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