By Jennifer Batchelor
@jennbatchelor

Jon and I dated for five years before he proposed, which is apparently an inordinate amount of time. More than one friend—planning her wedding after dating less than half as long as we had—point blank asked me what we were waiting for, and I shrugged. My mom tossed that old adage about no one buying the cow when they get the milk for free, and I rolled my eyes. My dad mentioned giving Jon a deadline and I actually laughed.

“Dad … I’m 24. You can’t ‘or else’ my boyfriend into marrying me. Leave it alone.”

I deflected and dodged every comment, acting like I was unbothered by the delay. I was lying. 

It all came to a head on Christmas Day 2007. Jon had graduated from college earlier that month with a hard-fought bachelor’s degree seven years in the making. He’d alternated between working full-time to make the money to pay for classes, then switching to part-time so he could take them. It made sense that we’d postpone marriage until after he graduated, but now there was nothing standing in our way. He’d just turned 26 and owned a house with his brother. I was almost 25 and owned my own place. Adults in every sense of the word; all of the “ready” boxes on the checklist of And Now We Can Get Engaged firmly checked. Everyone had me convinced my Christmas present would be an engagement ring. 

He got me a dress. A beautiful cocktail dress in exactly the right size, which he’d learned by combing my closet and checking in with my best friend. I forced a smile and thanked him, even talked about where we could go and what we could do to warrant dressing up. But as we climbed into bed that night, my facade crumbled.

“When are you going to marry me?” I tearfully demanded. 

Jon, to his credit, took my meltdown in stride.

“I’m going to marry you when I’m ready,” he said.

Nothing riles me up faster than Jon taking things in stride.

“And when is that going to be?” I pushed. “It’s been almost five years. If you’re not ready yet, how do I know you ever will be? Do you even love me?”

“Of course I do,” he said softly. “But it's marriage, Love. I know you grew up surrounded by examples of how to do it right, but I didn’t.”

I considered what he was saying. Maybe I did think marriage was a foregone conclusion after spending a certain number of years with the same person. And while their relationship certainly did not appear without effort, my parents were still happily devoted to each other while Jon spent most of his childhood being raised by a single mom, his dad in and out of the picture.

In my world, love meant staying even when it was hard work. In Jon’s, love led inevitably to leaving. Framed that way, his hesitancy made sense.

I apologized for my outburst and things were resolved for the night, but in the weeks that followed, my doubts lingered. After all, Jon was only the second boyfriend I’d ever had, and I’d spent the bulk of my teen years feeling more or less invisible to the opposite sex. At the opposite end of the spectrum, I once watched an actual fight, complete with hairpulling, erupt between two girls over who would get to sit next to Jon years before we started dating. He oozed charm while I couldn’t flirt my way out of a paper bag. Marriage felt like the way to circumvent my insecurity. If he proposed, then I was enough.

When Jon asked me to marry him five months after the Christmas Eve meltdown, I said yes and threw my arms around him. 

But a tiny part of me wondered if he really meant it.

***

Did you ever watch How I Met Your Mother? I can’t say I necessarily recommend the whole series because its answer to the titular question is downright infuriating, but the early seasons are funny and relatable. Jon and I used to watch them together, queuing up our DVR as we curled up on the couch after work in our pre-kid years. In one episode, two of the characters are discussing a shared relationship hypothesis—that in every couple, one person is the settler and one is the reacher. Meaning, one person reaches for someone out of their league while the other … settles.

As Jon fast-forwarded through the commercials, I turned to him with a grin.

“Thanks for settling for me, Babe,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, obviously, I’m the reacher and you’re the settler here,” I said with a shrug.

“In what world am I the settler?” he asked.

“Uh … this one?”

He shook his head. “One of these days you’ll actually see yourself as you really are, and I just hope you still choose me when you do.”

“Pshhht—in what world do I not choose Jon Batchelor?”

“None I’m interested in living in,” he replied with a kiss to the top of my head.

***

Shortly after our daughter turned three, we found ourselves mired in the biggest disagreement of our relationship. I wanted another baby and Jon didn’t. We came at the problem from every angle, tried every tool in our toolkit—persuasion, pleading, compromise—but eventually we realized we were stuck. I wasn’t going to stop wanting what I wanted. Jon wasn’t going to give it to me.

It was late one night, weeks into having the same conversation. I was angry and Jon was … actually, I couldn’t get a read on what Jon was, until he asked a question that stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you going to leave me now?” he whispered. I stared at Jon, shaking my head in disbelief. I was afraid of myself—that in holding onto what I wanted, I’d also hold a grudge.

But in that moment, I realized my husband was afraid of me, too.

“What? Of course not,” I said. “Don’t be ridiculous; why would I leave you?”

“Well, you want another baby and I don’t,” he said, haltingly. “So what if you want to go find someone else who will give you what you want?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘someone else’ in my world,” I whispered, as I hugged him fiercely. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Months later, in counseling, our therapist told me that I feel safe in our marriage in a way that Jon doesn’t. He said my comfort pushed me to take risks, to reach for more. I was confused—Jon always seemed so solid and sure. If anyone was insecure in our relationship, I said, it wasn’t him. The therapist shook his head.

“I’m not saying Jon loves you less or trusts you less,” he said. “I’m saying he sees what you have as something he needs to protect.”

“And me?” I asked. He paused, weighing his words.

 “Jennifer, you protect yourself.”

***

We left therapy with two assignments—a question that each of us is tasked with asking the other.

My job is to ask Jon what he feels, and to push him until he uses a feelings word as his answer. (Fine and sucks are not feelings. Mad, sad, worried, peaceful are. We have a chart we use and everything.)

Jon’s job is to ask me what I need, and to push until he gets something other than “nothing” or “I don’t know.” 

We are both good at pushing, less good at being pushed. So far he’s better at naming feelings than I am at naming needs, but then he’s always been the quicker learner. Naming what I need feels dangerous, but I remind myself that’s the point. Not just of this exercise, but of this marriage.

To risk ourselves for our us, to give something up for the sake of being known. To protect what we hold of each other. To take nothing for granted.

We could settle for less. We could choose to avoid the hard conversations and the discomfort of the pushing. Sidestep an argument because we don’t have the energy for it. Hold ourselves apart, just a little. Give up being known for getting along. There are plenty of marriages limping along on less.

Instead, we reach—for honesty, for intimacy. For each other.

It’s where the work is, but it’s where the rest is, too.