Poems from the Heart

There are mornings I wake before the sun

already tired from dreams of to-do lists,

already calculating the cost of everything—

the medicine, the bills, the hope.

I did not know love would feel this heavy.

Not the love itself, which is light as breath,

but the carrying of it through storms

that never seem to end.

You sleep beside me, fighting battles

I cannot see, cannot fix, cannot wish away.

And I—I am supposed to be strong.

I am supposed to have answers.

But some nights I cry in the shower

where no one can hear,

letting the water wash away

the person I pretend to be.

I am the breadwinner who is tired.

I am the caregiver who needs care.

I am the wife who wonders if wondering

makes her a bad person.

And yet.

And yet I would choose this weight again.

I would choose you again.

Not because it is easy,

but because you are worth the hard.

Tomorrow I will wake before the sun.

I will carry what needs carrying.

And I will love you—

not in spite of the weight,

but through it.

They warn you about "for worse"

but not what worse looks like—

the doctor visits, the uncertainty,

the way hope becomes a discipline.

I did not marry a diagnosis.

I married a man who makes me laugh,

who sees the world with wonder,

who chose me when he could have chosen easier.

Some days his body betrays him.

Some days mine betrays me too—

not with illness, but with impatience,

with fear dressed up as frustration.

I am learning that "in sickness"

is not a single moment of crisis

but an accumulation of small choices:

to stay, to soften, to show up.

When I said "I do," I meant forever.

I just did not know forever

would ask so much of me

so soon.

But I meant it then.

I mean it now.

I will mean it tomorrow.

In sickness. In health.

In the space between.

No one tells you that providing

feels different when you are a woman.

That the pride comes mixed with grief

for roles you thought you would share.

I calculate spreadsheets at midnight,

juggle currencies across time zones,

smile through meetings where no one knows

what is waiting when I log off.

I am not resentful. Not exactly.

I am just... tired of being untired.

Tired of having no one to lean on

when leaning feels like collapse.

He does what he can. I know this.

Love is not measured in paychecks.

But some nights I wish I could be soft,

could be held instead of holding.

This is not the marriage I imagined.

It is the marriage I have.

And I choose it—every invoice,

every midnight calculation.

Because he is worth more than easy.

Because we are building something

that spreadsheets cannot measure.

Because love, sometimes,

looks like working late.

When he sleeps, I watch the rise and fall

of his chest like a prayer being answered.

Each breath a small miracle

I used to take for granted.

His face softens in the dark,

the pain lines smoothing into peace.

This is the man I married—

the one underneath the struggle.

I trace the outline of his shoulder,

careful not to wake him.

Rest is hard-won these days.

I guard it like treasure.

People ask how I am doing.

I say fine, because the truth

is too complicated for small talk,

too tender for casual concern.

The truth is: I am scared.

The truth is: I am grateful.

The truth is: I would not trade him

for an easier life.

When he sleeps, I remember

why I said yes.

When he wakes, I show him—

in coffee, in patience, in presence.

Love is not a feeling.

It is a vigil.

Lord, I am tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep can fix,

but the bone-deep exhaustion

of carrying more than I can hold.

I know You never promised easy.

I know suffering has purpose.

But some days the purpose

is hard to see through tears.

Give me strength for today.

Not tomorrow—today is enough.

Give me patience I do not have,

peace I cannot manufacture.

Help me love him well

even when I am running on empty.

Help me receive love too—

I am so bad at receiving.

Remind me that I am not alone,

even when loneliness is loud.

Remind me that You see

the invisible labor of devotion.

I offer You this day:

the small victories, the hidden tears,

the love that keeps showing up.

It is all I have.

Let it be enough.

Marriage is not the wedding day,

not the dress or the vows or the cake.

It is the thousand ordinary mornings after,

the quiet accumulation of choosing.

I choose you in the pharmacy line.

I choose you in the hospital waiting room.

I choose you when the bills stack up

and the answers do not come.

You choose me in my worst moods,

my fear that comes out as control,

my exhaustion that looks like distance.

You choose me anyway.

This is not the love story I expected.

It is messier, harder, more honest.

It is less romance and more covenant,

less feeling and more decision.

But it is ours.

And I would choose it again—

choose you again—

in any version of this life.

Not because it is perfect.

Because it is real.

Because you are mine

and I am yours

and that is enough.