Here’s a wild confession: I grew up believing that marriage was an effortless harmony, a duet sung by two souls who magically, instinctively, and perpetually knew every verse by heart. Love was a symphony my parents played for me—always in tune, always on key. Or at least, that’s how it sounded when the music floated through our East Austin bungalow. My mom orchestrated school projects like an elementary-age Beyoncé’s mom-manager hybrid, while my dad spun tales at dinnertime about arguing big cases and building a better world, his courtroom theatrics wielding the same charisma he used to woo my mom. They weren’t just parents; they were partners. Or so it seemed.
But here’s the thing about a symphony: sometimes, if you lean in closely, you start to notice the missed notes.
Dining Table Duets: Myth Meets Reality
The family myth I clung to—this ideal of seamless, soulmate-level compatibility—was crafted in the warmth of frequent, lively dinners. Our conversations were peppered with inside jokes and miniature debates, always landing back on the moral that love and partnership meant syncing your rhythm, over and over. My parents were affectionate, they handled differing opinions with grace (at least in front of us), and they seemed, well… happy.
It wasn’t until I was deep into one of my first serious relationships in my twenties, and a petty squabble about which "Game of Thrones" house we’d side with escalated into an argument about life philosophies, that I questioned whether I’d misunderstood my parents’ relationship entirely. Did they really agree on everything all the time? Were they just, you know, inherently better at love than the rest of us? Or—plot twist—did I mistakenly think compatibility equaled perpetual harmony?
Spoiler alert: It was option three. Turns out, love wasn’t a perfect orchestra pit—it was more like jazz.
The Messier Parts We Didn’t Always See
The first real chink in my perfect-marriage armor came during an offhand comment my mom made while prepping for Thanksgiving dinner a few years later. She and my dad had been bickering about recipes for pecan stuffing versus cornbread stuffing—high-stakes Southern politics, in food form. Laughing, she said, “Your dad? He’s lucky I was already exhausted when we met, otherwise I’d have sent him packing like eight times by now.”
Excuse me—what?
After recovering enough to set the record straight, my mom admitted that their marriage wasn’t always sunshine and tacos (because, Texas). The “harmony” I’d grown up drinking like Kool-Aid involved deeper compromises, broken records of unresolved arguments, and seasons of outright discord. Their “duet” wasn’t some magical union—it was a conscious, deliberate choice to re-learn how to sing together, over and over.
Love: Less Rom-Com, More Season Finale
We grow up swimming in narratives, steered by family tales etched so deeply we sometimes don’t think to question them. And sure, the mythology around marriage being “easy” was comforting—safe, even. But once I unpacked it, I saw how internalizing that myth sold love short. Partnership isn’t measured by how few arguments you’ve racked up or how many date nights go off without a hitch. It’s measured by what happens when the car breaks down on that date night, or when one of you wants Thai food, and the other’s been dreaming of pizza since noon.
The “great loves” of pop culture don’t make this any easier. When I was a teenager, I thought all relationships could be boiled down to a Nora Ephron montage: witty banter over a bookstore counter, culminating in late-night (snow-drenched) declarations of eternal devotion. But what rom-coms—or even family myths—rarely show is that love keeps unfolding long after the credits roll. It’s less “10 Things I Hate About You” and more “10 Things We Finally Went to Couple’s Therapy Over.”
Decoding the Myth: The Work Behind Love
In retrospect, my parents’ success story wasn’t in their harmony but their resilience. Here are some takeaways I wish I’d learned earlier from observing them:
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Disagreeing Isn’t Failure
My dad, a lawyer, once lit up a Sunday brunch debate by arguing that watermelons weren’t technically “fruits” (the answer’s way more complicated than you'd think, by the way). My mom eventually rolled her eyes so hard I swore she sprained something. But these debates were the scaffolding of their partnership—their way of staying curious about each other while navigating different perspectives. Love isn’t about avoidance; it’s about engagement, even when things get messy. -
Compromise Is a Love Language
My mom insists on doing Christmas opening gifts one at a time, while my dad rolls his eyes and would happily turn the whole morning into a wrapping-paper free-for-all. Their compromise? Gifts get staggered—quickened in the early rounds, but slowed down for the family heirloom-like presents of the day. Sure, it’s not poetic, but turns out compromise is kind of like homemade guac: it’s never as pretty as the recipe’s photo, but it satisfies. -
Relationship Maintenance Is Sexy (Stay With Me)
If soulmates exist, they aren’t carved from one block of granite. They’re the two stones that keep skipping down a relentless stream, growing glossier with each scrape, bounce, or dive. My parents never shied from making small repairs before cracks deepened; grout maintenance—the emotional kind—is what kept their house (and home) standing upright. Turns out, maintaining love isn’t boring—it’s hot. Nothing says ride or die like meeting weekly over coffee for your “so, how are we doing?” checklist.
Rewriting the Myth for Myself
What I’ve learned since those early twenty-something heartbreaks and glitches is that love doesn’t thrive because it’s perfect. It thrives because it’s persistent. My parents’ story—once a polished Hallmark ornament—has unraveled into something far more interesting: a series of choices they made, again and again, to keep showing up.
This realization has radically shifted how I view both relationships and myself. I’m not looking for someone who instantly agrees on where we should brunch every Sunday—I’m here for someone willing to hash out the bagel shop versus migas discourse with intention. And in unpacking my own uncomfortable myths, I’ve also learned how much grace I need to give myself for trying (and failing) to replicate an illusion that never existed.
Because ultimately, love doesn’t need to be a flawless duet—it just needs two willing singers who agree to face the music together. Even when it’s jazz.
