Learning love through marriage

As I get older, and now as a married woman, I’m realizing something humbling: I didn’t really know what love was. When I was younger, I thought love was a feeling. Something overwhelming, intoxicating, almost dramatic. If I felt deeply moved, emotionally charged, or romantically consumed by someone, I assumed that must be love.

But looking back, much of what I called love was really infatuation. It burned hot, then disappeared. I would move from intensity to emptiness, from longing to nothing at all. And because I was single for so long, that cycle felt normal. Exciting, even. But it wasn’t sustainable.

Now, love feels different. Sobering. Grounded. Almost quiet in comparison. And that surprised me.

What I’m learning is that love is not primarily a feeling. It’s a choice. A conscious, consistent decision to remain devoted, to support, to stay present even when the feelings aren’t loud or aren’t there at all. Sometimes love is choosing when you don’t feel like choosing. Sometimes it’s showing up without emotional fireworks. And that doesn’t make it weaker. It makes it real.

Since marrying Isaac, my entire understanding of romantic love has shifted. It’s no longer about butterflies or intoxication. It’s about purpose. About intention. About seeing someone fully and still deciding, “I’m here.” Love now means recognizing a person beyond their appearance, beyond their mistakes, beyond seasons of change. It means loving the soul of someone, not just the version of them that feels good to love.

That’s the kind of love I’m learning with my husband. I wasn’t drawn to him because of infatuation. I was drawn to him at his core. To who he is at the root. And that’s who I love.

I’ve come to believe that this is the most enduring kind of love there is. Because everything else fades. Looks change. Circumstances shift. Life happens. But when you love someone for who they are at their core, then as long as they are who they are, your love remains. And so does your choice.

That kind of love doesn’t intoxicate you.

It anchors you