When I was 20 years old, I made a quiet promise to myself. I would marry at 27. At the time, it felt like a reasonable age, mature enough to have some stability, yet young enough to still be building dreams. It was a milestone I held onto like a compass guiding me through the uncertainties of early adulthood. But, as life often does, reality had its own plans.
A few months to my 27th birthday, I was still a struggling MSc student. My bank account was nearly empty, my job prospects uncertain, and the idea of being a provider felt more like a burden than a blessing. In fact, I had almost nothing, except for one thing, or rather, one person. A beautiful soul, pure and gentle, who somehow believed in me more than I believed in myself. She is now of blessed memory, but at that time, her presence was my anchor. She made the noise of life quieter, the burden of hardship lighter, and the pursuit of dreams less lonely.
I remember one of our midnight conversations, her voice soft yet piercing in its honesty. She asked:
When do you actually want to get married?
Now, we had spoken of love countless times before, but that question caught me off guard. Not because I didn’t know the answer. I did. But because I wasn’t sure anymore if my answer was even realistic. I had been conditioned to see myself as the provider, the man who had to build a foundation before inviting someone else into his home. And there I was, with nothing tangible to show. She, on the other hand, was in another town, working, earning, supporting herself, while I was still learning how to crawl in the race of life.
I mumbled, almost under my breath:
I used to say when I’m 27.
I hoped she didn’t hear me. My hesitation must have been clear, because she gracefully let the conversation drift elsewhere. That was her nature - never forcing, always flowing. She carried me with patience, with understanding, with love.
But then came another night, just a few weeks before my 27th birthday. With a spark in her voice that hinted at excitement and courage, she blurted out:
My parents asked your parents to come over on the exact date of your 27th birthday.
She knew how close it was. She knew the pressure it might put on me. But she also knew me well enough to sense that if I didn’t leap, I might never leap at all.
And that, my friends, was how I got married at 27. Exactly as I had promised myself seven years earlier. Not because I had meticulously planned it all out, but because life, love, and destiny conspired to make it happen. I somehow managed to raise the funds for an apartment and the marriage rites. Her support was unwavering, and her mother’s involvement was nothing short of divine intervention. Together, they helped me step into a chapter of life I wasn’t sure I was ready for, but one that became the most beautiful of gifts.
Today, she is no longer here. Life, in its unpredictable cruelty, took her away too soon. And yet, her memory lingers, woven into the fabric of who I am. I loved her deeply, so deeply that for a long time, I thought I would never be able to love another. In fact, sometimes I wonder why time healed me at all. There are days when I wish it hadn’t. I wish her memory could remain as raw, as sharp, as alive as it once was. But nature, in its quiet wisdom, teaches us that time softens even the deepest wounds. Healing comes, not because we ask for it, but because the heart cannot bear to bleed forever.
Still, I carry her with me. In the echoes of those midnight conversations. In the way I learned to love without condition. In the resilience I built during those years of nothingness. She may not be here, but she shaped me in ways no one else could.
Looking back, I realize that my 20-year-old self could never have predicted this journey. The promise I made wasn’t just about marriage. It was about hope, about believing in a future even when the present seemed uncertain. At 27, I fulfilled that promise, but not in the way I expected. It wasn’t wealth or status that made it possible. It was love. Her love. A love that pushed me to become, to try, to believe.
If there’s one lesson my story offers, it’s this: life does not wait for perfect conditions. Sometimes, the ground is shaky, the wallet is empty, and the road is unclear. But love, when it is real, creates its own path. And even when loss comes, as it did for me, love leaves behind a residue that time cannot erase.
So today, I reflect not with regret, but with gratitude. Gratitude for a promise I made. Gratitude for the woman who helped me keep it. Gratitude for the healing that came, even when I thought I didn’t want it. And most of all, gratitude for the reminder that life, in all its unpredictability, always has its way.
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