An Ode to My Husband

Every morning, my husband, Clark, asks me the same question. “How did you sleep?”

And I mostly give the same answer. “Not so good.”

And I don’t always remember to ask him back.

But he keeps asking anyway.

This week, we celebrate 28 years of marriage (35 years together). And I’ve been thinking about what actually got us here. It wasn’t the wedding. It wasn’t the anniversaries or the big trips.

It was the Mondays.

Let me explain.

I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.

I grew up not knowing what healthy love looked like or felt like. In my home, it had to be earned by being “good” and obedient.

I expected to be criticized, shamed, blamed, or hit if I was not.

My parents fought constantly, their marriage eventually ended, and my dad left the family.

I entered adulthood with what psychologists call insecure attachment.

By the time I met Clark, I was carrying wounds I didn’t even know I had. Statistically, someone like me shouldn’t still be married.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. And it wasn’t one big moment. It was a thousand tiny ones.

It was Clark putting on his shoes for an evening walk, even when he was exhausted, just because I wanted to go.

It was him telling me I look beautiful when I’m in my pajamas, wearing my mouth guard and earplugs. (Trust me, this is not a beautiful sight.)

It’s how he lets me sleep in and makes breakfast every morning without a word of complaint.

It’s how he’s my biggest cheerleader, endlessly optimistic about my work and my success, even though he’s a pessimist about almost everything else in life. But he has never once doubted me.

I can go on and on about all the ways has solidified my understanding of unconditional love.

And this is what safety feels like. Not a feeling that arrives all at once. Something built, brick by tiny brick, by a person who keeps showing up.

Here’s what most people get wrong about love.

We’re taught that love is a feeling. Something big and sweeping. So we chase grand gestures and wait for fireworks.

But your nervous system doesn’t learn safety from a honeymoon. It learns from repetition. From the same small question, asked every morning, for decades.

This is how I moved from insecure attachment to what researchers call earned secure attachment.

It means the security you weren’t given in childhood can still be built in adulthood, through a relationship that is steady, kind, and safe.

It isn’t found. It’s earned, together, one micro connection at a time.

Clark was that relationship for me.

He didn’t fix me. He just kept showing up, consistently and gently, until my nervous system finally learned a new truth: I am safe and secure here. I am loved here. I don’t have to earn it.

And here’s the part that gets to me the most. He is modelling to our children what a loving husband looks like.

Every walk, every “how did you sleep,” every breakfast made while I sleep in.

They are witnessing a husband who cherishes his wife day after day. Something I never saw growing up.

The template that was broken in my childhood is being rewritten right in front of them. That is how cycles end.

Not with grand teachings, but with small acts of love repeated so often they become the air our kids breathe.

Clark, I know you’re reading this. You always do.

You took a girl who didn’t believe safe love existed and proved her wrong in the most ordinary, beautiful ways.

You redeemed my faith in relationships. You bring the best out of me. You helped me become who I am today. And you’ve shown our kids what love is supposed to look like.

Happy 28th anniversary, my love. Thank you for being the best part of my life.

P.S. Clark, the answer to tomorrow’s question is the same as always. I didn’t sleep so well. Keep asking anyway.