Stop Texting Your Husband Novels (A Love Story)

Nick and I have been navigating this life together for nearly a decade now. We’ve had some really hard talks, some that almost ended us, and some that reminded us—hopefully—that every single day we choose each other.

And yes, I can be stubborn. I get caught in how I think things should be, instead of leaving room for how they could be. Case in point: our latest heated argument, which of course happened the night before our 5-year wedding anniversary. Nothing says “romance” like emotionally sparring before date night.

Even though we go to couple’s counseling, we don’t always use the tools our therapist gives us. I’m an outward processor, which means I need to unload everything in my head—lists, priorities, feelings—out loud. Unfortunately, my go-to outlet is texting, which usually looks like me sending essay-length paragraphs of feelings and emojis. I start with the intention of being communicative, but more often than not, it lands as “flood warning: emotional tsunami incoming.”

One big thing we’ve learned (and keep relearning) is that most people—even therapists—use “I statements” wrong. If you say, “I feel ___ when you do ___,” you’ve basically wrapped blame in polite paper and tossed it at your partner. It sets off the defensive alarms. The more effective way is to focus on the internal experience: “I feel hurt and disconnected when I don’t get a response.” That invites curiosity instead of combat.

During this last argument, Nick told me he felt I was always assuming the worst of him. And he was right—I realized I was. But I felt the same about him, too. We weren’t actually on opposite sides; we were just yelling our needs in different languages.

For me, safety in communication comes from processing things out loud. For Nick, safety comes from being face to face so he can read my tone and context. When I send a flood of texts, he reads them as alarms going off, when in reality, I just needed to vent the chaos in my brain. Cue: defensiveness, panic, repeat cycle.

What I realized is that it isn’t just about what we need—it’s about how we deliver it.

And honestly, this marriage? It’s been played on expert mode since day one. Between perimenopause, parenting again when we were almost to the “finish line” (yes, we chose that chaos), monkey wrenches, grief, and life throwing curveballs like it’s training for the World Series—we didn’t pick the easy route. Our therapist once told us we basically selected “expert difficulty” in the video game of life. And some days? I’d really like to switch to “story mode” and just enjoy the cutscenes.

And as if expert mode wasn’t enough, there’s also the outside noise we both carry—the kind of stuff that requires a whole lot of compartmentalizing just to keep moving forward. Those layers can add pressure, sure, but we’re learning that marriage isn’t just about handling the hard stuff; it’s about choosing not to let the hard stuff define us.

It’s like that viral video, “It’s Not About the Nail.” Because honestly? Most of the time it isn’t about the nail at all—it’s about being heard, feeling seen, and not losing each other in the chaos. https://youtu.be/-4EDhdAHrOg

But here’s the thing: even in our hardest moments, I can look at Nick and feel nothing but love and admiration for what he’s endured alongside me. He is my person.

Have you ever had an argument with your partner where, once the shouting stops, the silence feels heavier than the words? That’s usually when my personal “highlight reel” kicks in. Unfortunately, it tends to roll after we’ve already said things we can’t take back—when we’re sitting there quiet, both wondering, “Is this it? Are we done?” And my whole chest aches with, “I don’t want that.”

That reel doesn’t show the fights. It shows the joy, the laughter, the times we’ve been on the same team. And it’s in that reel that I remember—this is my person, and this is the life I’m supposed to be living.

When my mom passed, my entire universe shifted. She once told me it was okay to let someone take care of me, to let someone love me fully, and to allow mistakes. I’m still working on that. And every time I start spiraling, it’s like my brain plays a highlight reel—not of the missed moments or the hard stuff—but of the joy we’ve had. And that’s how I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. With him.

The lesson? Love isn’t about choosing each other once, at the altar. It’s about choosing each other again and again—through arguments, chaos, parenting exhaustion, compartmentalizing the noise, and the expert mode levels of life. And when all you can see are the ugly parts, maybe it’s time to let them go and look for the joy again.