I met my husband when I was 19.

He was nothing and everything like the man I thought I would marry.  He was made of wilderness, the son of an itinerant photographer for the National Forest Service who had grown up barefoot in cobalt creeks. A fifth-generation Californian on the East Coast for college, who lived in my co-op, but was always out exploring.

We forged our bond climbing trees and river swimming, in adventures so quixotic and heady that I told myself: this cannot be the grown-up stuff that marriages are made of. And so, we went our separate ways. Across states, across countries. Across years and years.

And yet, love knows. I see this in every couple I work with. Love works on us, bringing us together in the most inscrutable of ways. After four years without contact, my husband and I reconnected. We entered into a second, much longer, equally heady stint.  This year, 2018, we celebrate our ten-year anniversary.

I'm so grateful. For this man, whom I did and didn't think I would marry.  And for love, which insisted I did.

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