The Slow Burn of Familiarity: Love, Routine, and Long-Term Marriage

You know, drinking has this strange duality—it can be celebratory, comforting, or even medicinal in the way it helps you momentarily escape. But then there’s the other side, the one that creeps in when you start reaching for the bottle not to toast something but just to fill the void. It’s funny how people make excuses for it, even in the most subtle ways. "It’s the holidays," or "I’ve had a long day," or, hell, "I deserve this." But what happens when you don’t even have a reason? When you just want the numbness, the softening of edges, the temporary blurring of reality? I think that’s where it gets complicated.

Take last night. I had this picture-perfect idea of how it would go: send Anthony a flirty message, let it lead somewhere—somewhere intimate, somewhere we haven’t been in a long time. And when he turned me down, it was like a quiet slap across the face. Not loud enough to echo, but sharp enough to sting.

I mean, I get it. We’ve been married for over a decade, and life does what it does—it shifts things, it complicates the simple, and it takes the magic out of moments that used to happen effortlessly. Intimacy doesn’t just fizzle out in one dramatic flash. It’s more like a slow drip, a steady leak that eventually leaves the tank dry before you even realize it.

I didn’t kiss him goodnight last night. For the first time, I didn’t do the thing I always do: lean in, tell him I love him, and wish him sweet dreams. And it wasn’t out of anger. It was hurt. This ache in my chest that made me feel too heavy to move, too hollow to try. Usually, I carry the weight of initiating. I have to make the first move—whether it’s sex, affection, or even just those little reassurances that we’re okay. Last night, I couldn’t do it. I just wanted to see if he’d do it on his own, to test if I mattered enough for him to reach across the void we’ve both let grow between us. He didn’t.

I laid there, staring at the ceiling, feeling ugly. Feeling unwanted. Feeling replaceable. And, God, those feelings are fucking brutal because they creep in like shadows and settle in your bones. I miss being touched. I miss being wanted. I miss being more than a part of his routine. I think that’s the danger of long marriages—familiarity becomes a blanket you both pull over your heads to block out the world, but it also blocks out the fire that used to keep you warm.

I read somewhere that marriages lose intimacy for all kinds of reasons—stress, familiarity, changes in physical appearance, the grind of daily life. And when you add eight dogs into the equation, it’s a miracle we even make it to bed in one piece. We don’t cuddle anymore. We can’t. The dogs rule the bed, and we’ve just accepted that. But, damn, I miss it. I miss his arms around me, the feeling of safety, of connection. I miss us.

But here’s what I’ve realized: the weight of that change doesn’t just fall on one person. We’re both guilty of letting it happen, of not fighting harder to keep that spark alive. I’ve learned that love isn’t enough. Love is the foundation, but intimacy, effort, and communication are the walls, the roof, and the windows. Without those, the house falls apart.

So, here’s my advice to anyone who’s in a relationship: don’t let the routine swallow you whole. When you go to bed tonight, look your partner in the eye, kiss them like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. Tell them you love them. Mean it. Because the alternative—going to bed with a lump in your throat and a weight on your chest—will slowly erode what you have. And it’s a slow, silent kind of pain, the kind that kills you softly.

But it’s not all bad. Today, the couches came in, and the marble coffee table arrived. And let me tell you, it looks like it was built specifically for our den. Even the dogs love it—it’s like they’ve claimed it as their new throne. I joked earlier that I might end up sleeping on it tonight, but who knows? Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. A change of scenery, a new perspective. Maybe it’s what I need.

Life isn’t perfect, and neither is marriage. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing worth having ever is. Here’s to figuring it out—one day, one drink, one kiss at a time.