Not-so-Disney

Rethinking love after 35 years

If you prefer to listen, an audio version read by me is available here. ⬇️

It was after dark, in the middle of the work week, in the middle of October. As usual, I’d left the office late, knocked out a few errands and come home to an unremarkable dinner. But I was restless, keyed up by the possibility of another call with the guy I’d fallen hard for a month earlier.

It didn’t go well. He’d been promising to make the trip from New York to North Carolina for weeks, but he put it off again. Something about his old Volvo needing more repairs, a part not showing up on time, promising he was really coming—just not as soon as he’d hoped. Every fiber of my being wanted to believe him, except the strand that had been strung along in the past. That part was kicking me in the shins.

Dejected, I put on my coziest sweats and headed to the kitchen for something sweet. Then, a knock on the door. A look passed between my roommate and me; neither of us was expecting anyone, especially at that late hour. Suzanne squinted through the peephole and turned back to me, smiling wide.

“I think you’d better answer this.”

That night, thirty-five years ago, I opened the door to find my future husband, his face lit up like a kid who’d just talked his way out of trouble. He’d called from a pay phone a block away to see if I was home, the story about the car a ruse. After five weeks of letters, one bouquet of delivered red roses, and near-daily phone calls (always initiated by him, thanks to his unpredictable circumstances), there he was, as handsome as I remembered.

I’d been anxious about our someday reunion. I knew how I felt, but what if it didn’t still run both ways? What if the hot flame we’d ignited on that tall ship had just been the temporary alchemy of lust, salt air, whales and sea shanties? What if he saw the dim glow of my suburban life and thought it looked…dull? If I were him, I probably would’ve thought so.

But suddenly we were face to face, a little awkward and a lot giddy. I asked him how he found me, and he winked.

“I have your address. And I can read a map.”

I could’ve melted from embarrassment. Why had I asked such a stupid question?

As I sat on the kitchen counter I’d walked away from moments earlier, he kissed me, and there it all was again. The same electricity. The same timelessness. The same feeling that this connection ran deeper than either of us could articulate.

We married in February, not even six months after our first encounter.

He had a mustache when we met—shaved it off soon after and never grew it back. This photo, taken by my friend Bonnie that October, is one of the few that caught us mid–love blur.

We’ve spent the years since mostly believing we just got lucky, that timing worked in our favor. Any other explanation implies we deserved it, that we earned the kind of connection people write novels about. But we know better. We’ve been through too many painfully human moments to romanticize ourselves.

Still, I can’t rule out the possibility that something mysterious was at work—a change in the wind, a puff of whale mist, a skyful of stardust rearranging the furniture of our lives.

Everyone loves a good love story, and I’m still crazy about ours. You can read the origin story here, but the not-so-Disney version goes something like this: no curses, no enchanted forests, no tearful declarations in the rain (it might’ve looked like this) or impassioned confessions in a dewy, pre-dawn glade (name that flick!). Still, it fits the myth we’ve been sold: two people meet, sparks fly, complications arise, love wins.

From classics to rom-coms, we’re taught that if we don’t land the storybook ending, find the prince or princess of our dreams, we’re missing out on something essential, and our tale is somehow incomplete.

But that isn’t true.

Coupledom doesn’t make us whole. We’re not missing pieces. That kind of thinking turns single life into a waiting room and partnership into a prize. It flattens love into a formula, when in fact it’s as unpredictable as the people who fall into—and out of—it.

This month, the world lost two extraordinary women who defied this narrative. Jane Goodall was married twice, for just 15 of her 91 years. Diane Keaton never married at all. Neither seemed to treat life-partnership as a destination or requirement. In an interview for PEOPLE, Goodall reflected, “I had lots of men friends, many. I had lots of women friends too. My life was complete. I didn’t need a husband.” Similarly, Keaton said, “I’m really glad I didn’t get married. I remember in high school, a guy said, ‘You’ll make a good wife.’ And I thought, ‘I don’t want to be a wife. No.’”

They didn’t follow the script. They built lives grounded in purpose and connection. Nothing about their stories felt diminished.

Before Jim and I found each other, both of us were in long-term relationships. His lasted eleven years, mine six. I’d imagined making mine official, dreamed of settling in. Then, I lived through the slow unraveling of something I’d believed would last. It wasn’t until after we split that I could clearly see what had been missing: his devotion, my self-awareness, and the ability to enjoy doing absolutely nothing together as much as doing everything—which we’d done nearly every weekend.

The summer before I met Jim, I had a kind of belated coming of age. Though I’d spent most of my university days single, I was unattached again for the first time in years. I got together with friends, tanned by the pool, partied hard, hung out with a British guy with a fabulous accent and a terrible habit of pricking holes in my self-esteem. Despite him, something about my unboundedness acted as helium, lifting me into a more colorful, confident version of myself.

I felt expansive, choosing who I wanted to be, practicing the kind of emotional authorship that had long eluded me. I didn’t need a partner. I didn’t need someone else to validate my worthiness. In those heady days between May and September, when summer and I bloomed together, I was surprisingly, impressively, and utterly fine.

When I made the decision to travel alone for the first time, when I stepped aboard that schooner, when I settled myself into a spot on the bow to pen some thoughts in my journal and Jim found me there, gave me that look of his, and asked me to sail away with him, I was introduced to something in myself I’d never met before: I had finally become someone who could choose to love without losing me.

On Friday, October 12th, 1990, happy to be home instead of out at a bar, I wrote in my journal:

It is raining hard. It has rained since Wednesday afternoon. Now it is mixed with lightening, wind, and thunder. My wind chimes ring and I find myself smiling. Joni Mitchell sings a “bluesy” tune on my new tape. And I just ended another precious conversation with Jim over the phone. He is much of my happiness these days. But somewhere inside I think it is also a happiness that is counting on, springing up from me – just me!

October 12, 1990. I wrote “lightening” by mistake, but but in hindsight, lightening might have been more accurate.

That version of me wasn’t waiting for a soulmate or trying to fill a void. She had learned that the most meaningful connections don’t begin in the search for completion. They begin when you already know who you are.

~Elizabeth

Thanks so much for reading this piece of my story. I’d love to hear what resonates with you, whether it’s a moment that reminded you of your own journey, a challenge you’ve faced in love, or how you’ve learned to find wholeness on your own terms.

Do you know of a love story that didn’t quite follow the usual script? Was there a time when you knew you’d lost—or found—yourself in love?

Feel free to share your thoughts, reflections, or stories in the comments. I’m here to listen and learn alongside you.

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Until next time, take care of your heart and keep your stories coming.