Dear Sisters, Do This Before You Get Married…

As a little girl, I once dreamed of becoming a nun. I admired their calmness, their devotion, the peace that seemed to wrap around them like the holy in their garments. I told myself that I would live that way too, a life that is pure, simple, and devoted to God. Nonetheless, they say man proposes and God disposes. God, in His mysterious wisdom, had other plans for my life.

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His name is Eric.

I met him when I was a bright-eyed twenty-year-old. He was charming, and as I got to know him I realised he was kind and funny. I liked talking to him. I liked spending time with him. There was something about his smile that made me feel giddy. If you asked me to describe it back then I would say, “When he smiles, the world seems softer. It makes me feel safe.” I didn’t even notice when I began to give him everything — my laughter, my secrets, my dreams, and slowly, my heart.

I believed in love then, the kind you read about in novels or hear about in old songs. He made me believe it was possible. “You’re my whole world,” he used to whisper, and I would smile, thinking that maybe, just maybe, this was what happily ever after looked like.

I told him I didn’t want children until my thirties. I wanted time to grow and build something of my own. He agreed but life has its way of rewriting our plans.

At twenty-three, I found out I was pregnant. I remember the day clearly. I was standing in the washroom with the pregnancy test shaking in my hands. My heart raced, but I told myself it would be fine. We were in love. Love was supposed to fix everything, right?

Our daughter was born two years ago. She is the most beautiful little girl I have ever seen. When I brought her home from the hospital, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine, and I felt a love so fierce it scared me. But the nights that followed were not filled with lullabies or whispered prayers. They were filled with exhaustion, silence, and tears.

He barely looked at me, not to talk of lifting a finger to help me take care of the baby. He would come home late, eat his food in silence and go to bed.

Eric became distant, or maybe he had always been that way, and I was only now seeing it. The only time he was interested in talking to me was if it had to do with his mother. She ruled his world. Every decision, every thought had to please her. I used to think “mama’s boy” was a sweet nickname but now, it sounds like a curse in my ears.

He would talk endlessly about his mother’s needs, her advice, her opinions on how I should raise our baby. But not once did he stay up with me through those long nights when our baby wouldn’t stop crying. I would sit by the bed, rocking her in my tired arms with tears streaming down my face. Sometimes all I needed was one hour of rest.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments before dawn, I would think about the little girl who once dreamed of being a nun. That girl felt lost somewhere between the dishes and the diapers.

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Eric is in his late thirties, but he acts like a child because of his mother. We don’t see eye to eye on anything. I have tried to fix things. We both did, but nothing has worked. The walls between us only grow taller.

Some days, I look at my daughter and wonder what kind of love story I am teaching her. Will she grow up thinking it is normal for a woman to shrink herself to fit inside her husband’s world?

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I’ve thought of leaving more times than I can count. The word divorce tastes bitter, but so does despair. I am drained completely. I am constantly stressed and worried. This marriage has broken me in ways words can barely explain.

Please, my sisters, before you step into marriage, take time to know yourself. Build your dreams, chase your goals, get that degree, that job, that financial independence. Don’t rush because the world says your time is running out. Don’t trade your peace for a ring that might rust with regret.

—Sheila

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