What I Learned In Ten Years of Marriage

Staying happily married comes down to one behavior.

In times of suffering, or joy, or even in the mundane—do I turn toward my partner, or away from them?

In the past ten years married to Robyn, this is what I’ve learned. It all comes down to a simple thing that happens dozens of times a day. Turning toward builds intimacy and nurtures love. Turning away builds resentment and undermines connection.

The key question then is this: how do I turn toward my partner, consistently?

The first “how” is uncompressed, emotionally available time.

In other words—time together that isn’t rushed.

To turn toward requires being in the same place long enough to actually confide about a struggle or savor a joy. And not just that—we have to be there. There’s no space for turning toward if we’re silently preoccupied with work or the kids or chores.

There are many obvious examples of this—going on dates, therapy, and more. But I don’t think it always requires talking.

Turning toward can happen while just being in the same room, even silently—as long as the time is uncompressed and both partners are emotionally available. Maybe that’s reading next to each other. Maybe it’s holding hands while walking the dog. Maybe it’s just sitting on the couch at the end of the day without rushing to the next thing.

The second “how” is building the mentality, the systems, and the trust to deal with conflict.

Unresolved conflict is a killer, obviously. But it’s also more nuanced than that, and there are many habits to stack beyond just “good communication.”

I think it starts with a mentality of gratitude and generosity.

You have to genuinely assume that your partner is doing more, suffering more, and trying harder beneath the surface than what you can see. You have to assume good intent even when you feel wronged. You have to train your mind—and sometimes force your heart—to find reasons to appreciate them.

That posture matters because it moderates our natural inclination toward defensiveness in moments of conflict. It’s why we start our temperature checks with gratitude.

Resolving conflict also requires self-discipline.

It’s not just Robyn’s job to bring her issues to the table. More often, it’s on me to be the type of person who creates a safe enough space—one of genuine care and understanding—so that when she is emotionally vulnerable and needs to talk about something hard, she trusts that I will love her in that moment.

I have to be healthy and stable enough to make a space sacred enough for her to share her heart and soul.

And the roles flip.

When I’m in that vulnerable place, Robyn has to do the same. When we both give more, listen more, and take on more than what we perceive to be our fair share, our marriage wins.

There are so many skills and practices that support our ability to manage conflict.

We swear by a weekly temperature check. But it’s also getting enough sleep, eating well, exercising. It’s listening well and using “I” statements. It’s having good role models—friends and family who set me straight when I’m angry or off base. It’s journaling, prayer, or other forms of discernment and expression that turn down my own anxieties.

Managing conflict comes down to having the mentality, systems, and skills to actually resolve it—and both partners giving more than 50% in that effort.

Unresolved conflict turns you away from your partner. So we have to resolve it, and we have to stack every habit we can to make that more likely.

The third “how” is having a vision for the future.

Building a life and a way of living that we both want is an incredibly strong force for turning toward each other.

Something Robyn and I talk about a lot—and even do reflection exercises on—is:

What do we want our life to be like in five years? Ten years? When we’re retired? When we’re old and gray?

How are we doing? Are we building the life we imagined? What does it feel like?

Down to the details—what do we want our life together to be, and are we actually living it?

Having a shared dream is a powerful relationship magnet. It builds energy and excitement. It also ensures that we’re both moving toward a place we actually want to go.

And that dream has real, practical consequences.

When you see it clearly, it shapes decisions—big and small—and those decisions compound.

We chose a smaller house in a diverse, friendly neighborhood, even though finding a good school has been harder and more expensive. We’ve traded more time with family for fewer cultural experiences and life in the city. We’ve gone on fewer dates out and chosen less luxury so we can hopefully retire a little earlier.

We’ve made our kids share a room so they spend more time together, and so we feel freer hosting guests. We overseed the grass so it can stand up to the backyard soccer our boys love to play.

Seeing the dream clearly shapes these big and seemingly insignificant decisions. And those decisions, over time, reinforce the dream we’re trying to build.

It becomes a virtuous cycle.

We talk about it. We get excited about it. It turns us in toward each other. We make decisions, and the dream becomes more real. And so we’re drawn in even further.

A clear, compelling dream also helps us make sense of sacrifice.

I could probably have made more money if we had moved to a coast after business school, or if I hadn’t gone into public service. Robyn could have worked full-time after we had kids instead of being in a flexible work schedule. We would almost certainly be less tired if we had a smaller family.

We could spend less time at soccer fields. We could skip church more often. We could have chosen “easier” paths in a hundred different ways.

But that’s not our dream.

We make these sacrifices, and they are more palatable—more meaningful—because we can see how they fit into the life we are trying to build.

There are moments, in the middle of the chaos, when we can look at each other and say: this is the dream.

And that acknowledgment creates a bond. It helps us appreciate what each of us is carrying—individually and together. The dream binds us and turns us toward each other.

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Turning toward each other is not trivial. Marriage is hard.

In a world of constant rushing, shifting expectations around family and gender roles, distraction, and self-promotion, it can feel like the deck is stacked against it. Even if you choose the right partner, even if you are mature enough to be married—it is still really hard.

Maybe that’s part of why so many marriages fail.

And at the same time—we all can do this.

We can have healthy, thriving marriages. We can learn to turn toward each other. We can help each other learn a better way to live and to be married people.

I’ve been blessed to learn a lot in our first ten years of marriage—through joy, and through real hardship. We’ve been shaped by mentors, and by a community that has loved and nurtured our marriage deeply.

We are lucky.

Lucky to have each other. And lucky to be surrounded by many couples who model what a loving, generous, and committed relationship looks like.

My hope in writing this is to solidify what I’ve learned so far—and, in some small way, to take the love and wisdom that so many people have poured into us and pay it forward.