Orbiting Each Other

A Short Story of Love

This week is our wedding anniversary. Lucky for Mickey, I’m skipping the usual long, handwritten poem. The one he reads while I hover awkwardly, cataloging every twitch, every smile, every subtle reaction. Watching him squint at my metaphors, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at my absurdity and awesomeness, while I fail miserably at resisting the urge to annotate.

This year, I’m doing something different. Instead of tucking my words into an envelope meant only for him, I’m letting them loose into the wild: a short, only slightly poetic retelling of our story, filtered through the perspective that only age, experience, and maybe too much coffee can bring. Chaos, comedy, and cosmic alignment all included.

Growing up together is a funny thing. Our twenties were all about surviving the mess. Our thirties? Learning to understand it. Somehow, in the middle of all that, we’ve managed to keep orbiting each other. Sometimes gracefully and sometimes like two satellites wildly recalculating their flight paths.

My gift to him is simple: the freedom to read without my hovering commentary. My gift to you, dear reader: a front-row seat to the messy, magnetic, utterly human story of us.

To Mickey—
My constant, my chaos, and my calm: You’re my favorite.

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Back in the era of flip phones and burned CDs, we were two uncertain 18 year olds starting college, stumbling into something we didn’t yet have words for.

I was agnostic. He was raised Catholic.
I followed the rules. He tested them.
I was an introvert. He was a born extrovert.

After a divinely timed and wonderfully obscure MADtv impression, our orbits began to shift. We were like two planets, drawn by gravity, slowly adjusting their paths until the pull between us became undeniable—steady, magnetic, and dare I say, fated. Before long, we weren’t just circling the same sun, we had formed our own little system, bound together by a force all our own.

I wore Birks. He wore boots.
I analyzed. He created.
I devoured books. He collected movies.

We got engaged on a whim—no ring, just two sunburnt, wild-hearted kids making impossible promises to love each other through every stage of life. No one took us seriously, said it was “a passing phase”. And when sweet Mickey proposed again “properly” it went comically and beautifully awry.

I’m always five minutes early. He’s reliably ten minutes late.
I live by lists and itineraries. He loves to go with the flow.
I’m easily overstimulated. He has the patience of a saint.

We got married a few years later in an intimate affair that somehow still managed to be utter chaos. There were theatrics, barbed comments, and last-minute “adjustments.” One set of parents Irish-exited before dessert, a congratulatory call came from prison, and our friends danced us into the kind of messy joy only love (and expensive scotch) can inspire.

I learn emotional safety. He learns the joy of letting emotions out.
I prompt spontaneous adventures. He plans date nights.
I get my “movie-cation.” He reads my favorite books.

Our twenties were a tug-of-war with the universe. Health battles, surgery, endless doctor visits, job instability, parental pressure, and judgmental friends cheering from the sidelines. Every time we tried to steady our trajectory, the gravitational pull of life would try to yank us off course. But still, we never lost sight of each other.

I’m his sanctuary. He is my refuge.
I hold space for his emotions. He reminds me of my strength.
Every day, I make him smile. Every day, he makes me laugh.

Now in our thirties, we find ourselves unlearning more than we ever imagined. Detangling, unmasking, processing, relearning. We’re two planets still spinning through our own growth, yet somehow, our orbits keep aligning, pulling us closer as we revolve through these new constellations of self-discovery.

I learn to trust my intuition. He learns to trust his vision.
I advocate for his self-love. He champions for my self-worth.
I encourage. He empowers.

Fifteen years of marriage later, I am astonished—truly fucking flabbergasted—by who those two kids have become. We’ve loved each other through a thousand different versions of ourselves, and to still be uncovering new depths of love after all this time feels nothing short of magic.

After all of these years together,
I’ve learned that love isn’t about sameness.
It’s about growing in rhythm, not in sync.

There’s a sacredness in being witnessed
in being known, again and again,
as we shed who we were and grow into who we’re meant to be.

We keep orbiting each other,
not out of gravity, but out of choice.
And that, I think, is what love really is.

Intentionally,
Shan