Allison Raskin's Blog

Every week I sit down to write a new essay. I’ve been on this schedule since 2021 when I first launched my blog on Patreon before moving to Substack in 2022. Throughout these last five years, I have fluctuated between having a steady stream of things to write about and racking my brain for anything of interest. The different levels of output tend to correlate with whatever has been going on in my life. Something horrible happened? At least I know what to write about. My life is boring and stable? Oh no, I better get creative to keep my readers engaged. But right now, I am in a different kind of predicament. I have so much I want to explore but I know that I can’t. Because if I do, my personal life will implode.

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Vogue sparked an online debate a few weeks ago with the provocatively titled opinion piece, “Is Having A Boyfriend Embarrassing Now?” In the article, writer Chanté Joseph explains, “in an era of widespread heterofatalism, women don’t want to be seen as being all about their man, but they also want the clout that comes with being partnered.” While at the same time, “This is also happening alongside a wave of women reclaiming and romanticizing their single life. Where being single was once a cautionary tale (you’ll end up a “spinster” with loads of cats), it is now becoming a desirable and coveted status.” Basically, Joseph warns that the tides are changing, and many heterosexual women are starting to view partnering up as a negative or—at the very least—something that should be done in the shadows and off the internet. As a relationship coach who spent her first three decades fixated on not just finding a boyfriend but securing a husband, I have some thoughts.

While I don’t often engage with regret, I occasionally wonder what my life could have been like if I wasn’t so obsessed with being in a relationship. I remember walking down the street with some friends in the sixth grade and thinking, “This would be even better if I had a boyfriend.” Really, 12-year-old, Allison? What a waste of a nice walk! As I wrote about in my book, Overthinking About You, I attached so much value to being partnered that it became an unhealthy obsession. My mental health was directly tied to how secure (or unhinged) I felt about whoever I was dating or trying to date. It didn’t matter that my career was thriving and strangers were recognizing me on the street if my boyfriend couldn’t text me back quickly enough to assuage my doubts that I was not-so-secretly unlovable.

It’s obvious now that my priorities were out of whack. I placed partnership with a man so far above everything else that it overshadowed everything else in my life. How I got it so wrong is open for debate, but I suspect it was a combination of my personal values, societal messaging around a woman’s worth, and living with obsessive compulsive disorder since I was four. The combination was a perfect storm leading me to harmful conclusions and a lot of bad behavior: like begging guys to stay even though they’d prefer to leave and never speak to me again.

Giving men this type of power over my well-being and self-worth was dangerous. It took away my agency to build a fulfilling life without someone else’s sign-off and participation. It was also in direct conflict with my values as a feminist and career-oriented overachiever. I felt competent and in control of every other part of my life expect this one area I had deemed most important. It was maddening, and, at the time, embarrassing.

Back then, my obsession with having a boyfriend was a source of shame. A part of myself I couldn’t seem to shake even though it reeked. Now, though, I no longer think embarrassing is the right framework because it puts all the blame on my younger self, when so many larger structures were also responsible. How can we glorify partnership and then chide people for wanting it? How can we tell young women through the media and societal incentives that the best thing that can happen to them is a proposal and then scoff at them for trying to secure one? It is unfair to ask someone who feels broken and lonely and unchosen to not try to redeem themselves through romantic love, when that is so often presented as salvation.

So, no, I do not think having or wanting a boyfriend is embarrassing in the slightest. But I do believe the desire for one can be a slippery slope—especially if we have a misconception of what obtaining said boyfriend actually achieves.

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When my first fiancé walked out on me five years ago, I was at an impasse. At that point, I no longer needed a parter to validate my self-worth. I had worked hard to cultivate a better relationship with myself, and his rejection didn’t throw me into suicidal ideation or a years’ long depression like it would have when I was younger. But I still found myself questioning if I could make myself so vulnerable again. What if I gave love another chance and I ended up back at square one, having to post a second broken engagement announcement on Instagram? Could I survive another heartbreak? Or was I finally at my limit?

This is where making a values-based approach rather than a fear-based one came into play. I no longer needed a man’s approval to like myself or my life, but I still wanted a parter. Not because having one would “complete me” or validate my existence. I wanted one because there is a big lifestyle difference between being single and being partnered and I am someone who prefers to navigate life with a buddy. That is just a personal preference with no moral value tied to it. Similar to how some prefer to live in the country or the city. It doesn’t matter which way you lean, but it is helpful to know about yourself.

Once I was able to pursue a boyfriend to help build the kind of life I wanted rather than to fill a hole in my sense of self, I was out of the danger zone and onto honoring my desire. And with that shift brings an entirely different approach. I didn’t have to take what I could get. I could be discerning and thoughtful about who would make sense as the vice president of my life. I could suddenly bring with me all the consideration and expertise I used in other areas because I was choosing from a place of control rather than desperation. It is from this place that I encourage my clients to pursue romantic relationships. Instead of begrudging or judging people for, rather understandably, wanting to pursue them in the first place.

It is this underlying judgement that makes the “is having a boyfriend embarrassing” discourse far less empowering than it seems. Suggesting that women must give up a desire for partnership to stay in control implies that mutually beneficial relationships don’t actually exist. Which is just the inverse of the happily ever after narrative—two extreme tales that obscures the reality that lies somewhere in the middle.

It is possible to have a boyfriend and not lose your sense of self. It is possible to value marriage and not betray your other values. The key isn’t if you choose this path but who you choose to walk it with.

Despite the scope of my work as a coach, relationship expert, and rom-com writer, I am all for reducing the importance society places on romantic relationships. Taking the pressure off partnering up allows people to be more discerning about their choices and enables others who aren’t interested in the lifestyle to opt out easier. It’s a collective shift that would likely result in fewer, but higher quality relationships. That is a win in my book.

But to suggest that wanting a relationship is embarrassing is just another way to inflict shame on heterosexual women. It puts more value on how you appear to other people than valuing what you want for yourself. This kind of messaging will likely cause even more internal conflict and self-doubt in area of life that is difficult enough to navigate without being afraid people are going to unfollow you if reveal you’re coupled up.

I will be the first to concede that a lot of how we handle partnership in modern society needs to be reimagined. But, to me, this is the wrong question to start such an important conversation. And it once again puts women in an unfairly disadvantageous position, which makes me question how much has really changed after all.

xoxo,

Allison

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I recently went to lunch with a friend who told me that having a baby will be “the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” I instantly thought, That’s not true. What could be harder than helping my mom—my best friend and favorite person—die from a cruel and fast-acting disease? If I am going to have to get up in the middle of the night, I would rather do it to keep my child alive than give my mother dignity in death by making sure her nose isn’t smushed against the pillow while aides change her diaper. I would rather worry about finding the right temperature for his bath so he doesn’t get fussy than fear I am going to drop my mother as I struggle to physically carry her into the shower because she has lost the ability to walk. Both types of caregiving are taxing, but one is filled with hope. The other holds nothing but despair.

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When my first fiancé walked out on me five years ago, I knew I was going to be okay. I wasn’t happy about the situation—far from it. I was heartbroken and grieving, but I understood that he wasn’t my whole life. My world, while upended, hadn’t been totaled beyond repair by his abrupt departure. The hole he was leaving behind would be manageable. I still had my parents and my career and my dog. I wasn’t that far removed from the experience of living alone and navigating adulthood as a single person. Now, two years into my marriage, that version of myself that I slipped back into so easily feels long gone and it’s terrifying.

My mother always told me that one person can’t be your everything. She emphasized the importance of friends and a life outside your relationship. Historically I have been much better at listening to this piece of guidance than remembering to keep my purse zipped closed or spell checking my texts before sending them (two other key points in Ruth Raskin’s advice book). I went into my marriage clear eyed and so open to the idea of divorce I wrote a whole book about it. Then my mom died and my world contracted. The hole she left hasn’t been as manageable. It will never get refilled.

Dealing with this loss has meant a huge shake up of my emotional support system. While my dad found his way with a new partner and my sister took care of her grieving children, I turned to John. Even my friends were less available as they all seemed to become parents at once, overcome with new responsibilities and strict sleep schedules. It began to feel like that thing I had been told to avoid was happening: one person was becoming my everything. Or if not my everything than far too much of my life’s scaffolding for it pass inspection.

If you were to suddenly remove John from the equation, my personal schedule would be almost empty, my garbage cans would be overflowing and I would have no one to turn to with my wildest thoughts and takes about everything from politics to social etiquette. All my best inside jokes and callbacks would vanish. The loneliness and domestic demands would be overwhelming—not to mention I am 33 weeks pregnant. If he disappears, I am no longer just a single adult, I would be a single mom, which is a lifestyle I simply do not think I am strong enough to handle.

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Each step that we take with a partner makes us more vulnerable. If we move in together, we might not have a peaceful place to stay following a breakup. If we get married, we can’t end the relationship without taking a financial hit and going through legal red tape. If we have children together, we take on a shared life-tong responsibility that (in an ideal world) requires continued cooperation and additional resources to keep someone else alive. Commitment always involves risk. For all the benefits it provides by propping us up, it simultaneously opens us up to a longer fall if things fall apart. And for the first time, I won’t have my mother to help catch me, which makes me even feel even more desperate for my marriage to work out.

On Starter Marriage, a podcast I co-host with my husband—another way in which we are dangerously entangled—we have a catchphrase for the gameshow segment. Each episode I gleefully declare, Because marriage is a choice, not a trap. This phrase, however glib, is the backbone of my entire framework as a relationship coach, writer and wife. I only want to be married if it is additive. But I am not the only one in this marriage, and if John ever decides to leave, I want to feel that same confidence I had when my ex-fiancé walked out. And right now, at least, I don’t think I would. John is more to me than any other partner has ever been, and his role is only about to expand as we become parents. I have given so much of myself to this person who could die or leave at any moment and that is inherently dangerous.

But the idea of pushing him away to protect myself by loosening my emotional and practical dependence on him doesn’t feel like right response. It would be a waste of the immense privilege that comes with having such a supportive marriage. Instead, I think I need to have more faith in my future self. Just because it feels like I wouldn’t be able to survive without him, doesn’t make it true. I always assumed I would become suicidal if I lost one of my parents. I used to say, whenever you die, I’ll die too. And I meant it. Except here I still am, over a year without my mom, continuing to move forward as I prepare to become a mother myself.

This isn’t to say I shouldn’t be aware of how easy it’s becoming to put all my eggs in John’s accessible basket. It’s a reminder to maintain my friendships and seek emotional support from other avenues—even if doing so require more energy. Rather than passively losing myself in my marriage, I need to remember to actively nurture my own growth. To put it plainly, I have to figure out how to coexist as both an individual and as part of a unit. I knew this was the central challenge of marriage, I just didn’t expect it to be so hard for me to navigate. But I also didn’t expect my mom to die or for our country to be falling apart at such a rapid clip. I have no idea what the world will look like in six months, let alone a year. It makes sense that with all these destabilizing elements, I would cling to the sturdiest part of my life a bit tighter.

My hope is that over time I can soften my grip as I get better footing. In the meantime, though, I’m not going to judge myself for becoming so dependent on the one person who signed a legal document attaching himself to me. It is a calculated risk that he can bear some of this extra weight for now. And in the future, I will do the same for him as we seesaw through life together.

xoxo

Allison

I recently went to a Buzzfeed reunion party in the hopes that it would help remind the millions of people who used to watch me ten years ago that I still exist. Given how few people attended the livestream of the event, I don’t think that I accomplished that goal. But I did receive some unexpected feedback. Apparently, before I showed up, one of my former coworkers was talking about how I was the most talented of everyone back in the day. That my writing and acting stood out and remained with him all these years later. Hearing this made me swell with pride. It also made me wonder, if I had that much potential, how had I managed to fumble it?

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This past weekend John and I went to a four-and-a-half-hour birthing workshop offered by our doulas. I was dreading it. (And just because I have a firm belief that nothing should last more than two and a half hours.) I imagined I would be met with two other moms overflowing with enthusiasm about their upcoming deliveries. They would probably expect the same reaction from me. Wasn’t I just so excited to finally meet my baby?

No, I would reply stoically, ruining the entire afternoon for everyone, I am not.

Through sheer luck, and one of the couples not showing up, I managed to avoid this interaction. But I know I am not out of the woods. People light up when they find out you’re expecting. They look for confirmation that this is wonderful news, and you are brimming with anticipation. I suppose this is a far better response than an icy silence or a dramatic yikes. I have no ill will toward people who assume I’m happy about something I actively chose to do over months of careful planning and strategic decision making. I’m just pissed that their assumptions make it impossible for me to ignore a major pain point: the fact that I’m not experiencing pregnancy the way I had hoped.

To be clear, I never expected to enjoy pregnancy. I knew it would be physically uncomfortable and taxing. I figured I would puke my brains out and struggle with hormonal changes that would impact my mental health. I didn’t think I’d be one of those people who radiate from an internal glow as they prance around in beautiful dresses, rubbing their perfectly mounded belly. But I did believe I would feel something for my baby other than dread and disconnection. I imagined myself chatting to my child throughout the day and trying to figure out what they looked like inside my body at each stage. As my sister recently reminded me, I love little creatures. And what is a growing fetus if not that? Surely, I would find delight in that part of pregnancy between moments of puking and wanting to extract my painful ribs from my body.

Instead, all I feel is grief. Grief that I am not relishing decorating my nursery. Grief that I haven’t felt compelled to read out loud to my baby or track his development in my womb. In another version of myself, not feeling these things would make me anxious and guilt-ridden. I’d fear that this absence of connection was a sure-fire sign that I was an unfit mother with sociopathic tendencies. I would beat myself up and try to force feelings that, after 31 weeks, are simply not there. I’m grateful that I know better than to punish myself for not responding a certain way. But that knowledge doesn’t extinguish the grief.

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At 36, I have gotten accustomed to life not going how it is promised in TV and film. I spent high school and college craving experiences that seemed to come easily to everyone else but were out of reach for me. (Like easy friendships and romantic relationships that didn’t blow up in my face.) My prom date was a friend, not even a good one, and I quit my sorority after a few years because I had no one left to hang out with at the mandatory events. My first engagement ended in what I refer to as “the great abandonment” and I can’t even drink for pleasure because I hate the taste of alcohol. (I have tried so, so many different forms of alcohol to be able to partake in the joy of libation. They all disgust me.) Public spaces and people’s living room couches terrify me because of my contamination OCD. And I struggle to feel connection to my body and sexual self in a way that has often made me feel broken. Not to mention, I lost my wonderful mom at only 35, which is the most unfair of all.

All this is to say, I have no illusions that I am owed a certain type of life or experience. I have a lot of practice coming to terms with my actual reality versus my preferred one. Yet, none of this trained acceptance stops me from continuing to want. And I really wanted to be excited about having a baby.

So far only one comment that has helped me feel better about my disappointing pregnancy. It came during an intake call with my doulas. I was expressing my feelings of grief when one of them said, “It helped when I was pregnant to think that my baby chose me.” Normally this type of woo-woo thinking wouldn’t land. I hate the phrase everything happens for a reason even more than I hate the taste of alcohol. But, however unexpectedly, this simple reframe brought me some relief.

While I might not feel connected to my son, he is undeniably connected to me. His still forming brain doesn’t have the capacity to understand what I am grappling with here. All he knows is that he is safe and warm and being fed nutrients through my placenta. I can find purpose in knowing that I am providing him with what he needs. That is markedly different than finding delight, but it is also substantially different than simply feeling disconnection. Having a sense of purpose has always been my lifeline and clinging onto it here provides a counterbalance to my grief, without erasing or invalidating it.

I have earned this grief. I am being robbed of an experience I desperately wanted. That doesn’t mean my life is ruined or that this period of time will even stick with me once my son is in my arms and I have other things to worry about. But to deny that I am feeling it would be an unnecessary betrayal. So often we are told to “get over” not getting what we want. I’m an advocate for something more nuanced, which is figuring out how to move forward with the grief still in our pocket. Holding space for the loss without losing sight of all that remains. And what remains for me right now, is the idea that my son chose me and I am going to show up for him—whether I am excited about it or not.

xoxo,

Allison

P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

Back in August, my husband and I revealed we are estranged from his parents for the first time. It was something I never thought he would feel comfortable disclosing, but I certainly wasn’t going to discourage it. I had been holding onto years of pain that I was finally going to be able to process through my favorite format: writing for public consumption. (Why sharing my life on the internet is my preferred form of processing is a discussion for another day. Either on here or with a new therapist.)

It felt like a relief for both of us to no longer hide this part of our lives and connect with others in similar situations. Soon after our big reveal, John turned to me and said, “I think your mom would be proud of us.” As much as I wanted to agree, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach instead. “I actually don’t think she would be,” I replied, which is a bummer because even after a parent dies you still want to impress them.

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When John launched his Substack a few weeks ago, my main thought was: finally! After years of struggling as a screenwriter in the barren wasteland we call Hollywood, he had a new outlet to showcase his talent. He would no longer be limited to a few executives whose decisions are fueled more by algorithms than taste. Even more importantly, he would be writing in prose—a medium where his mastery of language is able to shine unlike in the more mechanical screenplay format. I was thrilled. It felt like a clear solution to a problem that had been plaguing him for months. He was going to get his spark (and his identity) back. Plus, I could take credit for being the one to suggest it! (I am never shy about praise of any kind, especially the you were right variety).

John went to bed the night before his launch convinced no one would want to read his work on masculinity and family estrangement. I was much more confident he would slowly and steadily find an eager audience. But neither of us expected the immediate, meteoric response. In one month, he has gained 3.7k subscribers and has been featured on multiple “new bestseller” and “rising” lists within the platform. His essays are filled with a multitude of heartfelt comments about the beauty of his writing and how much his words have impacted people. People finally know what I realized early on in our relationship—John is a hell of a writer.

And I am…also a writer. Whose insecurities about my own abilities are coming to the forefront every time I read something my brilliant husband has written. Damn, that is good, I think. I wish I could write like that. And then I try to remain calm as wifely pride and uncomfortable jealousy duke it out in my brain.

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It is a tricky thing to be in the same field as your spouse. For one, you actually know if they are good at what they do because you know how to do it too. If I were married to a surgeon or an engineer, I would have to rely on other people’s feedback and context clues. Did their patient die during surgery? Did their building burn down in an electrical fire? The details of their aptitude would remain a mystery because I wouldn’t have the necessary insight to adequately assess it. Just the other day my sister remarked that the main reason she knows her husband is a talented trader and investor is because she lives in a nice house. Different paths enable a cleaner separation of home life and work life.

On the flip side, sharing a career allows for added intimacy. John and I often edit each other’s work and talk through story problems over breakfast the way other couples might plan a complicated vacation. He has heavily influenced my work since we’ve been together, and I like to think I have had an impact on his. For instance, by running a monthslong campaign for him to start a freaking Substack. Despite his resistance and attempt to write literally anything else because he thought no one would care what he had to say week after week. (Happy to report that sometimes strategic nagging works, folks!)

Until recently, it didn’t bother me too much that John had a better command of language than me. I have always taken a practical approach to my writing, leaning into my strengths while not expecting to be a literary genius. I don’t tackle projects that feel beyond my capacity (like sci-fi) and I embrace a “good enough” approach. I often credit my success with not being too precious about my work, which allows me to make more of it.

This mindset was especially crucial as I made the transition from thinking of myself as a screenwriter to introducing myself as an author because books were suddenly the only thing I was able to sell. Not that I am complaining. I still feel the urge to pinch myself when I remember I’ve published five books with a sixth on the way. But my BFA degree and my confidence lie in screenwriting. When I return to an old script, I tend to think, wow, this is clever! Why didn’t they make this! The type of enthusiastic reaction that is mostly absent when I review my various prose pieces.

Since being with John and seeing his process, I’ve come to better understand what is missing in my essays, nonfiction and novels. It’s not a lack of emotional punch, humor or insight. It’s a command over the words themselves that results in an unequivocal voice. A personal style that lets the reader know I am completely in control. Rather than how I often feel—which is fumbling to express my thoughts in a way that makes sense and doesn’t overuse and, but, or since. For someone who is such an avid reader, I still find myself wondering, how do books even work? What counts as a scene? Is this the right tense? I am confronted with gaps in technical knowledge that I don’t feel when writing scripts. Having had my latest non-fiction book canceled by its original publisher doesn’t help with this insecurity. My (ex) editor’s comment that my first draft read like a research paper is scarred into my brain for me to pick at whenever I feel particularly vulnerable and filled with self-doubt.

These masochistic moments are more common now that John is publishing his incredible work once a week. I keep waiting for people to realize the disparity between our abilities and abandon my writing for his. I’m realizing it is easier to look good at something when there is no one to directly compare to. But I have opened the door for that comparison—even if it is just in my own mind—and now I have to figure out what to do with it.

The easiest option would be to lean into our differences. He is writing deeply personal essays without in-your-face takeaways while I am trying to offer advice or insight through the lens of my own experiences. This framing allows me to focus less on my writing itself and more on its content and impact. It is a loophole that doesn’t require me to have to develop the type of strong voice and command of language that I long for in the middle of the night as I think about my favorite books and how much I would like to one day write literary fiction. (If only I was a good enough to pull it off—my insecurity quickly reminds me.) But taking that route would be depriving myself of one of the greatest benefits of marriage: our ability to make each other better.

For all my gross envy around John’s new endeavor, there is a simultaneous desire to get better. To learn from this man I already share my life with rather than feel threatened by his brilliance. To see if maybe I have been holding myself back by assuming I can’t possibly achieve my goals so why even try. It’s not lost on me that this is the exact line of thinking John was stuck in before finally taking the plunge to start Wrong Man For The Job. Maybe the results of pushing past my fears will surprise me too. Maybe they won’t. Either way, I know we will both be proud of me for trying.

xoxo,

Allison

P.S. It would mean a lot to me if you hit the like button to increase chances of engagement! Also, if you are able to upgrade to paid subscriber or share my posts with a potential reader, I would be incredibly thankful! Thank you for reading!

It has officially been one terrible, confusing, and surreal year since my mom died on September 23, 2024 from a rare disease. The only time I see her now is when she appears in my dreams. Sometimes it’s a casual/uneventful appearance. Other times, I am shocked to see her. “Aren’t you dead,” I ask, confused yet elated. It then becomes clear that in this alternative dream timeline, she somehow survived CJD and I didn’t have to lose her.

In the more disturbing versions of these dreams, my dad is still with his new partner. Since it is dream logic, I assume he also thought she was going to die and had moved on only for my mom to make a remarkable recovery leaving him with one woman too many. In these dreams, he always stays with his new partner while my mother gracefully understands. There was even one night where we all attended a dinner party together. I found it more awkward than she did.

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I’m going to admit something that I probably shouldn’t. But I’m going to do it anyway for the sake of more honest conversations about romantic relationships (and because I tend to overshare). When my husband, John, launched his Substack a few weeks ago and went public about being estranged from his parents, a part of me wanted to shout See! He has baggage too! This response is clearly pent-up aggression over the many online comments I’ve received that sound something like Why does he put up with her? Or, more bluntly, a simple instruction for John to run (away from me, his lunatic wife).

I shouldn’t be surprised that people on the internet are quick to judge a woman and assume that she is too much. (I was more surprised that at an in-person book event where I also did a storytelling set, a random man’s parting words to John were a loaded “good luck.”) Considering I am open about struggling with OCD and have written multiple books about my failed relationships, I have never presented myself as someone who is easy or go-with-the-flow. I know that I am not the ideal wife for everyone or even most people (given my affinity for Clorox wipes and tracking how often you’ve washed your pants). But it was starting to weigh on me that on the surface John presented as this totally untarnished person who was valiantly “putting up with my issues.” And I was the overbearing wife who was constantly asking for too much.

The reality is that, like all couples, we each have our burdens to bear that unavoidably impact our marriage. Mine are just more in your face while John’s only come out in the shadows. People who have known him for years don’t understand the extent of turmoil that his parents have had on his childhood, psyche and relationships. And why should they? We don’t owe everyone the full details of our trauma and hardship. Sometimes it is easier to just say yes when a casual acquaintance asks if his parents are excited about our upcoming baby rather than ruin the mood with the truth: hard to say because we don’t talk to them for our own emotional protection. Despite lingering mental health stigma, it is objectively easier for me to casually mention my antidepressants than for him to casually drop he is estranged from the people who raised him. One might be a bit taboo in certain circles, but the other is still universally shocking no matter how many think pieces come out about it.

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I don’t think I can count the number of times people in my life have remarked, “I’m shocked John turned out so well after everything he’s been through.” The undercurrent of this comment is they can’t believe, given his family dynamic, that he is so normal. So articulate. So kind. So smart. So charming. Shouldn’t he be more fucked up? I often respond, “it impacts him more than you might realize.” I don’t say this to discredit all his incredible qualities. Because he is so exceptionally articulate, kind, smart, charming and snort-worthy funny. I say it so they don’t dismiss his suffering simply because he survived it. I want to acknowledge the pain I still see him carry every day because his parents don’t know how to be there for him the way he deserves.

We all have scars from our lived experience. Some just heal better than others or are easier to hide with a long-sleeved shirt and a confident smile. These differing outcomes can make those of us who are more blatantly wounded feel like we are lucky to be loved in the first place because we can’t mask our damage as deftly. Think of the chronically ill wife whose husband is applauded for taking care of her. What a mensch! What a sacrifice! What we don’t see is all the ways she undoubtably takes care of him too.

I write about my personal life for a living and none of you knew that my mother-in-law has repeatedly made me cry until a few weeks ago. This is further proof that we never really know what is going on in other people’s relationships—even though it is tempting to make assumptions. It is fun to gossip after a party and wonder why Partner A, who is so vibrant and driven, is with Partner B, who barely talks unless it’s about golf. We can look at our friends funny when they introduce us to someone who appears to have a lot of issues because we can’t yet see how those issues have shaped them into a capable and caring partner. This is not to suggest that all couples are a good match simply by virtue of the fact they got together in the first place. (As a relationship coach, I can assure you, we often pick wrong.) But there is a difference between you not being able to understand why a certain relationship works and the fact that it does.

For whatever reason, I am someone who can handle a less-than-ideal in-law dynamic and John is someone who can handle a partner with contamination OCD. This doesn’t make us more enlightened or mature than people who couldn’t. Instead, it is more likely that our shit simply doesn’t exacerbate the other person’s shit. Our biggest scars happen to be two distinct issues that don’t rub against what the other person struggles to deal with. This doesn’t mean they don’t cause problems—but it helps makes the size of the problems manageable. That might not be the case if I were to try to date a pathologically independent guy who viewed my OCD fueled requests as too controlling or John tried to marry a people-pleaser who couldn’t handle a family not accepting her. It is not the absence of baggage that makes our marriage work. It is instead the way it fits together without toppling either of us over.

Despite my oversharing tendencies, it's still embarrassing to admit that I feel slightly vindicated now that John’s struggles are out in the open. See, internet! I make accommodations too! But I think it highlights how sensitive we are to other people’s judgements about who lucked out and who settled. Public perception, however warped, can start to bleed into how we view our own status in the relationship and, in more extreme cases, contribute to an unhealthy power dynamic. So let this be a reminder that no one outside of the dyad understands the complex give-and-take that keeps a partnership going. Or how what might seem like a lot to carry for someone else is an easy lift for you. Other people will never get to witness all the little, medium and giant things you do for each other. The only thing that matters is that each of you notice (and remember to say thank you).

xoxo,

Allison

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