The first time Ada realised marriage wouldn’t always feel warm or romantic, she was standing at the sink, washing dishes she hadn’t used. Emeka had left them there. Plates stacked, bits of rice hardened by time and Ada could feel the sting of resentment creep up her throat. It wasn’t the dishes. It was what they represented: the growing gap between them, the silence that had replaced their laughter, and the quiet ache of unmet expectations.
They had been married for six years. Long enough to know that love didn’t always arrive dressed in butterflies and candlelight. But short enough to still remember how it used to feel when they couldn’t stop talking. That night, Ada lay beside him in bed, listening to his steady breathing. She wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap with a simple touch. But she didn’t.
Her pride whispered, “He should be the one to say something first.” Her heart whispered back, “You’re both hurting.”
In my years as a counsellor, I have witnessed this moment unfold in many marriages: the quiet power struggle that arises when love no longer feels convenient. It often becomes easier to retreat into silence than to engage in the difficult work of choosing understanding.
Love, in its truest form, doesn’t always look like grand gestures. Sometimes, it’s washing the plates you didn’t dirty. It’s choosing to listen when you’d rather defend yourself. It’s reaching for your partner when pride says, “wait.”
The danger of modern love is that we’ve grown accustomed to associating ease with rightness. If something feels hard, we assume it’s wrong. But real love, the kind that matures and deepens, isn’t built on convenience. It’s built on commitment, empathy and forgiveness.
Emeka wasn’t perfect either. He’d been under pressure at work, juggling deadlines and trying to keep up with expectations. To him, Ada had become distant, more critical and less warm. And in his silence, he thought he was giving her space. But what Ada heard in that silence was rejection.
Two people, each waiting for the other to make a move. Two hearts still yearning for connection, but held back by unspoken pain.
One evening, Emeka found Ada’s old journal while searching for a pen. Inside were pages filled with prayers for him, for them, for their home. He sat down quietly, reading her words. And for the first time in months, he realised love hadn’t left their home. It was just buried under exhaustion and assumptions.
That night, he washed the dishes—all of them. And when Ada came out of the room and saw him standing there with soapy hands, something softened. She saw the effort. She saw that love could still be chosen, even when it didn’t feel convenient.
Marriage won’t always feel like a fairytale. There will be seasons when the emotions quiet down and all that’s left is the decision to stay kind, to stay open, to remain present. Choosing love in those moments is not a weakness. It’s saying, “Even when I don’t feel like it, I’ll keep showing up.” Love that is only convenient isn’t true love; it’s just comfort. However, comfort alone doesn’t build lasting marriages—commitment does.
So if you’re in that season, the one where love feels like work, take heart. You’re not failing. You’re growing. And growth, though uncomfortable, is proof that something alive is still happening between you two. Because sometimes, the most profound kind of love isn’t the one that sweeps you off your feet. It’s the one that keeps standing quietly and faithfully, even when it’s easier to walk away.
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Featured Image by Alex Green for Pexels.
