I haven’t written much about my wife. That’s partly for privacy, and partly because some things are simply too personal—too sacred—to render into words. But something’s shifted lately. We recently attended the celebration of life for a dear friend, and the quiet truth of mortality settled in anew. It made me think about what I want to leave behind. And at the very least, I want there to be a record that she was loved—profoundly, unabashedly, completely. If Garth Brooks’ If Tomorrow Never Comes encapsulates anything, it’s this sentiment: don’t let the important things go unsaid.

Not long ago, my wife asked me a question. It wasn’t surprising, but it was one of those questions that makes you pause—not because it’s hard to answer, but because it’s meaningful. She had read something online about how good couples communicate their needs. She turned to me and asked, “We do a pretty good job of that, don’t we?”

I think we do. I really do. But I also know I’ve held some things back—not from fear, exactly, but from years of habit formed in a past life. My previous marriage was… difficult. Domineering. Dismissive. I had been conditioned to expect scorn for wanting anything. “Why would you want that? That’s stupid.” That was the refrain I learned to anticipate.

With my wife now, it’s not like that. Sure, we disagree—like over whether spending money on video games is frivolous (her stance) or a form of joyful engagement (mine). And yet, we’ve come to compromises. I have a small budget for the year, and within it, I get to explore the digital worlds I love. Meanwhile, she has her own preferences—board games, card games, the kind of analog fun that fosters face-to-face connection. Our game nights become the modern equivalent of a Greek agora—a gathering place where laughter and stories are exchanged instead of goods or political speeches.

But here’s where it gets harder to articulate: there are still things I haven’t voiced fully. For instance, we’re what you might call home nudists—comfortable in our own skin, literally—but I’ve long felt a pull toward exploring nudist spaces beyond our four walls. Not out of rebellion or perversion, but out of a desire for community. Imagine the camaraderie of a campfire beneath starlit trees, the simplicity of a morning hike without artifice or shame. No judgment, no costumes—just humans, as they are.

She doesn’t quite understand that urge, and I respect her perspective. But it’s not about exhibitionism. It’s about connection. It’s the same reason Data from The Goonies pulls out his Walkman to charm a dancing octopus—an eccentric but earnest attempt to engage with the unfamiliar, to create space for belonging in unlikely places.

There’s something strangely sacred about a space where people are unguarded—vulnerable, yes, but safe together. It’s like the USS Serenity in Firefly—a small, odd family aboard a ship in the vast unknown, doing what they must to find their own corner of peace. That’s what I crave. But I understand my wife’s hesitation, and I’m caught between yearning and the responsibilities of love.

“When you can’t run, you crawl. And when you can’t do that… you find someone to carry you.”—Firefly

There’s also another topic—one I’ll leave unnamed here—that we tend to dance around. I’ve tried to bring it up, but when I don’t get a response, I retreat. Some things are just harder to hold in the open.

Still, in spite of any lingering silences, I am the happiest I have ever been.

My wife saved me.

That’s not hyperbole. She truly sees me. She knows my moods before I do, and often with more accuracy than I’d care to admit. My self-awareness—damaged and distorted by childhood trauma and the long shadow of a dismissive past—lags behind. But she never weaponizes that. She just waits patiently, watching, ready.

She was the one who helped me begin to face one of my deepest discomforts: being in large crowds. Early in our relationship, she took me to Walley World. The sheer mass of people overwhelmed me. My fight-or-flight kicked in hard. I was ready to run. But she noticed. She pulled me aside, said, “Let’s just sit here for a bit.” At the time, it seemed counterintuitive. Sit? In this chaos?

But she knew. And it helped.

Then came COVID. The parks emptied out, and we went again—this time to Wonder Wharf. For the first time, I could enjoy the magic without the sensory assault. Later, post-COVID, the crowds returned—but the panic didn’t. Something had shifted. I’d been slowly desensitized, like a psychological vaccine, and it worked. Exposure therapy by way of ferris wheels, sea shanties, and questionable mascots. A strange remedy, but it worked—because she administered it with grace.

“The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair. And though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” —J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

That’s love. Not the fireworks, not the clichés. Love is noticing when someone is about to break, and quietly stepping in with a different plan. It’s adjusting your pace so your partner can breathe. It’s what the Millennium Falcon might feel like—not the shiniest ship in the galaxy, but home because of who’s inside it. Or like Robin’s Nest chaotic, strange, and somehow exactly where you belong.

“To be loved, truly loved, is to be known. And still not rejected.”—Paraphrased from River Song, Doctor Who

I know I’ve rambled. I know this post is unpolished, maybe too raw. But I needed to write it. Maybe so that if “tomorrow never comes,” she’ll have something. Something that says: you were seen, you were loved, and you saved me.

She is one of a kind.

She is my unicorn.

Excerpt

She sees me—truly sees me—when I can’t even find myself. In her, I found healing, laughter, and the quiet grace of being understood. She is my safe harbor, my adventurer, my unicorn. If tomorrow never comes, let this stand: she saved me, and I loved her more than words allow.