Chosen, Not Kept
I remember when I stopped wanting to be a wife.
Not because I stopped believing in love.
I have always believed in love.
I just stopped believing that love had to look like a house with two toothbrushes, a shared closet, a mortgage with both our names and a bedroom where every night we return to the same side of the same bed like two hands on a clock condemned to meet because somebody decided that was what time was supposed to do.
I remember being a little girl and being handed a story before I was old enough to read it.
Girl meets love.
Girl gets chosen.
Girl gets the ring.
Girl gets the house.
Girl learns his favorite dinner and how to fold his shirts and how to make a home out of a place she never asked to live in.
And everybody claps because she has finally arrived at the life they told her she was supposed to want.
For a long time I thought wanting something different meant something was wrong with me.
Then one day I wondered
what if the story was never mine?
What if I had mistaken the only plot I had ever been shown
for the only one I was allowed to write?
Because I did want to be chosen.
Of course I wanted that.
There is a certain kind of ache in wanting someone to look at a thousand beautiful women and still say
Nah…
HER.
I wanted the importance.
The devotion.
The little sacred things that make two people feel like home to each other.
I just never wanted home to become a place I could not leave.
That was the part I couldn’t explain when I was younger.
I wanted love.
I just didn’t want love to become my address.
I wanted to live alone while loving someone deeply.
I wanted my own door.
My own silence.
My own refrigerator with snacks nobody else eats. Lol
A little sanctuary where I could disappear without it meaning I had disappeared from the person I loved.
A place I could invite someone into
not a place someone automatically belonged to.
I wanted love to feel like a vacation
not a destination
I wanted enough distance to miss someone.
Enough room to remember that I was still a person when nobody else was looking at me.
And maybe that was the first time I understood that solitude and loneliness were not the same thing.
Sometimes I want to go out to eat.
Not because I can’t cook.
But because I don’t want love measured in meals prepared
dishes washed
laundry folded
and all the quiet little ways a woman is taught to make herself useful
until she can no longer tell
where devotion ends
and obligation begins.
I didn’t want my relationship to run like a job.
Clock in.
Clock out.
Same kiss.
Same bed.
Same questions.
Same tomorrow.
I didn’t want to become so good at loving someone that I forgot how to be alive.
Sometimes I wanted to go to bed alone.
Not because I didn’t love anyone.
But because sometimes my mind became a house with every light on and every room full of demons.
And in those moments I didn’t want to be seen.
I didn’t want to explain the silence.
I didn’t want someone watching me become someone I didn’t recognize.
Sometimes I wanted my hiding spot back.
A room where I could be ugly without being witnessed.
Where I could fall apart without having to make the falling apart understandable.
Where I could wrestle with every terrible thing inside me
ALONE.
And then
when I was done
when I had picked myself back up
when my spirit had been stitched together
I could come out looking like myself again
beautiful in the way women become
after surviving something
nobody else knew they were fighting.
Not because I was pretending.
But because I had survived myself once again.
I think that is when I finally understood the difference between being loved and being consumed.
I didn’t want someone to complete me.
I wanted someone who could recognize me whole.
I didn’t want two halves becoming one.
I wanted two whole women standing beside each other
still carrying their own names
their own dreams
their own keys
their own lives
I wanted commitment without captivity.
Intimacy without surveillance.
Devotion without disappearance.
I wanted all the big feelings people put inside the word wife.
The loyalty.
The tenderness.
The ridiculous joy.
The hand reaching for mine without thinking.
The person who knows when I’m lying about being okay.
The person I call when something wonderful happens before I even realize I picked up my phone.
I wanted all of it.
I just didn’t need the title to prove it.
Because a word can be worn like jewelry
and still mean nothing.
I wanted the actions.
The choosing.
The staying.
The remembering.
The showing up.
The kind of love that doesn’t need a legal name to know what it is responsible for.
And maybe that is why the word wife never quite fit me.
It came with too much architecture.
Too many rooms I was expected to live inside.
Too many rules disguised as romance.
The white dress.
The white picket fence.
The matching towels.
The shared everything.
The beautiful little cage people called forever.
I could see the beauty in it.
I just couldn’t see myself in it.
And for years I thought that meant I was afraid of commitment.
I wasn’t.
I was afraid of disappearing.
There is a difference.
I don’t want to be someone’s better half.
I want to be someone’s equal.
I don’t want to be claimed.
I want to be chosen.
And more importantly
I want to choose.
Every day.
Not because I have to.
Because I don’t.
There is something sacred in knowing the door is unlocked
and still deciding to stay.
Maybe love was never supposed to be the thing that kept me from leaving.
Maybe love was supposed to be the reason I kept coming back.
Maybe I was never meant to become somebody’s wife in the way little girls are taught to dream about it.
Maybe I was meant to become more fully myself
and let love meet me there.
Maybe the life I thought I was rejecting
was never my life to begin with.
Maybe I wasn’t running from marriage.
Maybe I was running toward myself.
And when I finally got there,
I realized I had never been afraid of love.
I was afraid of losing the woman
I had spent my whole life becoming.
So I stopped asking
whether I could fit inside the life
I had been handed.
And I started asking
what kind of life
could hold all of me?
And there it was.
Not a white dress.
Not a white fence.
Not a ring.
Just me.
Whole.
Free.
Still mine.
And somehow
still choosing love.
Not because I stopped believing in love.
I have always believed in love.
I just stopped believing that love had to look like a house with two toothbrushes, a shared closet, a mortgage with both our names and a bedroom where every night we return to the same side of the same bed like two hands on a clock condemned to meet because somebody decided that was what time was supposed to do.
I remember being a little girl and being handed a story before I was old enough to read it.
Girl meets love.
Girl gets chosen.
Girl gets the ring.
Girl gets the house.
Girl learns his favorite dinner and how to fold his shirts and how to make a home out of a place she never asked to live in.
And everybody claps because she has finally arrived at the life they told her she was supposed to want.
For a long time I thought wanting something different meant something was wrong with me.
Then one day I wondered
what if the story was never mine?
What if I had mistaken the only plot I had ever been shown
for the only one I was allowed to write?
Because I did want to be chosen.
Of course I wanted that.
There is a certain kind of ache in wanting someone to look at a thousand beautiful women and still say
Nah…
HER.
I wanted the importance.
The devotion.
The little sacred things that make two people feel like home to each other.
I just never wanted home to become a place I could not leave.
That was the part I couldn’t explain when I was younger.
I wanted love.
I just didn’t want love to become my address.
I wanted to live alone while loving someone deeply.
I wanted my own door.
My own silence.
My own refrigerator with snacks nobody else eats. Lol
A little sanctuary where I could disappear without it meaning I had disappeared from the person I loved.
A place I could invite someone into
not a place someone automatically belonged to.
I wanted love to feel like a vacation
not a destination
I wanted enough distance to miss someone.
Enough room to remember that I was still a person when nobody else was looking at me.
And maybe that was the first time I understood that solitude and loneliness were not the same thing.
Sometimes I want to go out to eat.
Not because I can’t cook.
But because I don’t want love measured in meals prepared
dishes washed
laundry folded
and all the quiet little ways a woman is taught to make herself useful
until she can no longer tell
where devotion ends
and obligation begins.
I didn’t want my relationship to run like a job.
Clock in.
Clock out.
Same kiss.
Same bed.
Same questions.
Same tomorrow.
I didn’t want to become so good at loving someone that I forgot how to be alive.
Sometimes I wanted to go to bed alone.
Not because I didn’t love anyone.
But because sometimes my mind became a house with every light on and every room full of demons.
And in those moments I didn’t want to be seen.
I didn’t want to explain the silence.
I didn’t want someone watching me become someone I didn’t recognize.
Sometimes I wanted my hiding spot back.
A room where I could be ugly without being witnessed.
Where I could fall apart without having to make the falling apart understandable.
Where I could wrestle with every terrible thing inside me
ALONE.
And then
when I was done
when I had picked myself back up
when my spirit had been stitched together
I could come out looking like myself again
beautiful in the way women become
after surviving something
nobody else knew they were fighting.
Not because I was pretending.
But because I had survived myself once again.
I think that is when I finally understood the difference between being loved and being consumed.
I didn’t want someone to complete me.
I wanted someone who could recognize me whole.
I didn’t want two halves becoming one.
I wanted two whole women standing beside each other
still carrying their own names
their own dreams
their own keys
their own lives
I wanted commitment without captivity.
Intimacy without surveillance.
Devotion without disappearance.
I wanted all the big feelings people put inside the word wife.
The loyalty.
The tenderness.
The ridiculous joy.
The hand reaching for mine without thinking.
The person who knows when I’m lying about being okay.
The person I call when something wonderful happens before I even realize I picked up my phone.
I wanted all of it.
I just didn’t need the title to prove it.
Because a word can be worn like jewelry
and still mean nothing.
I wanted the actions.
The choosing.
The staying.
The remembering.
The showing up.
The kind of love that doesn’t need a legal name to know what it is responsible for.
And maybe that is why the word wife never quite fit me.
It came with too much architecture.
Too many rooms I was expected to live inside.
Too many rules disguised as romance.
The white dress.
The white picket fence.
The matching towels.
The shared everything.
The beautiful little cage people called forever.
I could see the beauty in it.
I just couldn’t see myself in it.
And for years I thought that meant I was afraid of commitment.
I wasn’t.
I was afraid of disappearing.
There is a difference.
I don’t want to be someone’s better half.
I want to be someone’s equal.
I don’t want to be claimed.
I want to be chosen.
And more importantly
I want to choose.
Every day.
Not because I have to.
Because I don’t.
There is something sacred in knowing the door is unlocked
and still deciding to stay.
Maybe love was never supposed to be the thing that kept me from leaving.
Maybe love was supposed to be the reason I kept coming back.
Maybe I was never meant to become somebody’s wife in the way little girls are taught to dream about it.
Maybe I was meant to become more fully myself
and let love meet me there.
Maybe the life I thought I was rejecting
was never my life to begin with.
Maybe I wasn’t running from marriage.
Maybe I was running toward myself.
And when I finally got there,
I realized I had never been afraid of love.
I was afraid of losing the woman
I had spent my whole life becoming.
So I stopped asking
whether I could fit inside the life
I had been handed.
And I started asking
what kind of life
could hold all of me?
And there it was.
Not a white dress.
Not a white fence.
Not a ring.
Just me.
Whole.
Free.
Still mine.
And somehow
still choosing love.
