Illustration by Catherine Chan
I’ve never been averse to marriage. I just never thought it was for me. But then I did.
Luckily, most of us live in a world where not getting married is less taboo. Even when I was younger, I never really felt the pressure to formalize any past relationships by legalizing the bond.
But this year I married for the first time. At 57.
Apparently, the prerogative to change one’s mind goes beyond the female stereotype and is afforded to a previously non-committal older man as well. And I’m embracing every aspect of it.
I never thought marriage would feel that different. Yes, I knew I was making a serious commitment that was not to be taken lightly, but surely nothing would change profoundly, would it?
Then it did.
I feel as though there’s a visceral component to marriage that I never expected; I have always enjoyed a feeling of deep connection, trust and contentment in my five-year relationship, but it runs deeper now.
These feelings didn’t just magically appear. Witnessing my partner continue to love me through the three-year trial of a bout with long COVID (and the illness lingers on, albeit less intensely) and support me while she watched my small business almost collapse from endless lockdowns, allowed me to feel an unconditional love that I have never experienced.
That said, the magic of the marriage day itself may have also put me into a sentimental trance that makes these sanguine musings possible.
Our little ceremony brought my wife, a photographer, an officiant and me to picturesque South Pointe Park in Miami (a winter wedding in our home of Toronto seemed, well, cold). The location included all the feels: glowing sunshine, the calm lapping of sparkly ocean water and a tree under which we shared our vows while shedding tears of joy.
The memory of it all has become so sacred and joyful in my heart that rarely a day goes by without me perusing wedding photos with a smile so big, you’d think I was watching a Disney film.
I am a bit of a sentimentalist, no doubt, but I make no apologies for this strongly felt euphoria. I will admit, however, that I thought these joys were reserved for people who marry in their 20s and 30s. Our lives are all very different, so who says the timing of such monumental events must align with “normal” standards – whatever that means.
Our marriage is anything but perfect. Of course we still fight and have disagreements. And our combined history of less-than-rosy childhoods (was anyone’s childhood perfect?) make our triggers deep and remarkably easy to project upon each other.
But we see it through and ultimately end up closer when the dust settles and the wounds heal. That’s what I am most proud of – our resiliency. As uncomfortable as conflict can be, we always slowly manage to steer the ship toward calmer waters. Little did I know that those waters contain previously unknown treasures. The rewards are surprising and welcoming.
That resolve we create together is new to me. Abandonment issues had me on the offensive in most relationships, unwilling to trust and more than willing to bail. I was really good at it, but when we do something enough, it can become an unsavoury, unuseful habit. My father always said, “Show me what a man does most and I’ll show you what he does best.”
I was a champ when it came to leaving.
But something about that sacred wedding day, the years leading up to it and the remarkable woman standing across from me kicked that habit, and I’m grateful for this refreshing and promising landscape.
I know. It’s just year one. But I already see this union as a win and not wanting to leave when things get difficult speaks to the value of this unique alliance.
I suppose it’s possible that there was an auspicious spell cast on me on our wedding day. Or, perhaps, at the ripe young age of 57, I just grew up.
Whatever happened isn’t truly important. It’s just that now, when faced with the familiar question, “Do you want to stay?” the answer is simple:
“I do.”
Paul McQuillan lives in Toronto.