Marriage in a Pivot
I didn’t expect my marriage to get rattled in the seasonal aisle of Canadian Tire, but here we are.
One minute I was holding up a wreath, fully in my we-need-to-decorate-this-new-house festive era; the next, my husband politely said he didn’t think it would work. What I actually heard was, why are we here spending money on Christmas decorations because you’re not working? And just like that, something in me quietly short-circuited.
It was not a meltdown or a fight, it was just a very undramatic internal “Oh.” Because suddenly it wasn’t about the wreath at all.
It was about the fact that normally, I would’ve just bought it. No hesitation, no checking, no mental math about whether it was “worth it.” And standing there, realizing I didn’t feel that freedom anymore, hit a place I didn’t want to admit was sore.
That's when it dawned on me: this is what a marriage looks like when one person makes two necessary professional exits in a short span of time, takes a breath to figure out what’s next, and suddenly finds herself in the middle of a pivot… while the other isn’t. Nor, did he ask for it.
It shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. I’ve been here before. In fact, I’ve been here several times since leaving Vancouver almost ten years ago. So really, this is part of a much bigger, recurring issue, and that is, I still feel that I haven’t quite gotten my footing… and it’s been almost a decade.
Send help.
But the truth is, this moment in Canadian Tire exposed a dynamic that is all too familiar: being financially dependent on your partner, even temporarily, hits differently when you’ve spent your whole adult life being self-sufficient.
It’s not about the money; it’s about what money has always symbolized for me: freedom, contribution, identity, equality, and choice. Values my parents instilled in both my brother and me. Moving north at 38 felt like trading in a hard-earned independence and thriving salary at a point in life when I assumed I’d still be climbing my career ladder, not questioning it.
When those pillars wobble, even for understandable reasons that I chose, marriage feels like it tilts a little. Not in a catastrophic way, more like the subtle lean of a house settling in deep winter. Slow, steady but felt.
And here’s the part I can’t gloss over: I didn’t resent him for saying no to a wreath (although resentment is a whole other topic of conversation within our marriage). I resented the version of me that suddenly felt like she needed permission, and that’s a hard mirror to look into.
It stirred up old feelings I thought I’d already dealt with and moved on from: the pressure to financially “pull my weight,” the guilt of slowing down, the worry that my husband doesn’t fully understand what this pivot costs me internally, and the quiet fear that when both partners make significant professional sacrifices to build a shared life, resentment can quietly creep in if it isn’t acknowledged.
Because pivots aren’t just personal, they ripple. Something that I am realizing more and more as I figure things out. They touch the marriage, the routines, the money, the energy, the roles. Even the Christmas décor aisle, apparently.
And through all of this, I need to say this clearly: my husband is steady, patient, practical, and genuinely supportive in ways I don’t always take time to acknowledge. He’s giving me the space for this pivot, even when it disrupts our rhythm, even when it means he’s carrying more financially and even when it means him putting some of his dreams on the back burner. Again.
He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t guilt me. He just… supports.
Meanwhile, I’m the one internally keeping score against myself. Self-compassion is not my natural language. I’m trying — honestly — but it still feels foreign, like learning a second language in midlife with no tutor.
And maybe that’s the point of this entire pivot: to notice the places where I shrink, the places where I grip too tightly, the places where old identities still run the show.
Maybe the wreath wasn’t the trigger; maybe it was just the invitation. Because sometimes change doesn’t announce itself with a grand revelation. Sometimes it taps you on the shoulder in Canadian Tire and quietly says, “Hey… you’re not done becoming yet.”