Last February my husband and I went away for the weekend.
Not for an anniversary. Not for a birthday. Not for any special occasion at all.
We went because I had seen an idea on Instagram — a couple who spent a weekend together at the start of the year not just to relax but to actually plan. To sit across from each other with nowhere to be and map out what they wanted the next twelve months to look like.
I showed it to my husband.
He said: let’s do it.
And that, right there, is thirty years of marriage in a single exchange.
We have been together since college. What started as a conversation at a campus bar has turned into a life I genuinely did not know how to picture when I was nineteen years old standing there hoping he would keep talking.
And here is the thing I want to say out loud that apparently makes our kids roll their eyes so hard they risk permanent damage:
I really like him.
Not just love him. Like him. Enjoy his company. Choose him — not out of obligation or habit or shared logistics — but because he is genuinely one of my favorite people to be around.
We will say the exact same thing at the exact same moment, sometimes within seconds of each other, without having planned it. We will look at each other and laugh. Our kids will sigh the specific sigh of people who have watched this happen approximately ten thousand times.
I refuse to apologize for it.
When you are too busy, you just stack one thing on top of the next and keep moving. Organizing it isn’t a luxury you have. You file it somewhere in the back of your head and tell yourself later.
But then later arrives. And somehow the pile feels worse, not better. Like showing up to an exam you forgot to study for. Before, it was keeping the house running, managing the kids’ schedules, working, commuting. All of it moving so fast that the pile never had time to feel like a pile. Then retirement comes and the motion stops and you are standing at the edge of something with no clear path down. And you’re not even sure you want to go down.
That’s where we were when we drove away for the weekend.
Planning together is an act of intimacy.
Not romantic intimacy. The intimacy of being known. Of sitting across from someone and saying: here is what I need, here is what I am worried about, here is what I want our life to look like. And having them lean in rather than away.
We sat down together and built what I can only describe as the most comprehensive life planning document two people have ever created over coffee and a pot of tea.
The Death File first. Not morbid — practical. A single document with everything the other person would need if something happened to you. We had been meaning to do this for years. We wrote it on a sticky note, gave it a month, and moved on.
The weekly rhythm next. When I was working we had a cleaning service. When I retired that felt unnecessary. But what replaced it was a vague, unspoken assumption that someone would handle things. We named every task. We assigned it to a person. We decided on a cadence. It sounds like the least romantic thing two people can do on a weekend away. It was one of the most useful.
And then photo organization. The one that had been on the list the longest without moving. Years of photos living across devices and drives, unsorted, unlabeled, accumulating. And before that, boxes. Actual printed photographs from before everything went digital, sitting in drawers and albums and places we’ve half forgotten. Two eras of the same life, neither of them organized. We put it on the list. We gave it a method and a month. We have not finished it. But at least now we know what we’re not finishing — and that is different from pretending it isn’t there.
We came home with a list and a plan and something harder to name.
The feeling of being a team.
After all of it, the challenges, the seasons, the versions of ourselves we have each been along the way, we are still, fundamentally, a team.
Our kids think it’s embarrassing that we say the same thing at the same time.
I think it means we have been listening to each other for a very long time.
That sounds about right to me.
We didn’t find the destination that weekend. We found consensus on which direction to head in.
The relationship doesn’t maintain itself. You have to schedule that too.
If you sat down with your partner this weekend with nowhere to be and nothing to avoid — what would make the list?
If this landed somewhere true for you — share it with a woman who needs to read it. And come back next Monday. We’re just getting started. 🌿
Oh, I loved this. ❤️. We often think intimacy is found in grand gestures, but sometimes it’s sitting across from someone with a pot of tea and a shared future, choosing a direction together. After thirty years, still genuinely liking each other feels like one of life’s greatest achievements. I’m 23 years in and still adore him. X
Before my marriage imploded, we went to therapy to try and work things out. I remember our therapist saying, "You two actually like each other." I remember saying, "Wait. There are married couples that DON'T like each other?" I thought how incredibly weird - and sad - it must be to exist in a marriage where you don't like the other person. And even though my marriage ended, I love to see other marriages thrive and grow based on communication, dedication, and effort. Well done!