Is my marriage supposed to be this hard?
The answer to a simple question that changed the trajectory of my life.
Once upon a time, my former father-in-law was sharing a thoughtful message with the family. It was a story about connection to the kindred people in life.
I remember he said, “Who is the first person you want to share news with—the good and the bad?”
This was meant to be a rhetorical question. His follow-up was said in a “duh” kind of tone: “It’s your family, or your partner, right?”
I was shook.
Because as I sat and thought about the initial question, my answer was definitely not that. It was his son who was supposed to be the answer to that question, and I felt really shitty it wasn’t.
But also, I didn’t?
That moment was a significant inflection point in accepting the notion that my marriage was not working.
You know who I thought of when he asked that question? My sister and my closest girlfriends. That isn’t a terrible answer, but it slapped the reality of the situation into plain view for me. I would not go to my husband for the things in life that mattered, both big and small.
On many Marco Polos I would lament to those friends: but is it supposed to be this hard?
I got married at 21. We were two kids raised in the same high-control Mormon faith system, both doing what we’d been taught was “right”: marry young, stay faithful, have children, and build a happy, sparkly forever family sealed in the temple. We weren’t encouraged to ask what we actually wanted, but only to follow The Plan.
He wasn’t a monster. He was human—and hurt, and deeply conditioned—like me.
But he could also be controlling, dismissive, and often emotionally unsafe. Over time, it felt like his behavior became less about partnership and more about power and contempt. He needed to be right. He needed his dreams and decisions prioritized over mine. He needed me to be small, but also big enough to support his aforementioned dreams. He didn’t know how to just love and support me without the undercurrent of managing me—my thoughts, my ideology, my friends, my tone of voice, my choices.
And I didn’t know how to leave, because I believed leaving would mean I’d failed at being a good wife, a good mom, a good… person.
So I adapted. I shrank. I over-functioned. I spiritualized my self-abandonment and called it sacrifice and duty.
But…
Eventually, I began to feel the ember of my own empowerment and needs growing, and its heat melting away the numbness. I could no longer ignore the chronic anxiety, the shame spirals, the way my body tensed almost every time he spoke to me, or how I never quite felt safe or seen in his presence.
But is it supposed to be this hard?
The short and long answer: no.
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
I had to unlearn what I thought love and partnership was.
This isn’t about pointing fingers and blame—I have worked beyond the phase of victimhood and addiction to my own suffering.
This is about telling the truth. And looking at the larger foundation (falsely advertised as firm).
Because when you’re raised in a system that rewards obedience over authenticity, especially when that narrative no longer works for you, you both end up stuck in roles and relationships that are bereft of connection.
They lead to quiet devastation.
Self-betrayal.
Shame.
Because the answer to the question, “Who do you call first?” is not your partner.
And when the answer is not your partner—and not because of a rough patch or growing pains, but because you don’t feel emotionally safe there—it’s not just a red flag.
It’s a revelation.
I didn’t fail at marriage. I just outgrew a version of it that required me to disappear.
Real love and partnership doesn’t punish you for being whole.
It welcomes you there.