A Love Letter to My Parents on Their Anniversary

I’ve spent a lot of time writing about love. About heartbreak, about longing, about the strange magic that happens when two people try—sometimes clumsily, sometimes beautifully—to choose each other in a world that keeps pulling them apart.

But this post isn’t about that kind of almost-love. It’s about the real thing.

The kind that’s stood the test of decades.

The kind that raised me.

The kind that still makes me believe.

My parents are celebrating another year of marriage today, and I’m finally old enough, maybe, to understand just how rare that is. Not the anniversary itself, but the substance of it. The staying power. The roots. The resilience. The love that doesn’t just flicker in the good times but burns steady through the chaos, the mess, the hard parts.

Growing up, I didn’t realize how good I had it. You never really do until the world shows you all the ways it can go wrong. All the ways people can fail each other, abandon each other, give up. And then you look at what you came from—with all its imperfections and honest-to-God effort—and you realize: Damn. That was rare. That was gold.

My parents taught me what partnership looks like. Not in the big, cinematic way. There were no slow-motion makeout scenes in the rain, no orchestras swelling in the background. What they had—and still have—is better. It's real.

It’s arguing in the kitchen and still making each other coffee an hour later.

It’s splitting the last piece of bannock or grilled cheese.

It’s knowing exactly how the other likes their eggs, their coffee, their life.

It’s grief held together.

It’s laughter that fills a room like a warm blanket.

It’s sacrifice. And stubbornness. And ridiculous inside jokes that still make them crack up like teenagers.

I’ve watched them face things that would have broken most couples. And they didn’t just survive it—they held each other through it. That’s the part that gets me. The holding. The choosing. The not-flinching. The staying.

Their love has never felt performative. It’s never been about perfection. It’s been about showing up—with your full self, even the messy parts. Especially the messy parts.

That kind of love changes you. It shaped me. It made me believe that love isn’t supposed to hurt more than it heals. That loyalty is louder than chemistry. That it’s possible to grow with someone without losing yourself. That choosing someone, day after day, even when it’s hard—that’s where the magic lives.

They set the bar high. I used to resent that. I used to think it meant I’d be disappointed forever, always chasing some unattainable thing. But now I understand—setting the bar high wasn’t about comparison. It was about vision. It was about knowing my worth. It was about believing in the kind of love that holds water, not just the kind that looks good in pictures.

So yeah, the standard is high. Because they built something extraordinary. And I carry that blueprint in my bones.

To my parents: you didn’t just raise me with love. You raised me on love. Solid, real, resilient love. You showed me what it means to hold space for another person. What it means to fight fair. What it means to forgive. What it means to stay, not because you have to, but because you want to.

You made it look possible. You made it look worth it.

And you still do.

Happy anniversary, you two. You’re my proof that love doesn’t have to fade. That partnership can be a sanctuary. That the quiet, steady kind of love is the loudest of all.

~smy