As I refocus this Substack to “No Manual for This,” I’m taking time for several weeks to write about areas of our life where we know we want to see more but aren’t sure exactly how to get it. Last week we covered how to get people to speak up more.
Today’s post: how do we be the right kind of honest in marriage?
Courtney and I weren’t great at being engaged. Our five-year age gap (in her direction) and our uncertainty of how to communicate as a unit created a lot of hesitancy. We both had our doubts that we were making the right decision. When our relationship began, I was barely 20. Engaged at barely 21 didn’t help. Who were we? We had no clue. We were trying to figure out what the first phase of marriage might look like. The best option appeared to be moving to Dallas for the next four years and me attending seminary.
“There’s no better way to go through seminary than married and broke.”
That was the advice given to Courtney and me as we considered our options. Seminary is sort of like law school in the sense that it is the place you go when you might not be sure what you want to to do, but you’ve been a leader in your church as a college student. You go to buy some time before making future decisions.
Broke was easy for me. I usually had a bank balance in the 100s of dollars. I worked at an ice cream shop—the owner telling me it was legal to pay me in cash and me not knowing better. I lived in a duplex with a friend and slept on a cot.
Married would be easy, too, because Courtney and I got engaged on my 21st birthday. We were married about six months later and immediately moved to Dallas. Classes began that next August so we got settled and then went hunting for our entry-level jobs.
So, this couple that struggled to even be engaged, is all of a sudden married and living in Dallas. Starting out on our own in a new place provided a great opportunity. Living in a city where almost nobody knew us gave us plenty of moments to create that “new marriage” identity. Courtney found temp work while pursuing an alternative teaching certification (big regrets on the latter part of that sentence). I was cranking out shifts at a nearby Starbucks, working at a school for neurodivergent learners in the afternoon, and filming weddings on the weekends. In our free time, we were meeting new friends and building our lives in our tiny Dallas apartment.
But, amidst all the fun, marriage was still difficult for us. You’re living with another person. You have their expectations. You have their way of life. You are, for better or worse, stuck with each other in your 600 square feet and shared bathroom. My youthfulness, her diabetes, our “I guess we’ll figure it out”—it led to us continuing to circle the same conversation.
“You should have married someone else.”
Communication—at least one-way—comes pretty easily to me. My life is communication—writing, speaking, coaching, and counseling. It’s all there, and it pre-dated adulthood. You’re currently reading Tomball Junior High School’s 1997 “Best Male Thespian” (there weren’t many of us). So I’ve always had a certain brazen capacity to say what was on my mind though I would, at times, be blunt. No better place to be blunt than in your new marriage.
Courtney isn’t as versed in communication, but she’d dive right in, too, and let me know she thought I made the same mistake.
I can’t say that this approach was the most effective for either of us.
What advice would Courtney and I give to our newlywed selves 20 years later? Subscribe for free and listen.
But did you catch one of the problems? Sure, what we said felt honest, but was it actually honest? No. What did we do?
I made it Courtney’s fault. She made it mine.
“I think you made a mistake in choosing me.” It was an insecurity masked as an accusation. The accusation feels more forceful, more confident—and keeps us from having to deal with the underlying insecurity.
We might say “I think YOU . . .” but what we mean is far different. Pick one of any more true statements.
I am overwhelmed by what this commitment means.
I have doubts about how good I will be at this.
I didn’t share my insecurity early enough and I regret that.
I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.
This looked much easier than what I’m experiencing.
Even for someone who communicates a lot, I find it easy to accidentally mask my emotions more as accusations.
If I make it your fault, it doesn’t have to be mine.
This is why I’m not the biggest fan of speaking “your truth.” How I say I’m feeling might not be true, even if the words feel authentic. In marriage, or any other important relationship for that matter, what we say and what we feel aren’t always aligned.
What we say is a reflection of what’s going on inside of us, but it might not be a 1:1 reflection. Often, it corresponds to reality but it gets distorted on the way out. “I’m overwhelmed” becomes “You made a mistake” and then you’re off to the races.
If we can pause for even sixty seconds and ask, “What am I actually feeling right now?” we save ourselves a lot of trouble. If we can’t figure it out, then let’s at least commit to what comes out of our mouth to be about us and not about the person across from us.
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