- When I was 23 I agreed to an arranged marriage with a man who was eight years older than me.
- Through the years, I've realized that our differences are what makes us a strong couple.
- We've learned how to live and grow together, lessons I hope our kids are learning, too.
At 23, while finishing my MBA, I agreed to an arranged marriage. My husband was eight years older, and we didn't know each other well when we said yes. There was no dramatic love story — just mutual respect, family introductions, and a quiet decision to give this partnership a chance.
In many ways, we approached life very differently. He's Gen X. I'm a millennial, the kind whose energy leans into Gen Z territory. I was full of ambition — constantly planning, striving, measuring progress in visible ways. My husband had ambition too, but his was quieter, more inward. He wasn't chasing milestones like I was; he valued stability and contentment. I'm expressive, quick to react, and constantly questioning things. He's quieter, more rooted in a time where people didn't always talk about their feelings or challenge every rule.
The generational gap isn't dramatic, but it shows at times. I see it in how we argue, how we manage stress, and how we make decisions. I was the kind of person who tracked everything including our kids' grades, the car we drove, the schools we applied to. I had a plan, and I wanted it to unfold just right. He was fine if it didn't. For a long time, I assumed we had to think alike to connect. But I've come to see that it's our contrast, not our similarity, that makes us stronger.
He helped me slow down
My husband brought a kind of composure to my life that I didn't know I needed. He never dismissed my drive, but he reminded me (always gently) that it was okay not to control every outcome.That kids didn't have to score at least 90% on every exam. That missing out on a particular milestone wasn't a crisis.
He didn't ask me to dim my ambition. He just helped me see that not everything in life had to be a race, something to win, control, or finish quickly. And that was a kind of freedom I didn't realize I was missing.
We love differently — and that's okay
I've always expressed emotions loudly, whether it's joy or frustration. My husband is more reserved. For years, I mistook his silence for detachment. I couldn't understand why he didn't or wouldn't match my intensity.
One day, during an argument, he held me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said quietly, "Please understand. I'm not a woman. I don't process things the way you do. I never will." It wasn't an excuse. It was a truth.
That moment shifted something for me. His way of feeling wasn't smaller, just quieter. And once I stopped looking for a mirror, I started noticing the ways he did show love in steadiness and in small, consistent acts.
We've learned how to disagree without disconnecting
We've been married for 18 years and still argue — sometimes often. We parent differently. We see priorities through different lenses. There are days we get on each other's nerves, and days we can't stop laughing. But we've figured out how to disagree without tearing things apart. We give each other space. We pick our battles. We move on.
Love isn't always a steady flame. Sometimes it flickers. Sometimes it flares. But we've kept it lit — not through grand gestures, but through a quiet, daily commitment to keep showing up. He grounds me when I spiral. I push him to open up when he retreats.
When I'm overwhelmed, he brings calm. When he's tired or stretched thin, I step in often handling the emotional load, daily logistics, and sometimes even the smaller financial extras. I'm usually the one managing football lessons, birthday parties, and spontaneous pizza nights. He takes care of other the bigger responsibilities like managing household bills, school fees, and making sure things keep running smoothly at home and beyond.
Our children are watching
Nearly 18 years and three kids later, I hope our children see something valuable in what we've built. They've grown up witnessing our dynamic up close — two people with very different views learning how to live and grow together.
What I hope they carry with them is simple but lasting: that love and respect can exist even when opinions differ. And when they're with their own partners one day, I hope they know it's okay to think differently, to see the world through different lenses.
We see the world differently — and maybe that's exactly why we work. Like puzzle pieces that don't look alike but fit together, we fill in each other's gaps to make something whole.
I now believe that's what a lasting marriage is: not perfect harmony, but a shared rhythm. Sometimes clumsy, sometimes graceful, but always grounded in trust, mutual respect, and the quiet choice to stay in it, together.
