Sally Field doesn’t believe the third time is the charm when it comes to marriage.
The Forrest Gump actor, who has been married twice, told Julia Louis-Dreyfus that she “can’t imagine” tying the knot again and laughed at the thought.
“It would certainly all depend on meeting somebody I wanted to spend more than 37 seconds with,” Field said on the latest episode of Louis-Dreyfus’ podcast, Wiser Than Me, released on Wednesday.
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“So I don’t know,” the actor said as Louis-Dreyfus laughed.
“I was never really good at picking a partner for myself, and so I can’t blame them ― men. We were not a good match,” Field explained. “Several people that I was dating or around would say, ‘Why can’t you treat me the way you treat your sons?’ Uh, because you’re not my son…”
Sally Field attends the premiere of HBO’s “Winning Time: The Rise of the Lakers Dynasty” on March 2, 2022, in Los Angeles.
JC Olivera via Getty Images
“I’ve just never been good at picking a partner to be with who would be loving, and know me and not want to change me, and also be challenging to me, but wouldn’t be hoping that I would be less than what I am,” the Lincoln actor shared. “You know, [they would say] ‘Be less so that I don’t feel like I have to be more.’”
Field was previously married to Steven Craig and Alan Greisman ― and had a high-profile relationship when she dated her former co-star, Burt Reynolds.
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While Reynolds has called Field the “love of my life,” Field has shared less than rosy memories of her on-and-off relationship with the actor.
Reynolds apparently “was not happy” when Field was up for Best Actress at the Oscars in 1980 and told his then-partner he “was not going to go” as her date to the ceremony. Field won Best Actress at both the Oscars and Cannes that year.
Field said, “He really was not a nice guy around me then.”
For our first vacation together, Michael proposed we go camping.
As a 40-year-old lifelong New Yorker whose idea of “woodsy” was Central Park, this wasn’t my thing. Yet I wanted to be agreeable and expand my horizons. Browsing campsites online, Michael chose one that was all-male and clothing-optional.
Now I was terrified.
“Come on, what better way to get in touch with nature than being au naturel?” he asked.
“Until you get poison ivy or a tick in places you wouldn’t want to,” I quipped.
Still, days later I sat in the passenger seat as we drove through cornfields and nothingness in search of the campsite.
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“I feel like we’re about to inspire a Stephen King story,” I said.
I was relieved when we found the entrance to the camp, marked by hand-painted letters on a rock, but wasn’t sure I wanted to proceed. Michael pointed out two men who were in their early 50s and dressed in calico button-downs.
“They look normal,” he said. I peered behind their backs to make sure they weren’t carrying hatchets before getting out of the car.
Checking in at the main office, we were greeted by a shirtless innkeeper ― a 6’4” bear with grey chest hair and double nipple rings. When he stepped out from behind the counter, I realised he was completely nude. I knew this place was clothing-optional, but I didn’t expect to see a guy’s … uh … s’mores … so soon.
“Here’s a map. I’ve circled a few trails. This one leads to the play area,” he said.
“Play area?” I asked.
“Gloryholes, slings. The usuals,” he replied, matter-of-factly.
“Ah, right. The usuals,” I blushed. I turned to Michael, hoping for a similar reaction but he was unfazed. A 45-year-old public health professor and “sexpert” who led workshops on sex education and well-being across college campuses, nothing ever made him turn red.
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I admired Michael’s maturity, something he attributed to being the son of U.S. diplomats and growing up overseas. On our first date, a casual hamburger dinner we’d agreed upon after chatting for a month on OkCupid, I was smitten with his tales of living in Lebanon, Cyprus, the Philippines, Germany and Australia ― all before he was 10. Yet I worried I wasn’t sophisticated enough for him.
Unlike Michael, I grew up as a sheltered, closeted gay kid in a conservative Catholic family from Yonkers. My parents’ idea of an exotic vacation was the Jersey Shore. When I left home, at the age of 18, it was to move just 25 miles south to Manhattan. In my mid-20s, I still hadn’t fully come out and lacked the confidence and curiosity to go to sex parties or pick up men at bars, like my friends. In my older years, I felt like the world’s most boring gay guy. I was someone who enjoyed sex in a bed with the lights off, and my wild side was watching “The Golden Girls” and eating peanut M&Ms.
Michael assured me that my hang-ups didn’t matter. “I just want you to be comfortable,” he’d say. I tried my best. At times, I allowed myself to get out of the way and let his pragmatism and my whimsy intertwine in a way that felt both natural and nice. But despite our best efforts, being with someone who was so confident in himself, in and out of the bedroom, only made me feel insecure.
The innkeeper continued his rundown of the camp and pointed out the areas where guests needed to keep covered-up.
“Just near the road mostly. Some of the neighbours can be a bit stuffy,” he told us.
Glad you have standards, I thought, feeling like a total prude.
Courtesy of Mark Jason Williams
The author and Michael’s accommodations at the campsite.
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Michael and I collected our belongings and walked to our cabin. I was surprised to find a charming little house that was remarkably clean, but grew uneasy when I couldn’t find the bathroom.
“There isn’t one in here, it’s shared,” Michael told me.
I freaked out. Apparently, I missed the concept of camping where beds and a roof were considered big-time luxuries. Sitting on our porch, I noticed we had a view of an outdoor shower, built on what looked like an altar. I wondered if we paid extra for that.
I hated this place but was determined to make the best of it. Michael and I did the usual camping things like boating and building a campfire, which I enjoyed. The other guests were all pretty friendly, if a bit cruise-y.
While Michael wasted little time shedding his clothes and his inhibitions, I remained a bit more reserved, eventually agreeing to go skinny-dipping. When a man yelled “yummy,” at me, I thought, Thanks? Wait, no, I’m taken.
But was I? Michael and I had been together for almost a year, but never used the word boyfriend. I assumed we were exclusive but we hadn’t actually discussed it. To be sure, I broached the subject later on a walk through the woods.
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“I don’t like the term boyfriend. It makes me feel like I’m in the eighth grade,” Michael said.
“But I need a label,” I replied.
“Why?” he asked.
“So I know if I should be sleeping with other people or not,” I blurted out.
It was at this moment when we accidentally came upon the “play area.” It was a circle of some sex swings, a crucifix, and a port-a-potty with a hole on the side.
“Ewww, is that what I think it is?” I asked.
Michael confirmed, then took my hand. “Let’s keep walking,” he suggested.
“Do you want to try something?” I asked, sheepishly, and to my surprise. I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to give it a go, but I didn’t want to limit Michael’s experiences.
“This isn’t my thing,” he confessed. “This isn’t why I wanted to go away with you.”
I felt better but still couldn’t wait for camping to be over. Roughing it, clothing-optional or otherwise, wasn’t for me — especially having to leave the cabin to pee in the middle of the night. The next day, we drove a few hours and checked into a hotel. Our new room (with a private bathroom!) had a pink, heart-shaped Jacuzzi, mirrored walls, and a faux fireplace.
“You booked the honeymoon suite?” I asked. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I got the last room they had, I didn’t know it was like this,” he said. I was disappointed, yet relieved. Finally, something that made him uncomfortable.
“Well, we have to try the tub,” I said, attempting to put some romance back into our trip. Later, we poured some wine and got in. I became lightheaded, nearly passed out, and felt sick for the rest of the night. Michael applied a cold washcloth to my forehead and we watched “Judge Judy.”
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As Michael comforted me, I suddenly felt worse. When he’d asked me to go away with him, I was thrilled. I saw this as a pivotal moment in our relationship ― if things went well, maybe we’d discuss moving in together. But if this was a test, I’d failed. And not because I’d fallen ill.
Courtesy of Mark Jason Williams
The author and Michael celebrate Christmas with their dog, Ruby, a year after their trip.
Thinking back to Michael’s earlier comment at the play area ― “This isn’t why I wanted to go away with you” ― I realised that I’d been so focused on sex, and on myself, that I overlooked Michael’s acts of tenderness and his emotional needs. Worse yet, I’d reduced our relationship to “are we sleeping with other people or not” when it was so much more than that.
I wished we could go back to the woods and have a redo. Or, at the very least, I wanted to lift my head from that fake down pillow and admit the truth: I only want to be with you … because I’m falling in love with you.
I tried to say the words, but I choked. It was the first time I’d ever felt this way about someone and the emotions unnerved me. This probably wasn’t the best time to think about other men, but my mind drifted to past relationships. There weren’t many, but I started to see a pattern. I’d date a guy for a month or two and we’d mostly have sex and watch TV. We were physical, but not intimate. Then they’d dump me.
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I always blamed myself. I was too cold, too guarded, said the wrong things. Yet things were different with Michael. I was still self-conscious, but his calm, patient demeanour helped me relax. I opened up in ways I didn’t expect, telling him about everything from how I spent my childhood battling leukaemia to my love for professional wrestling.
Now, as Michael laid next to me when his leg gently brushing against mine, I felt more secure than ever. But did he love me? What if the answer was no? What if he was only tolerating being with me because it was after midnight and we’d had four glasses of wine?
I’d already messed up so much that I feared saying the wrong thing and pushing him away for good, which would make for a really awkward drive home. I grabbed my phone and looked up bus schedules back to Manhattan just in case.
It took me 20 minutes to realise my insecurities were raging out of control. If Michael and I were going to move forward, I had to let myself be vulnerable. I finally found the courage when he fell asleep. I whispered I love you and it was barely audible and totally cheating, but at least the words were no longer just in my head.
Thankfully, Michael and I continued dating. A year later, he suggested another camping trip. I agreed, as long we picked a place where the cabins had bathrooms and the “play area” was reserved for badminton and archery.
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Walking in the woods, Michael reminded me of the moment I’d asked him if he was my boyfriend. While that term still didn’t feel right, it wouldn’t be long before we discovered the best word to call one another — husband.
Courtesy of Mark Jason Williams
The author and Michael on their wedding day, two years after their vacation at the nudist camp.
Mark Jason Williams has written for The Washington Post, Out, and Salon. He is working on an essay collection, “You’d Be Cuter with a Deeper Voice,” hilarious and heartbreaking tales of growing up gay and Catholic, facing leukaemia, and how having a high-pitched voice wreaked havoc on his love life.
“Feel her toes and feet. When they turn cold, you’ll know. You’ll know she’s ready to go,” the hospice nurse told me. “Human bodies are predictable.” She had witnessed life’s final act hundreds of times.
This was my Sue’s 13th day in hospice. I held her hand, still warm.
My wife of almost 45 years, my Sue, lay motionless, life draining from her body.
Her thin, grey hair fell in tufts around her head. Her eyes were closed. Her body was a wisp under the blankets. Her breathing was shallow. Her cold toes pointed toward the ceiling, and I wrapped my fingers around her heels. They felt hard, as if they were only bones, and the coldness was like a wetness that I couldn’t get off my hands, even though I kept wiping them on my pants, a towel and the bedspread.
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Sue arched her back as if she were trying to touch her shoulders together and then her body fell back, relaxed, and was still.
She died at 10:22am, April 18, 2018.
No pulse, no heartbeat, no finger squeeze like the day before.
Sue was 73, killed by breast cancer that had gone undiagnosed for years despite regular checkups. The radiologist had missed the malignancy hiding behind scar tissue, and it spread without mercy.
Sue gave me instructions when she knew she was dying: “Think about one thing you’ll do right after I die. Just do the one thing, and then do another and then another.”
Courtesy of Dan Fogel
Sue is pictured meeting her sixth grandchild, just six weeks before she died.
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She understood me. If I thought about the enormity of losing her, I might go nuts, or do impulsive and stupid things. I had done many impulsive and stupid things in my life, which is why my father called me Schmendrick (a Yiddish term for a stupid person or fool).
Wasn’t the fact that Sue and I were together proof of my ability to jump headfirst into situations that many people would consider foolish?
I knew Sue was smarter than me, and she was right: The first moment without her was paralysing, so I did nothing.
I just stood there holding her hand. If I let go, the hospice staff would take her body away. She would no longer exist. She would be erased, other than in our memories. I couldn’t bear that, and I was not ready. Sue had known I wouldn’t be.
I couldn’t cry. I was silent. I looked at my daughters, my two-month-old grandson, and then back at Sue.
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I waited for her to tell me what to do, how to react, how to feel and when to leave, as she had always done. I needed her to tell the family when to gather again. I needed her to explain this death.
“Just do the one thing,” I heard her say again in my head.
People thought Sue was shy. Pleasant. Practical. She kept her emotions tight inside her. I reasoned that Sue was stoic — a person who could endure pain without complaining, and handle life’s inevitable deep hurts and disappointments without sharing the load. And I never asked her directly about her emotions.
After 45 years, I thought I knew her. But I didn’t.
Days after she died, I pulled out a wedding-day photograph from June 26, 1973. Sue, 29, looks like a delicate hippie goddess with her long brown hair and peasant dress. I am 26. Skinny, redheaded, bearded, an eager Schmendrick ready to smash the glass under my foot at our wedding ceremony, under the chuppah, and in one firm stomp.
We broke with Jewish tradition and decided that both of us would smash a glass. This was all new to Sue, who grew up on a farm in Union City, Pennsylvania, as a Presbyterian.
“Whatever you do,” I said, “Don’t miss the glass. That’s lifelong bad luck.”
Sue’s stomp was tentative, and the glass rolled out from under her foot. Perhaps, at that moment, she realised how hard it would be to put her foot down when it came to me.
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Courtesy of Dan Fogel
The author and Sue’s wedding day, June 26, 1973.
No wonder she was nervous. We had met 10 months before that photo was taken. We worked together at Penn State. She was married, in the process of divorcing her husband of seven years, with a four-year-old daughter, Cathy, and another daughter who wasn’t mine on the way.
During our first lunch date, Sue said she knew early on that she never should have married her first husband. I didn’t ask why. I was distracted by the sexy dip in her upper lip, her tender smile, her soft voice, and how her body fit with mine.
I had proved myself a screw-up in ways that mattered to most people. I got kicked out of Penn State’s undergraduate school, and had to claw my way back to get my bachelor’s degree in international economics and then my master’s in psycholinguistics. Sue got a master’s scholarship from Penn State in horticulture. I was going to get a Ph.D. scholarship from the University of Wisconsin and Sue told me that she would go with me, but only if we got married.
Yep, Sue wanted to marry Schmendrick. She had two little girls who depended on her, yet somehow this smart woman decided she would depend on me. Trust me. That she needed me.
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Sue was the most mature woman I had ever dated. Did I marry her to show the world I wasn’t a screw-up? I realised that I needed to be mothered by a person who was more centred than me. And being a father gave me a serious job. I adopted Cathy and Cristene, who was just seven months old when Sue and I got married. Our daughter Jessica came along in 1980.
I did many things to show the world, like getting my Ph.D., becoming a university dean, and attaining wide recognition for my international work. I started the first private business school in Central and Eastern Europe, in Budapest, Hungary.
Our lives seemed to roll along like a Lexus that was comfortable and dependable, until Sue got terminal cancer. I became numb and couldn’t cry following her death. Still, I somehow managed to “just do the one thing,” like keeping appointments and arranging her memorial … until I couldn’t.
Courtesy of Dan Fogel
The author and Sue’s daughters (from left): Cristene, Jessica and Cathy.
Two months after Sue’s death, I walked into an optometrist’s office. The receptionist had a frowning face and a bored smirk, which I suspected was from asking the same questions every 15 minutes: “Name? Insurance? Address?” I answered each one rapidly.
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“Marital status?” she asked.
Marital status? I panicked. I am married. Wait, no, I’m not. I’m single — well, sort of. Am I a widower who is single? A single person who had a wife, and therefore a widower? Am I still married without a spouse?
The receptionist asked again, “Sir, marital status?”
“Widower,” I said out loud for the first time. When I left the appointment, I sobbed in the parking lot the way that most people cry the day of a person’s death. I felt a gut-twisting feeling: I may not stop crying.
That’s the day I understood how little I knew about what was happening to me. I felt as if a part of me had been amputated, and I had no idea what was left.
That’s the day my grieving started for real and became a constant companion.
Then I did what I’d always done when confronted with a challenge: read others’ experiences in research, memoirs and fiction, watched films, and talked to people.
I watched Ricky Gervais’ fictional TV series After Life and saw how his character struggled with losing his wife. I could relate to everything he felt. His anger was mine. My anger came out at family gatherings, when I insisted that my daughters tell me how they felt, and at work, where I found myself defying authority.
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Grieving became a chisel. It broke away the shell of what I had believed about Sue, myself and our relationship, and forced me to see that I didn’t know Sue deeply.
We had used unspoken rules of conduct, dimmed our intimacy and foiled self-inspection. I learned that despite our years together, Sue had locked away secrets. We used loving gestures and words to avoid authentic and painful truths — what Buddhists call “near enemies.” We never asked each other the important question: “Who are you in the deepest part of your heart and soul?”
My Sue left a few handwritten notes in books and files around the house, as well as several journals. When I began to read them, I found that she was not stoic. She had plenty of painful thoughts that she’d never said out loud.
“I think I hate him,” she once wrote, referring to me.
Courtesy of Dan Fogel
Shayna Punim (Yiddish for “beautiful face”), the author’s chow chow/shepherd mix.
I was successful but chronically bored, so I hopped around impulsively, securing jobs in various cities and dragging Sue and the kids with me. I was blind to her desires, and she was reluctant to rip me a new one.
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I never knew that she hated our move to Pittsburgh in 1990, our seventh relocation since 1973, including one to Budapest. I learned from her journals that Sue had been tired of the changes, but she never said so to me. She picked out two Pittsburgh houses she liked. We had to buy one quickly, and I chose the wrong one. Sue asked me to walk away from the deal the day of signing. Why didn’t I?
Was that why she hated me? Or was it because she wanted to get her Ph.D. in horticulture, a desire I discovered in her journals, yet my demands took precedent over hers? Or was it that I did not see her for who she was? And if she had something to say, why didn’t she say it out loud?
I went to therapy after her death and kept reading. I was forced to unravel the assumptions that we had based our lives upon. I felt lost about who she was at the core. My feelings were like that glass I had shattered under my foot all those years ago — broken and unfixable.
My therapist diagnosed me with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder, a neurodifference that makes me impulsive, lose focus, and have trouble using my brain’s executive functioning. My mind wanders like a pinball machine, a series of hyperlinks, tying together thoughts that have minimal connections. My teachers and parents, unaware of my ADHD, had told me, “You need to focus and try harder.” I was focusing and trying hard by attending to multiple things at once and moving fast.
I spent most of my time with Shayna Punim, the dog Sue got one year before she died so that I’d have a companion.
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I began dating six months after Sue died — another example of my impulsive behaviour. I swiped left and right on eHarmony. As Mary-Frances O’Connor said in the book The Grieving Brain, my brain was searching for what it lost, and I thought finding another woman would resolve that search. It didn’t. I felt more lost, less in touch with myself, and more confused about Sue and what we had together.
It took Sue’s words — “just do the one thing” — to keep me from doing too many impulsive and stupid things, like marrying the first woman who bought me a scotch at a bar.
My therapy, dating, research and discussions have helped me realise grief can be a stern, persistent teacher.
Courtesy of Dan Fogel
Sue Fogel: June 15, 1944, to April 18, 2018.
I see how much pain I caused by not recognising Sue’s needs, and not asking what she wanted and why.
I see Sue when I look at the garden she planted, the place where we spread her ashes. The flowers bloom anew, year after year … and so does my hope that I’ll discover more about her and myself.
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I want another chance to ask my Sue all my questions, but I am not going to get it.
Still, despite what I learned about Sue after she died, I know that journals and diaries tell only part of the story. I don’t doubt that Sue loved me ― and I know that I loved and still love her ― but I now realise that her life might not have been exactly the life I thought it was. But isn’t that the way for all of us? How much do we share ― even with our closest loved ones ― and how much do we keep hidden? How much is left unsaid across almost half a century?
Why do we do this? And at what cost to us, and to the ones we love? What’s most important for me now is to understand more about Sue, who she was, and to reconsider my own life ― then and now. How can I honour my Sue as I knew her and as I didn’t? How can I take responsibility for the mistakes I made? Maybe it begins with this essay. Maybe my true grieving starts with processing who I was with Sue, who I am now — without her — and who I want to be going forward. As Sue said, just do the one thing.
Dan Fogel is a semiretired academic and entrepreneur living north of Charlotte, North Carolina, on Lake Norman. He spends most of his time writing and completing his memoir, visiting with family and friends, and walking with his dog, Shayna Punim. His academic career includes research, publications, teaching and consulting focused on environmental sustainability principles and practices in organizations. This work took him to various parts of the world, most notably Western, Central and Eastern Europe, and South America. You can find him at SP3 and dan@spthree.com.
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Over brunch on the Upper East Side, a new acquaintance looks into my eyes and asks, “Is it OK to say, like, congratulations on getting away from all that?”
I’ve just told her about my Hasidic upbringing, about leaving the community and the husband I married at 19. Every time I share this with someone new, it feels like I’ve dropped a grenade into the centre of our conversation.
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“Of course!” I say. “Thank you so much.” I keep it simple. The blast of my disclosure has already filled up the space in the room.
Walking home, I think about my new acquaintance spending her young adulthood in a college dorm. While she was rushing a sorority, I was embedded into an entirely different circle of women. Instead of dressing up for frat parties, mine sat in prayer groups and exchanged numbers for local wig stylists.
I got married in 2004. Someone named Britney kept showing up on the cover of magazines in the supermarket checkout lines, flashing her tan stomach while I chose to keep my eyes on my own calf-length skirt. I’d just moved to Lakewood, New Jersey, with a man with whom I had shared six formal dates and then a wedding.
The presence of the largest American yeshiva (a religious college where Bible study was the only subject) and the low real estate prices meant that Lakewood was a hub for young, vibrant, God-fearing couples like us. The identical beige townhouses were filled with black-hatted husbands and modestly dressed wives who agreed to follow laws such as keeping kosher, observing the Sabbath, and the one newest to me: observing family purity.
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It was a system designed to protect our relationship; we agreed to touch each other only during the “clean” days of each month, and to abstain from touch each month for the length of my menstrual period, plus for seven blood-free days afterward.
During the months before my wedding, my bridal teacher had taught me to swipe a square white cloth inside my vagina twice on each of my clean days. But weeks after my wedding, on day six of my seven clean days, I hit a complication. There was a splotch on my tissue in the morning light. I wasn’t sure whether the stain was big enough to require that I start counting my seven clean days all over again.
Sighing, I scrawled my husband’s phone number on the outside of an envelope, placed my tissue inside, and dropped it in the mailbox of the rabbi who would hold my specimen up to the daylight, scrutinise the edges of the blood stains, and call my husband.
But the rabbi was unable to rule on the blood without more information, information that must come from my physical body. “There is a lady for these situations,” he said, and then gave us a phone number.
“Mammele, do you usually bleed like this?”
The woman held a tissue up, drops of my blood smeared on the dull white cloth. I held onto the sides of what seemed like a makeshift gynaecologic exam table in the middle of her husband’s study.
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My bare feet were in the stirrups, as instructed, my skirt pulled up to my waist, my vagina on the other side of a floral yellow sheet. In the eight weeks since my marriage, it had been penetrated by a man’s naked part for the very first time, then a doctor’s speculum and a white linen cloth four inches square, and now the woman’s fingers.
I, however, was instructed never to touch myself, unless it was before going in a ritual bath. Then I was to inspect every crevice of my body in front of a full-length mirror, checking for loose hairs or bits of fluffy tissue. I re-read my bridal class notes every week, determined to get it all right.
“No. I mean, I don’t know,” I said to the woman’s headscarf, bowed below my waist. Her sharp fingers poked inside me, but my gratitude was so much greater than the discomfort.
Please make me pure, I begged the One Above, as I pushed the stiff brown bangs of my wig back from my hot face. I thought aboutmy mother and my four older sisters, all of whom kept small white squares for the inspection of their own menstrual blood in their bedside tables. I wished they could be with me, holding my hand and telling me whether the blood we shared was prone to leaking out of us in between periods.
I had been taught to keep those matters private, though, just between husband, wife, and essential rabbinic personnel.
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“I will call the rabbi for you, Mammele,” she said, a phone propped between her ear and shoulder.I heard God’s trusted servant talk to the rabbi about the shade of my blood, the amount of it. I tried to sit up, but she motioned me back down.
I wondered if her husband used the study at night, if he smelled the trepidation of the women who had been there during the day, legs splayed in the middle of the room, his wife’s head between them. I wondered if she washed the sheet. I also wondered when it would be appropriate to put my vagina away, but as I watched her write the rabbi’s words on a scrap of paper, I remembered what we both knew.
My body no longer belonged to me.
“Kosher!” she said, a smile breaking up her worried face for the first time in our encounter. “You may continue to count your seven days!”
“What did the rabbi say?” I asked, sitting up, folding the sheet behind my thighs.
She was already shuffling the papers together, shoving them into a drawer. She turned back toward me, looked at my face as if she had forgotten it had been there the whole time.
“It was blood from the outside area, from some little shaving cuts or something, but it is not menstrual blood.” I was allowed to shave, but I swallowed a flicker of embarrassment for having indulged in a practice that would put my day count in question.
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But I was clean! Relief hit me. I could serve God now, and my husband.
When she left the room so I could “put myself together,” I heard her through the curtain, soothing a baby. I hoped that God was watching my devotion, that He would bless me with a house filled with children of my own very soon.
Thirteen years later, after birthing two children, divorcing my first husband, then marrying and divorcing a second Jewish man, I realised I would never be able to relax near a naked male body. The dreams I had of women weren’t going away. I couldn’t pray it away. I couldn’t even marry it away.
And more: I could no longer believe in a God who would demand sacrifices of flesh and heart.
I moved out of the shtetl, to New York City, where I shucked the fear and self-loathing and dated women out in the open, sharing passionate kisses on city streets.
Photo By Noa Green
The author today
In the nearly two decades after that woman took time out of her busy day to inspect my blood and deem me pure, I saw the shape of her kindness come through the hands and hearts of other women. It was delivered in platters of home-cooked pastries, baskets of onesies for my babies, and phone calls to see how I am feeling from women I barely know. But the thick rope of that kindness began to fray as I changed, as I slowly snuck one toe at a time outside of my closet doors.
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I know I will never again meet a woman and undergo a pro bono ritualistic vaginal exam in her living room within minutes of saying hello. Mostly, that is really excellent news.
But a small part of me, underneath the broken section of my heart, will miss that forever. I miss the ability to skip the preamble with someone who has been on the same exact wavelength since birth. I miss operating in sync with a platoon of people marching toward a clear vision of heaven.
Sometimes, I even miss having my blood flow onto the same cloths that my sisters use, that my mother, and grandmother, and her mother used, too. By leaving the rituals and rules, the white examination cloths and the pro bono exams, I left all of them behind, too. The people.
As I walk along the East River in rainbow-striped workout pants, I think about the way I ended the conversation with my very sweet and thoughtful acquaintance at brunch. It has been habitual, since I left the enclave, my careful shuttering of myself. I smile and nod and say I’m fine, even when I feel the echo of loneliness in my entire being.
The “congratulations” offered to me over this morning’s cafe table hovers in my mind and, for a moment, I want to turn around, walk back, give the celebratory word right back. I want to be honest, for once, and say that congratulations, while a generous sentiment, is too shiny for what I have experienced.
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I am not sure what response phrase can encompass all of it, but it’s something more textured, like my natural, loose hair waving in the breeze. Something like: I wish gentleness for you ― and for all who have loved you.
Dr. Sara Glass is a psychotherapist, speaker, and writer in NYC. She has published pieces in The New York Times, The Daily News, and Psychology Today. Her memoir, “Kissing Girls on Shabbat,” is in publication with Simon & Schuster, with a scheduled release date in June 2024. You can follow her on Instagram @drsaraglass.
You’re reading Between Us, a place for parents to offload and share their tricky parenting dilemmas. Share your parenting dilemma here and we’ll seek advice from experts.
Parents have a lot to juggle in their own lives, as well as their children’s lives. So it’s no surprise then that when tweens (and teens) start to act out, it can feel like you’re teetering on the edge.
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Ripples are felt far and wide – on your own mental health, on your relationship – the whole situation can swiftly spiral.
“My child is ruining my marriage. My eldest is almost a teenager and this year has been tough on her. She’s lost a lot of friends in school, has had to deal with a new sibling taking our attention and she’s got a rare pain condition. We have tried so hard to be supportive. We’ve tried giving her advice, attention, space, support, solutions and bent over backwards to be kind to her. It’s been hard though because she’s responded with an attitude that stinks and acting like she doesn’t care.
“I’m honestly at a loss because I don’t know what to do and me and my husband have had so many rows about her and her behaviour. We’ve just had a huge blow up and I honestly don’t know if we can come back from this. He’s so angry that she’s gone to do nice things today after speaking to me like shit and I was cross too and things were said that blew up. I can’t stop crying. I feel awful. I’ve failed as a mother and a wife.”
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So, what can they do?
1. Be kind to yourself
Counselling Directory member Jenny Warwick says that, first and foremost, parents in this position need to prioritise themselves. “You have not failed as a mother or wife,” she says. “This is the time when you need to be kind to yourself.
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“Remember, you won’t be able to help others if you feel drained and exhausted. Taking breaks for self-care is not selfish; it’s necessary.”
Family Lives, a charity supporting families, recommends that parents take time to relax; treat themselves occasionally; talk about their concerns with friends, partners or online forums; and learn techniques for coping with low mood, sadness and depression or anxiety.
2. Know that the tween period is really hard for all involved
Research actually suggests the tween period – when children are eight to 13 years old – are the hardest years of parenting.
According to parenting expert Sarah Ockwell-Smith, this is because they are much more emotionally exhausting, not to mention less rewarding than, say, the toddler years when your child still relies on you for so much and is learning a lot, too.
Warwick agrees that this period can be “particularly tricky” to manage for parents. “Part of being a tween is finding independence and forging their own path, resulting in a strong push away from their parents,” she explains.
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“As far as you are concerned, this has come out of nowhere and feels personal. However, recognising this as a typical part of preteen development can make the emotional burden easier to bear.”
On top of that, she acknowledges it sounds like the daughter is going through a lot – navigating shifts in friendships, coping with a pain condition and a new sibling.
But while this might contribute to her behaviour, “none of this gives her an excuse to be rude”, adds the counsellor.
If your child appears to be particularly struggling mentally, it might be worth speaking to your GP or a mental health charity – like The Mix, YoungMinds and Relate – for further advice.
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3. Remember: your daughter still needs you
When your child is pushing you away, it might be tempting to just let them – especially when their attitude towards you leaves little to be desired – but Warwick suggests the daughter needs her parents now more than ever.
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That said, the way to offer support to her is very different at this stage in her life than when she was younger, she suggests.
“Helping her find solutions is much more effective than jumping in to fix things for her. This can be a hard change in approach for parents to make, but it is the way forward,” says Warwick.
At the same time, you need to prioritise yourself and help your daughter recognise that your life doesn’t revolve around her, suggests the therapist.
4. Carve out time to be with your partner
When you welcome a new child, your relationship can instantly be put on the back-burner – add wider family discord into the mix, and things get trickier.
It will undoubtedly put pressure on a romantic relationship. And, to top that off, children can sense any tension, which might prompt further behavioural changes.
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“You and your husband need to be on the same page regarding parenting,” says Warwick. “It sounds like you have a lot on your plate, too, with a new child.”
Verywell Family recommends parents try the following tips to help get back on the same page:
Determine what the consequences are for your children breaking rules in your home and stick to them.
Create parenting rules together and if you don’t agree on some of them, talk it out. Then share these rules with the wider household.
Back each other up in front of the kids and don’t disagree with each other in front of them.
Listen to each other, compromise where you can, and remember you’re on the same team.
Warwick’s advice to this parent is to give the relationship some care, “as it’s much easier if you are in this together”. This means taking time to be together as a couple to maintain a connection.
“Doing this lets you devise a plan of action together and establish agreed-upon boundaries for your family,” she adds.
Help and support:
Mind, open Monday to Friday, 9am-6pm on 0300 123 3393.
Samaritans offers a listening service which is open 24 hours a day, on 116 123 (UK and ROI – this number is FREE to call and will not appear on your phone bill).
CALM (the Campaign Against Living Miserably) offer a helpline open 5pm-midnight, 365 days a year, on 0800 58 58 58, and a webchat service.
The Mix is a free support service for people under 25. Call 0808 808 4994 or email help@themix.org.uk
Rethink Mental Illness offers practical help through its advice line which can be reached on 0808 801 0525 (Monday to Friday 10am-4pm). More info can be found on rethink.org.
I met my first husband when I was 30 and very quickly decided, “This is it!” And once I’d proclaimed, I refused to admit that, well, it wasn’t. Call me naive, stubborn or hopelessly romantic, but not only did I not break up with him when I clearly should have ― we got married. I was a captain going down with the ship if the ship was a legal document tying you to someone you actually don’t even like.
It did not work out.
Within a week of meeting my current husband, I told him, “Just so you know. I’m not getting married, and I don’t think I want kids.” It became a quote so famous, we immortalised it on the cocktail napkins at our wedding.
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At the time, I meant those words.
When I met Bo, I was swiping on Tinder for a hookup. A fling. A nice guy who wouldn’t annoy me and would *hopefully* be good in bed. Not a boyfriend, and certainly NOT a husband. Fresh out of that super toxic and incredibly dysfunctional first marriage, the last thing I wanted was any real intimacy.
Even if I did meet that mythical creature referred to as “the one.” I did not trust my decision-making skills. Sure, my ex had sold me a bill of goods, but I bought it. (It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.) I picked someone so unbelievably wrong, and I didn’t just date him. We made it fucking legal.
But Bo caught my eye. He had a picture of himself with a black eye on his profile, but the look on his face wasn’t giving “bar fight.” It was giving, “This is a dumb story I’d like to tell you about.” Turns out he had walked into a door. Not even a glass door. He had my attention.
Still, to prove to the universe and to myself that no man could hold me down, I flaked on our first date. I didn’t even make an excuse. “I’m having too much fun at a winery with my girlfriend. Can we reschedule?” He wasn’t offended. He just proposed a new date.
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We met for drinks the following Thursday, and something happened that I was not expecting. We clicked. It was natural, organic ― I was being myself. Gross. There was a palpable attraction, which was my ultimate goal for the evening. But our conversation flowed. We went on more dates, but I had him at arm’s length. What the hell did he want from me? With all this “nice guy” tomfoolery. Surely he’d turn into a demonic loser. I just had to give it time.
When he invited me to a Halloween party his parents were hosting, I immediately said no. Meeting his parents? Was this guy high? Curiosity overruled my trepidation when he showed me the invite featuring an artistic drawing with a woman’s nipples exposed.
I told him I’d go for research purposes only. We attended the soiree dressed as the sisters from “The Shining.” I spent the evening smoking cigarettes, drinking whiskey by the pool and casually talking to his friends.
“This isn’t serious, this is a fling” was my mantra for the night.
A week later, one of my friends was having a party. I invited him, then immediately started to sweat. We went to a late lunch beforehand, and I sat there with a hoagie in my hand and felt sick. Why had I invited him? I started acting weird, and he finally asked me what was wrong. To my surprise, I told him the truth.
“I don’t want you to go to the party. I’m not ready for you to meet all my friends.”
He didn’t get mad or make me feel bad. He just said, “OK. I don’t have to go.”
Six months later, we moved in together.
I loved living alone. I loved my apartment. For the first time since hitting puberty, I didn’t need male approval to approve of myself. I never needed to live with someone again. Once I realised that, it freed me up to choose it.
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Maybe that explains what happened when I came home from a bachelorette party feeling hungover and sappy one night. I blurted out a question that was NOT premeditated.
“But what if I want a baby?”
When I got pregnant with our son, I STILL wasn’t on board with marriage. I knew Bo would be a good dad and a good co-parent. I didn’t need him to be a husband as well.
Fun fact! You have to have a bowel movement before they let you leave the hospital after a cesarean birth. Maybe that’s the rule for vaginal birth, too. I’m never finding out. After the baby was born, I could barely sit up or get out of my bed, let alone walk to the bathroom. So when the moment finally felt right, Bo had to escort me. He held my hand as I cried on the toilet and pushed out a No. 2.
Photo Courtesy Of Christina Birdsall
the wedding napkins with the infamous quote
I had never been that vulnerable with any partner before. I made a baby with this man, but it was in that moment of relief that I finally felt like I could really commit to him. An emotional barrier dropped along with my BM.
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My first live-in boyfriend picked me up from the airport once after I had accidentally soiled my skinny jeans on the plane (bad oysters). I tried not to hug him for too long or make direct eye contact.
I shoved my pants in the dumpster as soon as we got home, and we ended things about five months later. It wasn’t directly related to this incident. But the fear of sharing my poopy pants told a deeper story. I was afraid that if I shared my authentic self ― the good, the bad and the smelly ― I’d be rejected.
I can trace the lines of my relationships’ past and directly link each one to a similar lack of intimacy, vulnerability and trust. I felt more in control when I was seeking approval. It blinded me. With Bo, I want to be with him, but I don’t need to. Now I can see the difference.
We celebrated our marriage on May 6, 2023, with close friends and family. But it was only once I let it out that I really started to let him in.
If you’ve been making eyes at your co-worker all year, the office Christmas party can represent the perfect opportunity to shoot your shot. But you do, inevitably, need to proceed with caution. Nobody wants to be that person pulled in to see HR on Monday morning.
Still, a snog by the cloakroom can lead to far more than water cooler gossip. Below, we chat to two couples who hooked up at the Christmas party and found longterm love.
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If these stories get turned into a Netflix romcom next year, you read them here first.
“He said ‘I have to get my anorak’ and I was like ‘Oh god.’”
Zoe Burke, 31, met her partner, Simon, 45, when they both worked for a media publishing company. Zoe worked in editorial while Simon worked in IT. They had their first snog six years ago at the Christmas party in London’s Cafe De Paris and now live together in Whitton, Twickenham, with their daughter. Zoe, who is editor at wedding website Hitched.co.uk, tells their story.
Zoe and Simon, whose chemistry became a running joke in their office.
“We had chemistry from the first moment we met – although I was seeing someone else so nothing happened. Also he was so comically the opposite of my usual type – I tended to go for creatives who were always skint but were free spirits. He was a single dad of two who oversaw IT operations for a huge company and was 14 years older than me.
“It was a running joke in our office because it was so ridiculous, but we got on SO well. By summer I was single and dating but nothing really happened until we got into the Christmas period and the Xmas party was looming and our flirting ramped up a bit.
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“I have never put so much effort into getting ready for a party! And I didn’t see him all night! I was about to leave and my boss was like ‘he’s at the bar!’ So I went over and it was all very sweet and innocent – there was no kissing, nothing like that, he put an arm around me but that was it.
“I remember when we left we did it separately and he said ‘I have to get my anorak’ and I was like ‘oh god’. But then we met round the corner, kissed for the first time and have been together ever since!
“Me and ‘the IT guy’ is still a running joke at work, but I don’t mind so much as it’s now been six years, and we have a daughter together now too. While I might be all about weddings in my working life, we have no plans to get hitched ourselves any time soon ― even though it comes up in conversation a LOT!”
‘We did keep it a secret in the office for a month.’
Tom Bourlet, 35, and his financée Raquel, 33, recently got engaged surrounded by 32 dogs at the Golden Retriever Experience (yes, we’re jealous too). The couple, who are based in Burgess Hill, work for the party planning company Fizzbox, so they know a thing or two about hosting a good knees-up. Still, their Christmas party was more memorable than most. Tom tells their story.
Tom Bourlet
Tom Bourlet and his financée Raquel
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“We worked together for around a year before the Fizzbox Christmas party; she worked in the finance department and I worked in marketing. I used to get Degustabox deliveries [a food subscription service] to the office, and would offer around the snacks to people in the office slowly making my way over to Raquel, before using it as an excuse to have a chat with her. We also went on a work trip to Bournemouth, where we instantly bonded, sitting next to each other on the coach over.
“We mentioned much later that we both secretly fancied each other, but tried ‘playing it cool’, but the Christmas party was the point in which we got to sit next to each other with some prosecco and the rest was history.
“I think there is always a worry the next day if alcohol has been involved. I worry if I said something stupid, whether I came across well and whether she was actually interested in me or whether that was the booze talking. It was also on a Friday, so we didn’t see each other until the Monday, so [there were] a few nervy days where we sent the occasional message to each other, but nothing in-depth.
“Fortunately, as soon as I saw her on Monday, we were joking around like normal, so all awkwardness was gone away, and we then arranged to go for some drinks that evening.
“We did keep it a secret in the office for a month, however one of our colleagues saw us in the bar down the road from the office after work. It quickly spread around the office soon after this. I then went up to the CEO to let him know I was dating someone in the office, I was in a managerial role so I wanted to make sure I wasn’t breaking any HR rules at all. He was very understanding and happy for me, pointing out that a number of office relationships had led to marriages.
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“It seems funny to think how nervous I was going up to her, trying to think what to say and making silly conversations about our love for Babybels. The office Christmas party certainly helped to get us both out of the office and in a more relaxed environment, so I can thank the party for the amazing relationship I’m in.
“Five and a half years on, I love her more with every day and soon I’ll be able to call her my wife. We also bought our a house together in August, while we got a puppy a month ago, our fur baby!”
You’re reading Love Stuck, where trained therapists answer your dating, sex and relationship dilemmas. You can submit a question here.
In a long-term relationship, you might start to feel like you’re doing everything with your partner. Concerts, parties, restaurants, trips, it can get to a point where you automatically bring your ‘other half’ everywhere.
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Which is why some people in relationships try to regain their independence, like this week’s reader: Collin.
“I would like to travel with a friend of mine to Portugal for a surf trip without my wife,” Collin says. “She is having an issue with me going without her for various reasons. I am not sure how to navigate this issue in our 30-year marriage. We have not travelled independently much before.”
Collin doesn’t mention any issues with his wife, but he wants to have more solo experiences. Is this a problem?
“Your decision to holiday without her may raise some insecurities in your wife, which she may not feel able to voice,” Lord says.
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“This is not to suggest that your decision is wrong, or in some way harmful to her, but taking the time to gain some insight into why she has an issue would be helpful to you both.”
Lord adds that Collin has mentioned that he hasn’t done much independent travelling before, so after 30 years of marriage, a desire to travel without her may come as a surprise to his wife.
“Whilst we may like to believe that our partner will happily accept all our wishes with support and understanding, our actions can sometimes impact upon our partners’ feelings in a way we may not expect,” Lord adds.
“Your wife may feel a sense of rejection if you have always holidayed with her in the past, but this time have chosen to take a friend.”
Why might his wife have an issue with him travelling without her?
Counselling Directory member Georgina Smithasks Collin if there’s been a breach of trust, have the couple had to navigate infidelity? “If so, then it would be a big ask to request solo travel, depending on the circumstances and the couple’s timeline of difficulty,” Smith adds.
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“Even if lack of trust is not an obvious issue, I would be encouraging the husband to explore those ‘various reasons’ with her and discuss together how he may provide reassurance around her insecure feelings around this trip.”
Counselling Directory member Victoria Jeffries believes that Collin’s wife is feeling insecure at the idea of him leaving her. “It could be she views this as some form of abandonment.”
“I would hazard a guess that this runs deeper with your wife; it may be that at some point in her life (most likely her childhood) she felt excluded or abandoned by those she loved, and therefore you taking a trip without her is triggering those feelings for her,” Jeffries adds.
“This may seem far-fetched (and possibly even unfair on her part), however it is not uncommon for painful feelings from the past to suddenly arise from seemingly ordinary circumstances such as a spouse simply wanting to take a surfing trip with a friend.”
What practical tips would you give this reader?
Smith encourages Collin’s wife to communicate all of her concerns and fears around this solo trip. ″Communicate and compromise on ‘ground rules’ – how often will the couple talk while he is away, what is acceptable behaviour like staying out til late and around the opposite sex for example,” Smith adds.
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She also suggests making plans for another trip as a couple might help, so Collin can avoid the sense that his wife is ‘missing out’ and have a chance to reconnect. “Using empathy and good listening skills is key – try to understand the feelings behind her words. Having an issue with the trip will be about her feelings of discomfort, not just to be difficult.”
Jeffies also emphasises talking to his wife and exploring her concerns. “It may also be a good idea to explain why this trip is important to you (presuming it is),” she says. “It could be that your wife isn’t fully taking into consideration what this means for you.”
Love Stuck is for those who’ve hit a romantic wall, whether you’re single or have been coupled up for decades. With the help of trained sex and relationship therapists, HuffPost UK will help answer your dilemmas. Submit a question here.
And somehow the spouses of Twitter continue to find humor in the minutiae of married life ― and sum it up perfectly in no more than 280 characters.
Every other week, we round up the funniest marriage tweets of the previous 14 days. Read on for 24 new, relatable ones that will have you laughing in agreement.
Here’s something few of us are brave enough to admit about long-term relationships: We don’t always end up with our first choice.
Sometimes, we settle for “second best” ― and usually, that’s OK.
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Technically, we’re all someone’s “second choice,” at least if your partner ever had an ex whom they intended to be with long term. Yes, that means you may be your current S.O.’s second choice without realizing it. (Sorry for waking up and choosing chaos with this article!)
That slightly uncomfortable relationship subtext was made explicit in the most recent season of “Love Is Blind,” Netflix’s notoriously messy dating show where singles meet through a wall, fall in love and propose without ever seeing each other.
One of the couples, Jarrette and Iyanna, became engaged after Jarrette failed to secure a “yes” from his first choice, a contestant named Mallory. (Bear in mind, he had an easy chemistry with both women, arguably to an equal degree.)
After sitting with the fact that her would-be fiancé had basically proposed to another woman before proposing to her, Iyanna said “yes.” (She’d also gotten reassurance from Jarrette that what he felt for her was genuine.)
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Iyanna and Jarrette were one of the few couples whose storyline ended in marriage, and a year later, they certainly seem to be happy and in love, at least going by their recent interviews, the reunion show and their many loved-up Instagram posts.
Still, many fans of the show felt discomfited by how it all played out.
“IYANNA, DON’T BE A SECOND CHOICE,” tweeted “Never Have I Ever” actor Maitreyi Ramakrishnan. “STAND YOUR GROUND.”
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Others pointed out that there was actually something hyperrealistic about the reality show romance. (A reality show giving us realism? Since when!?)
“As much as I dislike Jarret [sic] not picking my Iyanna first, people forget that in reality some of us are actually someone else’s second choice, we just don’t know,” writer Dami “Oloni” Olonisakin tweeted, to a refrain of “sad but trues.”
The problem with ‘The One’
Why are so many of us icked out by the idea that people will end up with their “alternate picks”? (Outside of the fact that the language of “second choices,” “backup plans” and “alternate picks” is, admittedly, pretty icky.)
Maybe it’s because we’re eternally, hopelessly, wedded to our belief in soul mates. Personally, I think the sooner you disabuse yourself of the idea that you have exactly onesoul mate wandering the Earth looking for you, the sooner you can date with clear eyes and intention and actually find a decent person.
There’s not just The One. There’s The Ones ― people who, with enough physical chemistry and mutual effort, could be perfect, loving, long-term partners for each of us. (Singles especially should embrace the plurality of The Ones ― the odds are in your favor!)
Kate Stoddard, a marriage and family therapist at Wellspace SF, agrees that people’s ideas about soul mates set them back.
“I think this ancient narrative of ‘the one’ ― or ‘first choice,’ if we wanted to put it in those terms ― can be really problematic to modern couples,” she told me. “It’s also why people feel uncomfortable about second choices.”
“‘The One’ presumes that there is one person that can fulfill the heart’s desire, and we will ‘just know’ when we meet them, when really, there’s a lot that goes into how we select our partners,” she said.
We have to look for physical attraction, of course, but also an intellectual and emotional connection. Then there’s the considerably less sexy stuff: logistical things like family values, political/religious compatibility and for some folks, socioeconomic status.
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“The One” isn’t always the one who can provide you with emotional stability in the long run. Those first-round picks aren’t always the most stable, especially if you grew up in a household with emotionally unavailable or fragile parents. It’s all too common to mirror that in young adulthood by seeking out emotionally unavailable partners.
“If you haven’t assessed and addressed early wounds, you may look for a partner that repeats a generational pattern,” said Akua K. Boateng, a psychotherapist and owner of Boateng Consulting. “If this is true, your first choice could be more harm than good even if you’re passionate about them. Your second choice may be more stable.”
As one man said in a viral Twitter thread about second choices in 2018, “My greatest loves didn’t necessarily go hand in hand with being the best relationships.”
If anything, shows like “Love Is Blind” and even “The Bachelor,” for all its myriad problems, have demonstrated how complicated it is to figure out the most compatible partner for you, said Samantha Burns, a millennial dating coach and author of “Done With Dating: 7 Steps to Finding Your Person.”
“It’s hard to decide who you love or want ‘the most’ because people make us feel different ways and elicit different versions of us, and those feelings are constantly changing, intensifying or decreasing,” she said.
If your first choice is unavailable ― emotionally unavailable, geographically, or in any other way ― or doesn’t bring out the best in you, there’s nothing inherently wrong with choosing someone of quality who is available to you. You just need to be willing to leave person No. 1 in the past.
“Choosing someone else who is available doesn’t mean you’re ‘settling,’” Stoddard said.
<img class="img-sized__img portrait" loading="lazy" alt="Generally speaking, there's nothing wrong with choosing someone else who is available to you if that person possesses all the qualities you’re looking for in a long-term partner, Stoddard said.” width=”720″ height=”720″ src=”https://www.wellnessmaster.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/04/people-marrying-their-second-choice-is-more-common-than-you-think-3.jpg”>
CSA-Printstock via Getty Images
Generally speaking, there’s nothing wrong with choosing someone else who is available to you if that person possesses all the qualities you’re looking for in a long-term partner, Stoddard said.
People who married their ‘second choice’ sound off
Peter, a 33-year-old construction worker, certainly doesn’t feel like he “settled” with his wife of five years, Ann.
The proverbial “one that got away” for him was his high school sweetheart, Sharon. The two met at a bowling tournament in eighth grade. Over strikes and spares, they hit it off almost instantly.
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“Back then, we were talking daily, at night into the wee hours of the a.m.,” Peter, who like others in this story, asked to use his first name only to protect his privacy. “We just got each other.”
Unfortunately, college got in the way of their early-aughts romance: Sharon was headed off to a school in North Carolina while Peter went to Rutgers in New Jersey.
Even 500 miles away, Sharon kept her spell-like hold on Peter.
“Like, even when we knew we weren’t going to be together and that life changes, I could never fully unclasp from her grasp even if I wanted to,” he said. “She knew the vulnerabilities of me that I never let anyone know for a long time.”
At some point in his freshman year of college, Peter knew he’d have to distance himself from Sharon or he’d never be able to find someone else or even fully enjoy college life. He wrote her one final email and cut off all contact.
After allowing himself a period of “healing” ― “at the time my idea of healing was the whole, ‘the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,’” Peter joked ― he ended up meeting Ann, his future wife.
The relationships he formed with both women couldn’t be more different.
Sharon “will forever be part of who I am,” Peter said, but the relationship was untenable. It didn’t have legs, and not just because of the physical distance. Young and in love (and more than a little naive), Peter relied on Sharon and their relationship as his sole source of happiness.
“Maybe I was just a sucker in love but she could tell me to jump and I’d ask ‘how high?’” he said. “I was a people pleaser when I was young. After that and seeing how I put so much of my happiness in the hands of someone else, I refused to do that ever again.”
With Ann, he’s self-contained and happy on his own, but even happier in her company ― the gold stamp of a solid, healthy relationship.
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“We are the yin to each other’s yangs,” he said. “We complement each other so well, and we feed off each other’s energies. But we also recognize our individualities and understand that at the end of the day, the only person responsible for your happiness is yourself. Ann taught me that and I’m so grateful.”
“When people threw the words marriage or a family with Ann, I never flinched or got anxious. I had a sense of calm flowing through me. That’s how I knew.”
– Peter, a 33-year-old construction worker who technically married his second choice
There’s a common belief, famously referenced in an episode of “Sex and the City,” that men will marry whoever is around once they decide to settle down ― but that wasn’t the case for Peter.
The marriage had nothing to do with happenstance, timing or distance: Nothing like “Ann was there and Sharon wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t even that I wanted to get married, actually,” Peter said. “It was more that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Ann.”
“When people threw the words marriage or a family with Ann, I never flinched or got anxious,” he added. “I had a sense of calm flowing through me. That’s how I knew.” (And if you’re curious, Ann knows about Sharon.)
Others are less sentimental about ending up with their second choice, like Aether, 30, a married woman who gave up on her first choice after they shared a chaotic whirlwind romance.
“My ex is honestly someone I find to be ineligible for marriage with anyone — especially with myself,” she told HuffPost. “The attraction was one of a series of trauma bonds. I’ll just say it’s easier to control your enemy when you’re sleeping with them.”
After some relationship missteps ― Mr. Ineligible For Marriage being a big misstep ― Aether realized that what she wanted most in a partner is someone who’s “reasonable and rational.”
“And in this world, we seldom find such people,” she said.
“While we wouldn’t have a marriage based on true love, we would have friendship, mutual respect, and had similar values for raising a family. So, in the end I suppose I threw in the towel so to speak and settled.”
– Jason, a 48-year-old hydrologic engineer
Of course, not everyone feels at peace about not ending up with their first choice. Jason, a 48-year-old hydrologic engineer, still wonders what might have been if he’d pursued the co-worker he fell deeply in love with at his summer job in college.
Jason, who asked to use a pseudonym, sensed that the woman, Jennifer, also had a crush on him, but nothing ever happened between them. The timing was always off ― one of them was always coupled up when the other was single.
After college, Jason relocated to another state and threw himself into his career and pursuing a graduate degree. He put his love life on the back burner, though in that decade of singledom, he dated a friend on and off. The friend tried to push a relationship on him, but Jason never felt that same heady rush of feelings for her like he did for Jennifer.
Still, his mid-30s were approaching, and he wanted to be a dad. His friend was also eager to start a family.
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“I thought she would be a great mother,” Jason said. “While we wouldn’t have a marriage based on true love, we would have friendship, mutual respect, and had similar values for raising a family. So, in the end I suppose I threw in the towel, so to speak, and settled.”
Fourteen years into marriage ― tough years filled with a miscarriage and his wife’s cancer scare, but also happy ones thanks in large part to their adopted son ― Jason still regrets having settled.
“My wife and I rarely fight or argue and don’t appear miserable but I’m not really happy and I don’t think she is either,” he said. “It’s like a type of purgatory for a relationship; more of a business partnership.”
He still thinks about Jennifer, whom his wife doesn’t know about ― at least not as a concrete person with a name. Jason suspects that his wife knows he “settled for her.”
He and Jennifer sporadically kept in touch, even after she married someone else. One year, when Jennifer was in the same town for a work conference, they decided to meet up.
“In the end, she confessed that she had settled as well,” Jason said. “Turns out she had always felt the same. Tragic we both now have marriages and families. Not that I would have ultimately made the cut, but I still wondered what if.”
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“I caution against quickly jumping into a relationship after a breakup or if you’re still pining for someone,” said Sarah Spencer Northey, a marriage and family therapist based in Washington, D.C.
How to make sure your ‘second choice’ is the best choice, according to a marriage therapist
Obviously, there’s a spectrum of outcomes when you marry your runner-up: You could be entirely fulfilled and in love like Peter, indifferent to your circumstances like Aether, or disheartened and openly questioning like Jason.
If you’re questioning your decision, it may mean that you didn’t give yourself adequate time to heal from your first choice’s rejection, said Sarah Spencer Northey, a marriage and family therapist based in Washington, D.C.
“I caution against quickly jumping into a relationship after a breakup or if you’re still pining for someone,” she told HuffPost.
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“I try to normalize for clients that there are two big stages to getting over an ex,” she said. “One: getting over an ex to a point where you feel stable on your own, and two: getting over an ex to the point where you feel stable in a relationship with another person.”
That said, the therapist thinks it’s unrealistic to tell someone to remain single until they’re 100% over their ex: “Can you ever be 100% over someone who was a big part of your life?”
For most folks, feeling as though you “settled” with a successive partner is a fleeting feeling, Spencer Northey said.
“It’s important not to feed into the idea that the person you end up with is your ‘second choice,’” she said. “When things get tough in your current relationship, it’s easy to idealize the ex as the one you should really be with, but that is seldom the case. ‘The one that got away,’ got away for a reason.”
Ultimately, making it work with the person you love now boils down to two things: actively choosing them and reassuring yourself that relationships can last if both people prioritize each other and put in the work.
In time, your second choice naturally becomes your first choice, your best choice, hopefully for the rest of your life if that kind of monogamy is what you’re after.
That’s what happened for happily married Peter, though he admits he’s not a “what-if” type of person.
“I keep my focus on my relationship and marriage more than thinking about the past,” he explained.
In the end, he said, “I think I did get my first choice because the woman I married is the only woman I ever associated the word ‘marriage’ with. With Ann, I’m happy, fulfilled and content, even if she wasn’t my initial ‘first choice.’”