It was this day, ten years ago, that my husband and I went on our first date. We shared two classes that semester, my final one, at college and he chased me down after History & Structure of the English Language to ask me to Starbucks. I was not looking for love — and in fact, was actively trying to avoid it — and had spent nearly every day for the last two weeks (or more?), attempting to find alternative ways to walk to/from class so that I wouldn’t have to talk to him, who was nothing if not blatantly obvious in his intentions. But he was bold and he was persistent and I was too nice to say no, so I obliged. And the rest, as they say, is history.
It’s been quite a decade. We have gotten engaged, gotten married, adopted a dog, suffered through months of infertility treatments, moved to another state, bought a house, brought three new lives into the world, and said good-bye to a tiny embryo that never got the chance to live. We have traveled to Alaska, Hawaii, Oregon, California, London, and Australia. We have graduated college, ended old friendships, began new ones, lived through week-long power outages, told my mother about the abuse I suffered as a child, paid off our student loans, quit jobs and started new ones (many, many new ones), and purchased two new vehicles.
I’m thankful for it all, the good and bad and most of all that my husband saw my value and worth — my potential — all those years ago, long before I ever saw it myself.