by Erika Matic – on what long-term love actually feels like
There is a specific kind of grief nobody warns you about.
Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind that involves loss or heartbreak or screaming into pillows.
The subtle kind. The grief of waking up one day and realising you are deeply, profoundly happy… and also slightly bored.
Not with the person. With the version of life you’re living.
My husband and I have been together for almost ten years. Five years in a relationship, almost five years married. He is my person. The one. The human I would choose in every lifetime, even the inconvenient ones.
Which makes it extremely inconvenient that sometimes I want to throw a pillow at him simply because he falls asleep at 9:30 p.m.
Sharp.
Consistent.
Unapologetic.
He genuinely goes to sleep at 9:30 p.m., like a Victorian factory worker who has to wake up before dawn to milk the cows.
Meanwhile, I am wide awake at 10:58 p.m., staring into the darkness, mentally reviewing my personality, my choices, my ambitions, and the emotional symbolism of the dishwasher not being turned on.
The Honeymoon Phase Has Left the Building
We are no longer the carefree people we were when we lived in our apartment, went out whenever we felt like it, and thought “being tired” meant sleeping six hours instead of eight.
Now we have a child. A schedule. A shared Google calendar that looks like a project management tool for a small corporation. We have routines. Efficient ones. Good ones.
But routines are sneaky. They show up disguised as stability and then quietly remove the chaos that once made everything feel electric.
We don’t “go out” anymore. We organise. We plan. We discuss logistics. Romance now requires coordination and a babysitter. And a shared understanding of who is too tired to speak.
And still – this is a good life.
Which is precisely why my brain refuses to shut up.
My Brain Is a Full-Time Job With No Sick Leave
Here’s the thing about me: I am a lot.
I am moody. Restless. Thoughtful in a way that borders on self-sabotage. My mind is constantly asking questions it has no intention of answering calmly.
Am I happy?
Am I fulfilled?
Why does everything have to change?
Why can’t we just be like we were before?
Why does loving someone deeply not exempt you from existential dread?
Sometimes I don’t tell my husband these things. Not because he wouldn’t listen – he would. Patiently. Thoughtfully. Probably while trying to fix something that doesn’t need fixing.
But sometimes it’s easier to keep the chaos contained.
To be the stable one.
The productive one.
The woman who has her life together on paper while quietly renegotiating her entire existence internally.
Two High-Functioning Adults, Very Different Operating Systems
My husband is incredibly productive. Focused. Efficient. Purposeful.
So am I, but in a different way.
He works with noise. With momentum. With motion. I need silence. Stillness. Space to think without someone typing aggressively next to me like they’re in a productivity competition.
Sometimes I get annoyed at him for absolutely no reason other than the fact that he exists confidently in the world while I am mentally unpacking seventeen emotional boxes labeled “What Is My Purpose?”
This is unfair.
And yet.
Marriage is basically learning to love someone while being irrationally irritated by their eating patterns.
Different Interests, Same Table
We don’t share all the same interests.
He doesn’t watch TV with me anymore. He doesn’t need the same kind of unwinding. He goes to sleep early because he’s done for the day.
I, however, need decompression. Silence. A moment where no one needs anything from me (even him). A quiet rebellion against the day that just happened.
We are not incompatible.
We are just… separate people.
Which turns out to be both the hardest and healthiest part of long-term love.
Because love isn’t about merging into one organism. It’s about choosing to stay connected while becoming more yourself – even when that self is occasionally annoying.
The Routine Isn’t the Enemy
Here’s what I’m learning (slowly, stubbornly, against my will):
The routine isn’t the problem. The routine is the container.
Inside it lives safety. Trust. A child who feels secure. A partnership that works even when it’s not exciting.
What’s missing isn’t love. It’s attention.
Because love doesn’t vanish when unattended, it just goes quiet. And quiet can feel like distance if you don’t know how to listen.
Effort Is the Least Romantic Word – and the Most Important One
We’ve learned something important over the years: deepening a relationship is never a one-way street.
You don’t get to live in the past.
You don’t get to assume closeness.
You don’t get to outsource intimacy to “someday when things calm down.”
You choose each other again – in this version of life.
The tired one.
The organised one.
The one where romance looks like effort instead of spontaneity.
And effort isn’t unromantic. It’s honest.
And brave.
The Part That Makes Me Quiet
Sometimes I miss who we were.
And sometimes I look at who we are now and realise something quieter, deeper, sturdier has taken its place.
We don’t burn as brightly, but we burn longer. We’ve traded chaos for consistency, novelty for knowing, excitement for trust.
And yes, sometimes I grieve what we lost. But mostly, I honour what we’ve built.
Because this version of us chose each other when it stopped being easy. When love became a practice instead of a feeling. When it required patience, humility, and the willingness to grow separately without growing apart.
One day, our daughter will no longer need us like this. One day, the house will be quieter. One day, we’ll have space again – and we’ll look at each other not as the people we once were, but as the ones who made it through.
And I hope that when that day comes, I won’t miss this version of us too much.
Because this version of us chose each other when it was no longer effortless. When love required awareness. Communication. Grace. When it required understanding that routine doesn’t mean stagnation – it means roots.
And roots aren’t glamorous.
But they hold everything together.
Erika Matic writes about marriage, identity, motherhood, overthinking, and the quiet work of loving the same person through completely different lives. She believes boredom isn’t the opposite of love (indifference is) and that effort is the most underrated form of romance.
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