Still Perched, Still Steady

He is, and always will be, my steadfast, wise owl.

Exactly one year to the day from our first date, we stood together and said, "I do." We were living proof of the old saying: when you know, you know. From the very moment I met Nick, a deep, undeniable instinct flooded through me—he was the one. It was a new sense of certainty that I had never known before.

It also did not align with how I imagined the one would enter into my life. The movies lead us to paint an image of the one as a prince charming—arriving in a grand, sweeping gesture to save the day, fulfilling every dream, and leading effortlessly to a "happily ever after." When Nick met me, I was just beginning a journey of uncovering and healing: setting boundaries, reclaiming my voice, and piecing together the impact that dysfunction and trauma had left on every part of my being.

There wasn't a white horse or an elaborate rescue. Instead, there were small, steadfast actions that shone brighter than anything grand ever could. It was in the way he remained steady and present as I peeled back the layers of hurt and angst, exposing the deepest wounds I carried. It was the silent strength in how he listened—no fixing, no rushing—just a hand tightly holding mine. It was the sadness that filled his eyes, the kind that only surfaces when someone you love is hurting and you know you can't take their pain away.

And it was in how he kept showing up, again and again—not with promises or perfect words, but with consistent love and presence after each truth was shared. Every broken piece of me, left shattered from past hurt and damaging relationships, felt seen, safe, and slowly began to mend.

Those were the moments—the quiet, powerful ones—when I truly knew he was the one.

But the hard truth is that life doesn't unfold perfectly, even with the right person.

Only a few months after our vows, life detonated a landmine: my phone rang, and on the other end was my mother—someone I hadn't spoken to in three years—calling to tell me she had been diagnosed with cancer.

I believed this would be the unearthing of our marriage—the moment when the greatest truth of all would be revealed. I feared everything would crack under the weight of old wounds and new grief in the passing of my mother just a few short months later. And yet, Nick remained the constant my heart had longed for all those years—a steady presence in the midst of unraveling.

The years moved forward, weaving themselves with highs soaring as the tallest mountaintops and lows that carved deep, aching hollows with each loss that slipped through my life. With every new blow, I braced for the weight to finally be too much. I knew I could survive it—pain was familiar to me—but I often wondered: could he? This was the landscape of my life, scarred by unexpected hurts and sudden grief, the only terrain I had ever known.

But he and I—then and even now—are drastically different in every way. After eleven years, we stand fused together—bearing, enduring, and carrying all that life has laid before us. We have learned together, we have grown together, and even though he never walked through the same pain that shaped me, we have healed together.

Because even after all this time, he still truly sees me—and offers a safe, unwavering place for my heart to land. He is, and always will be, my steadfast, wise owl—steady, watchful, and full of quiet strength.