RELATIONSHIPS | VULNERABILITY

I Fell in Love All Over Again When I Finally Allowed Myself to Be Vulnerable

But first I nearly destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to me

“Waking up every day and loving someone who may or may not love us back, whose safety we can’t ensure, who may stay in our lives or may leave without a moment’s notice, who may be loyal to the day they die or betray us tomorrow — that’s vulnerability.” — Brené Brown

“You get married, have children, and live the rest of your life stuck with a man you don’t like anymore.”

That’s what a friend said to me the other day as we sat in her garden discussing the struggles of women as we leave our beautiful youths behind. She was telling me how lucky I was not to have children, and how that probably saved my marriage.

She and her husband have not had it easy as older parents in their late forties with three children all born within the space of three years and two months. All three of whom exhibit strong neurodiverse traits. Yet the man I see — her husband — is not the selfish, uncaring, defiant man she makes him out to be. I see someone gentle and reliable — the kind of man many women would be grateful to have as their parenting partner in life. But, like many stuck in the kinds of trials that throw your emotions and mental clarity into a pit of despair, she can only see the worst of her situation. And blames her husband entirely.

Not unlike the way I threw everything at my husband when my life lost all meaning and my world was imploding on itself.

You see, she has it completely wrong. The truth is that not having children was one of the triggers that sent me spiralling into a depression and nearly destroying my marriage altogether. And I nearly destroyed the beautiful human being himself who makes up the other half of this partnership.

With children or without, we simply find whatever is easiest to blame for our unhappiness and disharmony. It’s up to us to peel back the layers, go deeper, become honest with ourselves, and be willing to be vulnerable enough to allow ourselves to be seen if we really want to love and be loved in return.

My own resistance was so strong I nearly didn’t see how hard Jon was trying.

I was angry.

My life kept hitting one brick wall after another.

First, it was the series of miscarriages, the pain of which I thought I had resolved through shifting my focus and my purpose in life — travelling, volunteering across the world, and teaching yoga retreats in all sorts of beautiful and exotic locations.

But then the uncertainty of Covid had eventually brought us back home to England to settle in the flat land of the Somerset levels, and life felt just that — flat. All my hope had drained out of me, all belief in myself and what I could bring to the world. Here I was again, in the very land that Jon and I had once planned our entire future as parents, which had been ripped away by the curse of infertility.

I couldn’t resolve the misery and rage that was eating away at me. And the more it did so, the more I blamed Jon for being part of the drab and depressing scenery that I stared at every day, and that was killing me inside.

I pulled further and further away from him. I surrounded my heart with barbed wire to keep him — or anyone at all — from my vulnerable self.

I may have given up on Jon, and even more so on myself, but he hadn’t given up on me.

He was smart, caring, and kept his composure better than anyone I have ever known. Despite cutting him down and shutting him out, he patiently continued trying different tactics to reach me.

Eventually, he succeeded in a way that still baffles me today. He began working in the garden of our new home, the buying of which had been so stressful that it added exponentially to my feeling of hopelessness about the future.

I had always loved gardening but had absolutely no interest in putting any energy into this place — a place that already symbolised total misery for me. So Jon had taken it upon himself to buy all the gardening equipment we could need, along with large sacks of compost and packets of seeds of all kinds of flowers and vegetables.

Every day, I would watch him from the kitchen window as he toiled away, alone. And every day I would persuade myself that I would never go out there to join him.

But as he was working slowly on our garden, he was also gradually massaging the inner parts of me that felt soothed and uplifted by the greenery and the beautifully tended plants. I was slowly softened by seeing his humility as he lovingly built raised beds, lay compost, sowed seeds, thinned seedlings, and watered them all in dry weather. I saw the gentle, kind, and loving man that he was, and I began to feel remorse for my anger and blame toward him.

Eventually, something clicked in me and I suddenly saw Jon — the man, the soul, the love that drove his actions every day — exactly as he was. Pure, true, vulnerable.

I wanted to do what he was doing, right there with him. I wanted him — the person I had failed to see but was suddenly missing more than words can describe.

Putting his entire ego aside to try to reach me, he finally broke down my walls. I, in turn, let myself be vulnerable with him, as he was being with me.

And join him I eventually did as he and I rediscovered our shared joy, and our shared laughter, working together on our garden, and our lives, side-by-side.

Back in June of this year, we took a couple of weeks to go walking the coast together. Walking is something that has often made us feel closer and yet it was the first time in years we had taken a proper walking break.

The trip itself was magnificent as we traversed the steep paths and camped wild, always carrying and cooking our own food. But there was one moment that really stood out to me when we began chatting with a couple on a beach with two fun and lively rescue dogs.

As he threw sticks for these dogs to retrieve, Jon began telling the couple about the dogs we would often take care of while we were spending time in Bucharest, Romania. There seemed to be hundreds of street dogs there, all so vulnerable, and desperate for some human kindness and food. Jon is a real dog lover and was in his element making friends with these strays in Bucharest. Those memories lit him up as he spoke.

I let him talk away, for he was evidently transported to a time that had meant the world to him. I simply looked on with wonder as he stood on the beach, engrossed happily in his own chatter.

I hadn’t seen him so animated in a long time. And it reminded me of that moment when I finally saw him again as my cold, hard walls were eventually broken down, only a little over a year earlier.

There he was, in his burnt orange tee shirt, his brown cargo shorts, and those little specs he always wears. Those little specs that are a symbol of his vulnerability, for he can’t see a thing without them.

And as I watched him, I whispered to no one, I love that man in the specs to the moon and back.

He was lost in his own memories of happy times, of dogs he had met in Romania, of people he missed because of the separation and isolation we had all been through. He just talked and talked, and I let him, and I watched him.

I watched myself too. I watched myself soften all the more, becoming a newer version of me as I fell in love with him yet again.

And I wondered — how many times can I keep falling in love with him again and again?

Thinking of that moment on the beach, I began to wonder about my friend and the tough place she is in.

It’s not my place to make any kind of judgment over her marriage. I have no idea what has passed between the two of them, what wounds have been caused, or how deep they go.

But I do know one thing and that is that hearts can be healed and reconnected. We just need to allow ourselves to be vulnerable enough to open up to the possibility, and unattached enough to the outcome.

Jon and I may become so comfortable in each other’s presence that we don’t even notice the opportunities to fall in love again, but when we take a moment to really see each other, those moments just creep up on us. At least they do since I dropped all of my resistance to my beautiful man who, though he may not be perfect but may be perfectly irritating at times, is more than I could ever have asked for in this life.

I believe we can be given chances to fall in love anew if we truly desire it. I believe we can have as many chances as we want to fall in love over and over again. Love is like that — always renewing, reforming and regenerating.

But it needs to be given the space to do so.

It needs to be given that vulnerable space where nothing else needs to exist but love.

“We cultivate love when we allow our most vulnerable and powerful selves to be deeply seen and known, and when we honor the spiritual connection that grows from that offering with trust, respect, kindness and affection.” — Brené Brown

Here’s another story about my struggles with fertility: