There once was a husband and wife who had, from the outside, everything. A garden of abundance, a roof of security, the laughter of children, even the echo of their younger selves still clinging to memories of love.
But over time, something crept in—not a monster, not a curse, but the most ordinary of things: familiarity.
And as familiarity took root, so did blindness. Not literal blindness, but the kind that no longer sees. You know, the way you stop hearing the hum of a refrigerator after a while. Or how the flowers you planted lose their magic simply because they’ve bloomed too long in your field of view.
And so, each of them—this husband and this wife—began to feel unseen, unheard, and unheld. He would speak with frustration, not because he was angry, but because he felt invisible. She would reply with sharpness, not because she was cruel, but because she felt unworthy.
They had begun to poison their Garden of Eden—not with malice, but with misunderstanding. And here is the joke: they were both trying.
Both saying, “Meet me halfway.”
Both taking steps toward each other.
But they were dizzy.
So when they tried to walk toward the center, they spun in circles. You see, when you’re dizzy, your compass spins too. And love—real love—cannot be navigated with a broken compass. So what does one do?
The answer is absurdly simple: you sit down.
You become still. You let the dizziness pass—not by effort, but by allowing. You stop shouting for the other to come closer, and instead you become a lighthouse—quiet, radiant, unmoving. And you let your stillness become the signal.
Now, here’s where things become beautifully strange. Each of us is projecting reality all day long, like film through a projector. We define the world through the stories we tell ourselves.
So before you go to sleep, take a moment to replay your day in your mind. This simple practice is the closest thing to real magic most humans can conjure.
As you review the day, you’ll see the moment where you snapped… or sighed with contempt… or rolled your eyes just to wound— and there, you pause.
And you rewrite the scene. Not with lies, but with possibilities. You imagine the kinder version of yourself. The one who breathed instead of barked. Who embraced instead of blamed.
And here’s the mystery: Your mind doesn’t know the difference.
It remembers the kindness. And over time, the next time you’re triggered, you just might take that higher path—not with effort, but with ease. Because the script has already been rehearsed. This is not about control over another. It is the understanding that your only true power is over how you see, how you respond, and how you radiate. And when the waters are muddy, you do not stir them further. You wait. You breathe. And the clarity returns all by itself.
You see, there are no problems in marriage. Only interactive experiences. And if you knew that each argument, each misstep, was something you chose—before you even came here— to help you grow more spacious, more still, more kind…
Then maybe, just maybe, you’d thank your partner not for making life easy, but for helping you become the kind of person who can hold heaven within them even when Eden feels far away.
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