When we moved to Albany at the beginning of our marriage, I didn’t want to volunteer how long the Chaplain and I had been married. I had graduated from college with a degree in English and a little boy; if I didn’t tell people we met that we’d just gotten married a year ago, they could think the Chaplain was One’s biological dad.

I was crushed by shame, and I thought I needed to do damage control on the genesis of our little family.

Today, we’re celebrating twelve years of marriage, and I’m proud of that number. Acting out a certain story, an “acceptable” one, doesn’t seem that important anymore.

The Chaplain and I finally started earning our marriage chops this year. We had to work for it. It was in turns terrifying and wonderful. I shudder to think what our next challenge might look like in a partnership where we traditionally do things big.

This morning, I’m feeling grateful that we made it. Before, we would never have used the term “we made it,” about our relationship. It was saved for trivial stuff like getting to somewhere on time.

But we did make it. And I’m seeing things differently, communicating differently, loving and trusting differently. It’s a good thing. And I’m interested to see what Year Thirteen has to offer.