“Get the fuck out of my house!” my husband yelled.
“Excuse me? I fucking live here!” I screamed. “Plus, I don’t have a car!”
But it was his house—a penthouse condo on the water. As for me? I was his wife, paid help, a squatter.
Standing inches from the door and my husband, I felt myself pulling away from myself. There was me: paralyzed, flooded, hateful. There was me: witnessing, weighing, straining to make sense of the scene and this stranger. The one who’d declared his love after only four days. The one who’d saved the day by whisking me away to south Florida.
Somehow, we were here. Somehow, we’d become monsters.
It all started when, after a few months of long-distance dating, I asked him to join me at a remote Buddhist centre for New Year’s. What I’d originally planned as a solo retreat became our first date.
Walking and meditating together amidst silent, snow-covered mountains, we fell in love fast. The details of being in relationship were a whole other story. He had his imagination; I had mine. Our beginnings were full of romance but fell short on logistics.
By his second visit a month later, we’d begun discussing how and when I’d leave Colorado and join him in Florida. The specifics were vague; the timeline felt distant. Then—without intending to—I pushed our hand.
The brief version goes something like this: I was a newly licensed Doctor of Traditional Chinese Medicine working at another doctor’s clinic. His wife co-owned the clinic and worked the front desk. I discovered she was prescribing and selling contraindicated herbs to my patients (despite having no medical license, training, etc.). I insisted the situation must stop, she was enraged, the whole thing unraveled.
Meanwhile, for our purposes here, you should also know this: My new love was visiting me at the time, saw what was happening, and understood my position. A Chinese Medicine doctor himself, he took my side. But as a romantic partner planning our future? He said: “Whatever you do, don’t quit your job.”
I really tried to not quit my job. And, I still quit my job.
Was quitting without a backup plan wise? No. But two things: 1) I refuse to choose financial security over medical legalities and ethics. 2) Bringing my complaint forward brought wrath from the boss’s wife and an untenable situation; remaining in their clinic was, for all intents, no longer possible.
In the aftermath, I was shaking, distraught, without a job or a plan. And, I didn’t expect him or anyone else to sweep in to save me. It was my doing. I would figure it out.
But we were in love, and he did step in—encouraging me to move in with him in Florida sooner rather than later. I pressed for details about money and specifics. He offered love, dreams, reassurance. I pleaded to know: Are you sure? Like really sure? He responded with: Don’t worry. I’ve got it and us covered.
So, I chose heart over head and I leapt. I chose love and said fuck the logistics.
You can probably see where this is going: Amidst falling head over heels…amidst quitting my job in righteous fury…amidst going into “solution mode” while sidestepping clear, honest conversations about money and marriage…we each signed up for entirely different arrangements.
In our first marriage (there’s a second and a second chance coming), we each assumed we were getting one thing and got something else. I moved to Florida. I began working for his business providing Chinese Medicine at addiction treatment centres. We opened our own clinic on loans and married that summer. Along the way, we remained over-the-top in love and that love took a turn into darkness.
Money does that sometimes. Too much. Not enough. Enough that feels never enough or just barely. It has little to do with the amount, really. It has little to do with actual money. Just with everything else. Just with self, shame, and survival.
You can find more backstory here and here. But in most ways, the details don’t matter. What matters is that we entered into a relationship with wildly different ideas about what it would look like. In regards to work, home, sex, finances, everything. And—because I moved cross-country and signed on as girlfriend, wife, and employee in one fell swoop—all those things were tangled together.
I know, I know. If I heard this, I’m pretty sure what I’d be thinking: I’d picture an impulsive woman in her twenties, perhaps with a history of codependency and childhood trauma, looking to fill a caretaker-sized hole in her heart.
Some of that would be correct. But here’s the surprising part (even to me): I’m queer, fiercely independent, and obsessed with silence and solitude. When I met my husband-to-be, I was in my late thirties and had two advanced degrees. My preferred housemates were cats, not humans.
I never planned on getting married. I especially didn’t plan to marry an energetically exuberant man or move to south Florida. Or let someone pay my bills, sort my taxes, and buy my first car.
And yet, within that, a paradox: From the time of my earliest fantasies, I’d been praying for someone to save me. Even now, in my most secret rooms, I’m still wishing for someone to take control, calm the chaos, make things okay.
Was this the reason I said yes and signed on? Especially in the angsty, uncertain aftermath of quitting my job? No. Was it part of the attraction? Absolutely.
I wouldn’t have admitted this at the time, of course. But being taken care of was deeply attractive. For once in my fearful, exhausted, stressed-out life, I could rest easy from worrying about bills, rent, groceries, the rest of it.
The in-the-bones relief that came with that—that came with someone else taking care—went way beyond money. I had the conventional trappings and proof that I mattered. I’d escaped basement apartments, risen above shame, and no longer feared for survival.
Of course, fear and shame don’t dissolve as soon as someone shows you love or buys you nice things. They especially don’t dissolve if we push them aside while dancing the Dance of Unspoken Agreements.
That’s where our marriage lived: On the one hand, I resented my husband for how he took over our finances, our work, and our lives. On the other, I relished ceding control. For once, I thought, I’ll let someone take care of me.
And god was I grateful he was taking care. But also, I was deeply ashamed of my desperation and neediness. It felt like I’d proven myself a reactive, immature fuck-up, and my love insinuated as much during the worst of our fights. In his mind, I suppose it was proof of my brokenness and the start of our downfall. In my mind, well…I figured perhaps he was right.
In the early days of our relationship, you wouldn’t have guessed any of this from the outside looking in. We were crazy in love. We were fervent in our affections. He seemed to enjoy (and I think did enjoy) taking care of me and covering expenses. But even then—even then—it felt like too much for nothing and too good to be true.
I thought I was getting financial security, yes. But also a partner who understood and even admired my independent spirit, discipline, and deep love of silence. I’m not saying he didn’t admire those things! But let’s just say he thought he was getting a much different package. He’d hoped for a contented, enthusiastic wife, employee, and cheerleader. He wanted someone to cheer him on and follow his lead. He desired someone to plug into his life and his business in a way that’d make us both happy.
The truth is, I don’t even know what’s true anymore. The story that I’ve believed and repeated for so long no longer feels like the whole of it. Standing here now, looking back at us then, I think we each could’ve, should’ve done many things differently.
In any case, here’s how it went: The posh conglomeration of addiction treatment centres funding our lifestyle pulled out. There was no just cause, no warning, no safety net.
On my own, I’d always stressed about money but lived simply, worked hard, and somehow figured it out. In partnership, I entered a new, more precarious realm of money-dread hell.
Intellectually, the business going under wasn’t my fault (and, to be clear, I never stopped going above and beyond in my work). Emotionally, I felt responsible: His business was fine before I arrived. I quit my previous job against his directive. I was the new variable in the equation and was still refusing to do and be just what he wanted.
What if I had? Would that have propped him up and the business up and made it all better? I don’t know. Even if the answer is yes, I don’t know that I’d choose it.
Look, none of this was the cause of our problems. None of this marked the start of the nightly screaming and eventual divorce. Fucked-up dynamics and unspoken agreements were the default because, fundamentally, there was no agreement to speak of. We went in with unaligned expectations that exploded in personal, professional, and financial disaster.
And yes. I tried. We tried. But with the money gone and no history of clear communication to build on, what never worked really didn’t work. Neither of us was getting any of what we’d signed up for. I was horrendous. He was horrendous. We grew more cruel and ferocious as finances got worse.
Were we physically abusive? No. Were we stealing from each other, throwing things, slashing tires, or having affairs? Nope, none of that either. But the screams from my childhood had found new voices.
I was not only reliving a nightmare. We had become it.
There is a happy ending here. Against all odds—through the worst of the worst and the worst of our monsters—we kept loving each other.
Our first marriage was July 13, 2013. Our second was August 13, 2020. In between: Divorce. Heartbreak. Dissolution.
This meant separating fully, living apart, and time getting our own lives and finances in order. This meant accepting we were over and didn’t need each other to go on living.
Even after remarrying, we lived apart for two years. Only then did I feel brave, safe, and healed enough to let us back in.
To salvage us, we had to rip out our very foundations. To start anew, we first had to fully dismember. From there arose another opportunity and a second chance. From there we embarked on a different relationship.
And today? Do we still struggle with money? Do we still struggle with all of it?
Yes and yes.
Individually and as a couple, money is scarce and we’re facing hard choices. But the unspoken agreements are fewer. The expectations, more clear. We talk to each other rather than scream. We listen to each other rather than simply assume. I still live with echoes from my past just like anyone else. But here and now, in our new marriage, I’m no longer reliving my childhood.
I don’t yet believe in fairytale endings. I make no promises about what awaits in six months, a year, or a decade. But I know I love him and me and us. I know that I’m proud of us for creating a love and a life I could’ve never imagined.
We are together, kinder, in love. We are taking care of each other and taking care of ourselves.
New Rules
I’ll be sharing more about how we got “from there to here” in future essays. For now, let’s just say certain rules were essential. Within this new partnership but also life generally:
I no longer consent to unspoken agreements that go against my very nature and assault the deepest part of me. Even for money. Especially for money.
I no longer hide or shame the parts of me that don’t align with what’s “normal.” I honour and celebrate the truth that “atypical” doesn’t mean broken.
I no longer hold expectations that he or anyone else can take care of me—except through love, consideration, listening, and kindness. Those sorts of care aren’t tied to money. In marriage, those sorts of care have become non-negotiable.
I recognize there are big places where I need to grow and could do things better. I recognize that I’m still discovering these places—including through writing essays like this one. As best I can, I take accountability and offer myself grace and space. As best I can, I remember that he deserves grace and space too.
There is, in the end, no villain or victim in this story. There is no right or wrong in showing up fully, honestly, and openly as ourselves. The key is being clear: Saying this is who I am and who I’m becoming. This is what I desire and need. This is what I can offer. These are the places I’m willing to shift and stretch and seek to grow. These are the things I am not and can’t or won’t give you.
So, all this: Showing up. Getting honest. Owning what’s ours and who we are—around money and everything else. Then, any agreements are brought into the light. Any agreements are actually agreed upon. And any delusions of changing another person or getting them to fix our original wounds are brought forward too. This takes their destructive power away. This offers conversation, clear seeing, compassion.
Now you.
In our first marriage, we embraced and celebrated our love while leaving the hard parts unsaid. The monsters and unskillful parts of us grew there, in darkness and denial. Left to their own devices, they became everything.
The details of this can look all kinds of ways—your own horror story may look nothing like mine. But I want to leave you with a few things:
Money and fights over money are never just about money.
In close relationships, our beliefs, wounds, fears, and survival mechanisms bounce off one another as our hearts strive to connect. Add money problems, and disconnect can take over everything.
Unspoken agreements and assumptions around money in relationships are poison. Part of the antidote is seeing and naming the dance, the dynamics, our responsibility, and our patterns.
Naming and changing our patterns around money individually and in relationship is so fucking hard. And, it’s possible. The cause is not lost. There is a way out.
The way out may mean staying. The way out may mean leaving. But regardless of whether we stay or leave, our patterns will persist until we bring them into the light, take responsibility for what’s ours, and take steps to change. (Otherwise, we might swap partners, but we’ll keep dancing the same broken dance.)
I’d love for you to share in the comments:
Does anything in my story feel familiar?
Are you caught up in any unspoken agreements around money? Whether with a partner, family member, friend, or some other significant person in your life?
If you had to describe the dynamics of that relationship in simple terms, could you? How so?
What needs to happen for those dynamics to shift? What’s your next move?
Those are suggestions. Feel free to freestyle. Just please keep it about you and your experience (no unsolicited advice, please).
And please tap the little ♡ to offer the gift of “social proof” (sigh). It’s a small thing, but one that lets others know there’s something useful here. The more folks subscribe (and especially the more folks become paying subscribers), the more time I can devote to this newsletter—which I consider my most meaningful, most healing work.
Thank you. I appreciate you. I love you.
Dana
Moving story Dana!! After reading posts on Substack, I usually try to take some time to metabolize the story before commenting. Well, I read yours and then went to my e-mail inbox and check this out. My daily meditations from Ram Dass:
“Parents are environments for their children, lovers are an environment for their partners. You keep working – you become the soil – moist and soft and receptive so the person can grow the way they need to grow, because how do you know how they should grow?”
I hope you and Randy are becoming good soil for each other. 🙏
Oh Dana, I love this so much. Everything you wrote about resonated with me except being with someone who would also work to resolve it. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day I left my husband and kids, no longer able to live in a relationship that had the potential for me to drink in. I thought that it would be the catalyst to wake him up yet sadly discovered that there wasn't going to be any catalyst that would do that. Learning to stand on my own two feet, create a new home where my children would move in full time as he abdicated any parenting responsibility has been the hardest thing I have ever done. I too had found myself reliving the nightmare that I'd been brought up in, despite every intention and belief that our love would be enough. I am still single, nine years later and, like getting sober, I am grateful that I hadn't known how hard it could be. This is where I needed to be, of that I will never have any doubt. Thank you for writing this today of all days ❤️