feels like a performance, that’s something worth holding onto.
So, is this love? I don’t know. Maybe it’s something better. Maybe it’s the kind of love that doesn’t need a label, the kind that exists in the spaces between words. Or maybe it’s just two people doing the best they can with what they’ve got. Either way, it’s enough. And sometimes, enough is everything.