───

Before husband: My morning routine set my happy, energetic tone for the day. Wake up. Feed my dogs who get hit by zoomies upon seeing me before breakfast. Go to work. Thrive.

After husband: My morning routine involves pretending I’m a koala clinging onto my favourite eucalyptus tree until my bladder forces me out of bed. Then I make breakfast for us and do the equivalent of human zoomies with excited chatter and silly songs.

───

Before husband: I'd text him constantly. "Miss you" "Look at this doggo!” “Going to martial arts/parkour/comedy/meet friends”.

After husband: Mentally filing away all the day’s stories for my evening not always funny open mic with my lone audience member who lives with me and is subjected to my brain dumps.

───

Before husband: Evenings were PRODUCTIVE. Martial Arts! Parkour! Friends! Family! Dogs! All the things!!! And roll into bed and cuddle my soft toys.

After husband: Cooking dinner, brain dumping, playing games and reverting to being a koala.

───

I DO have a life in this new country I’ve moved to. I enjoy time with friends but a huge part of my daily routine is now husband-shaped.

This means that now, while I'm an ocean away back in my home country with my mum, and despite my body physically doing the routine I’ve done for 11 years since 2013, my brain is in a whiny overdrive.

6:30am. My eyes open. Brain: "Where's my husband?" Mopey emotional brain groans. Logical self tells me to drag my butt out of bed to feed my dogs.

9.30pm: Tucked in. Brain: "He’s not here. I’m cold. I want a soft toy.”

───

Anyway. I'm fine. Totally fine. It's been a day and I'm coping. Not as a strong, independent woman, but coping.

Which leads me to: if you know you’re embarking on an LDR, don’t live together unless you really have to and plan to marry the person soon enough.

The routine you build with your loved one will make the LDR so much worse.

I don’t think I could survive an LDR if we had ever lived together before marriage.

I ended up driving to TWO different places before arriving at the correct one. Nearly an hour late. Thank God the surgery thankfully proceeded as it normally would, so all was well in the end, though I don’t think I can ever quite meet the doctor without wanting the earth to swallow me whole.

One would think that a person would know better than to get the hospital address wrong, right?

EXCEPT - I am still operating with a small town girl brain (and my brain certainly felt very small last week). This is my frame of reference: I come from a country where in its early days, you only had one mall, and generally, one hospital per district. Every subsequent mall had been christened anything but The Mall, referred to instead by its location. There are also five hospitals, each with a unique name.

So when you move to a bigger country where surgery is scheduled for Mount Elizabeth Novena Royal Square, the last thing you want to key into Google Maps is “Mount Elizabeth Novena”.

Because Google will helpfully autocorrect you to Mount Elizabeth, the actual Mount Elizabeth, never mind that:

1. There are actually TWO hospitals called Mount Elizabeth in Singapore, and
2. There’s also a day surgery branch called Royal Square.

Oh. My. Freaking. Goodness.

Common sense is not common.

This is a paradigm shift was earth-shattering. I don’t only need to uproot myself geographically, but update my internal GPS? Same shop, multiple locations within a few kilometres of each other? A country where branches are common place and they’ll keep the name to signal the brand? It’s like Oxford Street in London all over again, where there is a Costa and Starbucks round every corner.

To my husband’s credit, he sat me down and talked me through the abundance of hospitals, shops, etcetera, on that disastrous day of the Incident.

Thus, if you’re conquering a long distance relationship and one of you moves to a new country, please add geographical orientation to your spousal duty so it saves a lot of heartache.

Epilogue:

As I was writing this saga, my husband peered over my shoulder, and went:

“Eh, I thought there are more than just two Mount Elizabeths.”

So we looked it up together.

Turns out, he confused Gleneagles, a completely different sister hospital to Mount Elizabeth, as being the third Mount Elizabeth.

He thought it was Mount Elizabeth!

HE LIVED HERE MOST OF HIS LIFE.

Even locals get confused!

I am VINDICATED. My husband, adorably sheepish.

But the point still stands: Always ask for a bloody pin to the location and double triple check it. Otherwise, Google Maps may send small town me on yet another dance!

How courageous yet foolish we were to pursue an 11-year long distance relationship at the close of our university years together, and for me to uproot myself from my home country for love.

Would the younger me have said yes, knowing:

• Moving to a new country would be so hard? Though I speak the language, I am still learning the ropes of how things are socially.

• Finding a job will have its challenges, given I am not locally trained.

• I will miss the community I had built in my home country my family and my pet dogs?

• Learning to live with my in-laws would be a challenge, given that I already don’t fall into the category of the conventional, ideal daughter-in-law.

• My first pregnancy will end in a miscarriage.

At some level, I already knew, theoretically, that some, if not, all of the above will come to pass.

Living the above in the short span of the year that we’ve been married is another thing altogether. I had shed tears many a time.

However, can all these difficulties be pinned on my husband?

Miscarriages happen. In-law relationships are infamously tenuous. I engage in social faux pas even in my home country, just on a smaller scale. Jobs, layoffs, can happen in an instant (my previous job had its fair of challenges). My favourite colleagues and I will all retire one day. Life wasn’t easy prior to marriage either, as I was a secondary caregiver to my dad.

Since our marriage, I found my appreciation and love for my husband growing. Given my acceptance of life being difficult whether I’m single or married, I find that various pain points had lessened in intensity because he is here to offer a listening ear, advice and hugs.

There is some basis for physical pain reduction in the presence of loved ones. Researchers from CU Boulder and the University of Haifa found that holding a loved one’s hand reduces pain. They actually applied mild heat pain to women’s arms. When the partner expressed empathy without holding hands, pain was not lessened. But when they held hands, and the male partner expressed empathy, pain was significantly diminished. Their brain activity synchronised with hand-holding and the authors theorised that this kills the pain-activation sensors in the brain.

I will not be surprised if scientists find that this holds true for emotional pain one day (once they figure out how to quantify and objectively measure emotional pain; can a miscarriage hurt more than a long-lasting tenuous in-law relationship? Etc.?)

All I can confidently say, while walking around on the beautiful university grounds that:

• I am glad I was too foolish to understand the painful experiences that come with marriage and moving.

• Life will always be some level of hard, and I am glad to have someone to share the journey.

If I could go back in time, I will tell my younger self to go ahead. Don’t let the fear of pain hold you back.

The pain of regret, of not pursuing, will haunt me longer, and I will not have someone to hold my hand then.

I think the doctor meant to comfort me with this statistic as she explained I just had a miscarriage at 10 weeks.

I started the day with increasing abdominal pain but having never been pregnant before, nor miscarried before, I thought this painful sensation in my abdomen was the desire to pass motion. It truly felt indistinguishable from passing motion, except when I sat on the toilet several times that morning, nothing came out. I thought I had food poisoning and curled up in fetal position on the bed while I persuaded my husband to take over my church duties that day. I grabbed my laptop to play games, but as having my abdomen spasm itself in knots was not conducive to playing games, I napped.

The bleeding began when I woke about two hours later. Sitting up, there was a gush of blood akin to the beginning of my period. I didn’t feel alarmed; I experienced spotting, some blood mixed with mucus, throughout my pregnancy. THIS blood looked fresh and red, though. I texted my husband and suggested we go to the hospital once he’s home; there was bleeding and now that I was fully conscious, the desire to pass motion came back, relentlessly. This is something that ought to get checked.

Throughout the ride to the hospital, the pain in my abdomen intensified. I shifted the front seat’s backrest down and turned myself slightly ever so often to bear with the pain. In the car with my husband, as I chatted and even giggled through the pain, I thought of the last time I was a “passenger princess” when my mum drove me to the clinic with the front seat in the same position. I had appendicitis then, and this pain feels worse than appendicitis. I have decently high pain tolerance; post appendix surgery I barely needed painkillers and could run a 5km one month after, but now there were moments I would grimace and groan softly in pain. When we reached the hospital, I could barely sit still; I had to stand every once in a while or the urge to poop will take over me, and this time I could feel a little more trickling of blood.

When it was my turn to see the doctor, I finally realised that something was badly wrong through the way the scan went. I lay there with my feet in stirrups - the doctor first scanned my abdomen, her eyebrows furrowed with concern above the mask as she looked at the ultasound imaging screen. Then the doctor said, I’ll do a transvaginal ultrasound to get a closer look. She used a speculum and she said, there’s quite a bit of blood, so I’ll help you clean it. The doctor was professional the whole time, making reassuring sounds like, I just need to clean a bit more, sorry, I know it’s painful. Later I realised she must have done a suction aspiration on me, cleaning out the blood and the remains of the fetus that had already detached from the uterine wall.

When the doctor said the cleaning was complete, I felt the pain in my abdomen diminish significantly. However, when I got off the examination chair, I could see so much blood caught on the absorbent underpad beneath me. I knew then that I have miscarried.

Then the doctor sat me down with my husband and explained I just had a complete miscarriage. Who knew that there are multiple types of miscarriages? In my case, the body decided the fetus was not viable and started to eject the fetus on its own. In some cases, the fetus stopped growing, and a medical procedure needs to be done to take it out. I had since learned about a chemical miscarriage, where the embryo implants, but the positive pregnancy test is soon followed by a negative result and bleeding around the fifth week.

The doctor also emphasised that miscarriage is usually not the woman’s fault and would usually happen in the first trimester. It could be chromosomal abnormalities, or as I later found on Dr Google, a blighted ovum where an embryo implants, but the embryo didn’t develop. It could be a maternal health condition like autoimmune diseases or thyroid disease, uterine abnormalities and hormonal infections. I already had an inkling that things are not looking good a few weeks back, as the ultrasound lab technician who scanned me during my seventh week said the fetus was small and had a slow fetal heartbeat.

However, a “complete” miscarriage doesn’t end with the fetus coming out; I continued cramping and bleeding for at least a week after. The abdominal pain which I now recognise as contractions stopped, but some other abdominal pain continued. I had to take painkillers to ease the pain. It was bad enough that once the painkillers wore off, I’ll be wakened by the pain. A large wound remained where the fetus detached from the uterine wall and took some time to heal. I was only at 10 weeks when I miscarried, and it seems that a miscarriage at an even later week will take even longer to heal. A successful pregnancy will also result in an even bigger wound, so I understand now why in Asian cultures, mothers spend a month recuperating.

It’s possible to get an infection as one heals. In between, I had more abdominal pain after two pain-free weeks, and a scan revealed liquid in the uterus. A mere 8.8mm and I was doubled in pain. Broad-spectrum antibiotics largely solved the infection, but antibiotics also wiped out the good bacteria in my gut and triggered a bad bout of diarrhea and really bad cramps.

But finally, five weeks post miscarriage, my period came again. With that, this episode of pregnancy and miscarriage has officially come to its end.

On the one hand, it’s a comfort to know I could do nothing to prevent the miscarriage.

On the other, it’s not a comfort to know I could do nothing to prevent the miscarriage.

Some call it nature, evolution’s way of ensuring the survival of the fittest. Some call it God’s mysterious plan and testing.

I wish I didn’t have to experience it.

Nonetheless, when my husband and I try for kids again, we will be going in with our eyes wide open, fully aware of the possibility of a miscarriage and what that entails. This time, I will guard my heart and hold my breath a little more, until the baby is safely delivered.

For the longest time, I believed that my dad loved my mum more than she loves him.

How could he not? My mum is the life of the party. In every gathering, people flocked towards her, drawn by her bright laughter and excited chatter. Ever the introvert, my dad sat on the sidelines, smiling and gazing at her. Sharing my dad’s genes, I sat on the same sidelines and watched his gaze land on her with a look that can only be described as adoration.

Then, from the beginning of 2013, the complaints started.

“Your dad is growing difficult as he’s aging,” my mum grumbled in our weekly calls. I was studying overseas in a newly minted relationship with husband-then-boyfriend while my mum talked my ear off with complaints. My dad was no longer willing to do the things he normally did around the house; change the light fixtures, help feed our chickens and clean the chicken coop, and so forth. Worse still, my dad got angry at my mum when she asked him to help, saying it is difficult to complete these chores.

I thought they were headed for divorce.

Then I returned home mid-2013, and I felt something wasn’t right with my dad.

My dad’s new behaviour bothered me. From being the person who reminded everyone to switch off the lights, he left them on as he wandered the house. “I can’t fix this” came out of his mouth more often even though he was a genius with his hands and tools.

I became convinced in my bones that this wasn’t normal aging. When I voiced my concerns timidly to my mum and my closer relatives, they would respond with a variant of, “Choy! Choy! Choy! Everyone gets difficult as they age.” (Trust the Asian belief that voicing concerns with dad’s health will manifest tangible illnesses; most of my relatives will rather stick their heads in the sand).

But I persisted in getting him checked. God was kind enough to plant me in a church with a convenient access to a doctor friend and several people with less superstition, so after several conversations my dad’s appointment with a specialist was arranged.

We rang in the year 2014 with the official diagnosis of my dad’s early-onset dementia. He was 63.

My mum’s grumblings stilled and she regarded my dad with new light. He didn’t mean to do any of this to her. And my mum’s caretaking duties began.

A day, a week, a month, or all at once, my dad lost one more function that was previously taken for granted. He used to be able to mop the house as my mum vacuumed, and then he can’t. He could bathe himself, then he can’t. He could use the toilet by himself, then we had to clean him up after he had accidents in the house. He could stand up and help as we got him in and out of the wheelchair, or as we showered him, then he can’t. He could tell us what he wanted to eat, then he could only spit out what he didn’t want to eat as we fed him his meals. He could drink water from a cup, then he had to use a straw. He could chew his food, then he forgot how to swallow safely.

I cried a lot during this period, grieving my dad’s loss of cognitive and executive functions. Even the processes that come so instinctively - chewing and eventually breathing! - became Herculean efforts. I also grew frightened of my dad as he had violent episodes - he hit my mum occasionally - something he would never have done if his mind were well. In fact, he would throw himself in front of a truck if it means shielding my mum.

I also grieved watching my mum’s love and care for my dad. I was always secondary caregiver, and she was the faithful primary caregiver for four years until we were in the position where we could afford external help. Even then, in the 6.5 remaining years of my dad’s life, my mum was involved in my dad’s daily showers until he was reduced to taking sponge baths on the medical bed we bought. No hits or bruises deterred her from her duty, and she didn’t see it as duty because she truly loves my dad. Even now, when he is dead and buried.

My husband-then-boyfriend supported me through this. I would have breakdowns where I would call him just to cry. At the same time, I thought of breaking up so many times. Not because I didn’t love my him, but because the stress and sacrifice of caregiving made me spiral - what if he gets dementia? - or worse, what if I get dementia given that it seems to run in the family?

To love, in sickness and in health.

I was so afraid of not being able to keep up with this vow, if we get married.

Then I would cheer myself up with thoughts of how the probability exists of me dying young from the stress of caregiving or in a car accident, and how I can speed it along. For full disclosure, I recognise these are terribly unhealthy coping mechanisms, so I went to see a therapist for my suicidal ideation.

My husband-then-boyfriend saw me at my worst, and loves me anyways. And I cried a lot more because how can I break up and break the heart of someone who loves me so sincerely.

Then one day, there was a small whispered epiphany. What if neither of us gets dementia? Would I want to break up then? And if I get dementia, surely I can have a say for how I am to be cared for. I can be put in a home, and spare him the caregiving hell I was going through. Love doesn’t need to look like how my mum chose to care for my dad.

My husband-then-boyfriend and I began to have conversations on how we would like to be cared for in our old age. I am still adamant that he can put me in a home and live life, whereas he still thinks he prefers caring for me our shared home, but anyways, we have started this conversation. We recognise that our commitment to each other is a long-term affair.

A morbid conversation to have with your partner:

Have you thought about how you’ll care for each other when you grow old and ill? How would care look like for each of you?

This question also clarifies for me whether my partner is someone I want to grow old with.

And because he is, and because of all of the above he has done for me, I gained the courage to stick to the LDR, and also say yes to marriage.

He was home too early that night, and without my mum. My sister’s and my greetings went unacknowledged. He growled, “Siam, siam!” the Hokkien equivalent of “Scram!” as he made a beeline up to his and my mum’s bedroom, and he began pulling clothes out of the drawer. His movements were not angry, but he had a frenzied, frantic energy of a man who was drowning and trying to pull himself together. I can’t remember who asked where mum was, and he said, “Your mummy had a stroke.” And as quickly as he arrived, he ran down, revved up the car and was gone.

A stroke.

What was that? My young teenage brain couldn’t fathom it.

My sister, the smarter one, pulled out an encyclopaedia of scientific facts and looked up “stroke”.

A serious illness caused when a blood vessel in your brain suddenly breaks or is blocked.

We then realised my mum was ill and required a hospital stay.

I can’t remember what else happened later that night. I don’t think my dad returned - he must have kept vigil by my mum’s bedside in the hospital. My aunty must have put the two of us to bed, alongside my little brother who was too young to understand.

My dad was a stoic man. After that night, he dutifully sent us children to school and brought us to see her during visiting hours. He never broke character nor cried, and I never saw that side of him again for as long as he was well.

But that terrible night of the stroke let the understanding of his love for my mother seep into my bones. I’ve always known that my father loved my mother. He adored her, his gaze riveted on her and his eyes smiling when she laughed or chatted away. Yet, the night of the terrible stroke made his love for her even more tangible - I knew then that he loved her then more than all us children combined.

Close to a decade later, my mum told me the story of how he asked her to get well. “What will the children do without a mother?” Knowing my dad, his question really meant, “What will I do without you?”

My mum got better. My mum initially lost function of her right arm, but acupuncture, physical therapy and devoted hand and arm massages by my determined father helped her regain close to 90% of its previous function. No one could tell she ever had a stroke, though she is reminded of it whenever she had to write - a scrawl is all she could muster instead of her previously beautiful penmanship.

Do I wish the stroke never happened? Of course. My mum and dad probably even more so.

But life doesn’t run on wishes. It goes its own merry way.

Nonetheless, the trials of life reveals character and love on a more fundamental level.

And if the trial of caring for a wife with a stroke was a test, my dad passed it with flying colours.

How does any of this relate to long-distance relationships?

Don’t get me wrong, long distance was hard.

However, in the grand scheme of things, the “trial” of dating my husband-then-boyfriend who is two hours away by plane and not seeing him in person everyday are “first-world” hardships compared to the painstaking recovery I witnessed. If we can’t get through something like that, I reasoned, then it’s probably not a relationship that could last, and therefore not a relationship I would want.

So early in my LDR, I laid down another principle:

If we can endure smaller trials, we have the foundation to face larger trials together in the future.

And life decided to test us to the extreme. My dad got diagnosed with dementia in 2014.

The entirety of this interaction took less than 10 seconds.

But the act of wandering over was really cute and made me feel I matter.

As for my husband, he is always so chuffed when he makes me smile.

According to Dr John Gottman’s theory, couples who respond to each other’s bid for connection effectively create a deposit in the “Emotional Bank Account” - and the higher the deposits, the happier the couple in their relationship. He came up with this theory after observing couples in his lab; couples who remained married six years later responded to each other’s bids 86% of the time, whereas couples who divorced responded only 33% of the time.

To any outside observer, it may be unsurprising that my husband and I still bid and respond to each other most of the time as fairly recent newlyweds of little more than one year.

However, my personal view is that our bids for connection is a habit formed from being in an LDR for 11 years prior. We just shifted from a 10 second online medium to an in-person experience.

Let me explain.

When we dated, we actually didn’t have a lot of time together (even online!) Our schedules didn’t quite match, with him working longer hours and I working earlier hours in the day, so we had the opportunity to have a two-hour face-to-face session only once a week.

Any relationship can wilt with so little time spent together. Indeed, it might have, if not for the fact that throughout the week, my then boyfriend and I checked in regularly with each other through texts that take no longer than 10 seconds to send.

Woke up? Sent a “good morning”.

Middle of the day? Sent a “thinking of you.”

Bed time? Sent a “good night”.

And of course, dashing off a quick reply when we can, even as simple as a “love you”.

These check-ins have since translated to wandering around to look for each other in our little apartment when we’re both at home, for a micro-interaction in the form of a quick affirmative comment or a hug.

Gottman didn’t differentiate “bids”; it could be as explicit as saying, “I need to talk,” or as subtle as a glance, a smile, or a shared joke.

But, if I take his theory one step further, “bids” can be broken down to two categories. Requests for soul-searching conversations that one requires to deepen a relationship (“I need to talk”), or micro-interactions which are not the intense, but important all the same to sustain what you have.

What this means for a LDR

Quality time matters, but it’s not always possible in an LDR.

Building little habits that both can happily engage in to connect with each other is the next best thing. For the both of us, having 10 second check-ins throughout the day to supplement our overall communication helped to sustain the relationship.

Other LDR couples who I know that were successful had similar check-ins, but in the form of a 5 minute call during the day, or through writing long-form letters to each other weekly.

The key here is to decide on a supplementary check-in that works and makes both people in the relationship happy. I’m a terrible mind reader; if you’re like me, it could be worth just opening a conversation with your partner to see what check-ins you could both sustain and enjoy.

Key principle

Have a conversation with your partner on the expectations each of you have on check-ins throughout the week.

Think about the frequency you prefer (Thrice daily? Daily?), your expected response time (you’d expect a response after the work day ends or throughout the working day?) and what makes you feel loved and reassured (a greeting and a cute emoji does it for me!)

Also think about whether these are sustainable check-ins that align with the other necessary facets of your life (such as working hours and timezones).

The hope is it’ll soon become a self-sustaining habit that you both really enjoy, and use to remind each other how much you love them.

My baby Brownie, whom I have cared for in the past seven years and was separated from in his eighth; the year I moved away from home. I could only watch helplessly through the phone as he had a seizure and took his final few breaths while my mum video called me over the phone.

And I cried, and I cried, and I cried.

Grief collapsed my shared history with Brownie into a moment. Even though I was no longer in the same country as my dog, my mind returned to the mornings I gave Brownie his food, and his bark of joy whenever I’m home, and when I bent down to ruffle his fur and saw his tail whirl like a little helicopter.

And I will never get to do any of that with him again.

And my husband helplessly looked at me. In the same country, in the same room, but the grief of a dog-lover made it such that he might as well have been looking at me through a video screen as well.

He never had a pet.

Shared life, different grief

The experience of grief is isolating. I really wanted to be understood but couldn’t muster the energy to explain how much my Brownie meant to me, to explain why I am drowning his memory with salty tears.

And I knew, even if I spent the week explaining, my husband can never truly understand.

He already knows, in an abstract way, how much I love my dogs, but words of explanation will never reach him the same way loving a pet ever could.

Does my love for my dog need to be understood, though? And does he need to understand in order to show up?

Showing up as we are

I cried many snotty tears.

He folded tissues.

He asked ChatGPT what to do.

Then he sat with me, let me lean on him and cry some more.

My sister invited us over and though it’s a deviation to his usual schedule, he made time so that he and I can go over. So that I can grieve with my sister, who also spent a good many years with Brownie.

And you know what?

Brownie still left a hole in my heart. My husband cannot do anything to fill that hole. He also can’t see why I love the dog so much.

But he showed up in the way he knows how.

So to my earlier question, “Does your partner need to fully understand your grief to support you?”

I think not.

As the person being held, it helps to recognise the shape of what your partner can offer. There may always be a gap, especially in grief, because we lived different lives. But your partner needn’t fully understand to support you.

In the hard moments, maybe this is what love looks like. Waiting and watching from across the gulf of grief, but refusing to leave you alone on your side of it.

This was precisely the scenario painted by Andy Grammer’s lyrics for his song, “Honey, I’m Good”. The song presents the man as he makes his choice. Surrounded by “long, long legs” everywhere and despite the attraction he feels, he remembers his partner and says, “Nah, honey, I’m good.” He is committed to being monogamous and faithful to his original relationship.

The song peaked at number 9 on the Billboard Hot 100 in 2014, suggesting that people resonate with the desire to be a loving, faithful partner (and of course, the rhythm is catchy too!). Get on Youtube to watch the official music video and you are greeted with many comments gushing over the cuteness of the music video which features real-life couples who had been together for up to 71 years!

This YouTube video is too cute not to share.

I find that some people may enter a long-distance relationship with a less healthy mindset. The long-distance partner is an insurance option. As the partner is away, they can explore other options locally and “trade up”.

I will be the first to say that you would not have failed in a long-distance relationship if you break up, because to me, being in a relationship is meant to be a chance to discover if you are really meant for each other. Breaking up over long-distance, lifestyle differences, etc are all valid!

However, cheating during a long-distance relationship is an issue of integrity. Trust is a core principle of relationships, even more so in a long-distance relationship when one would barely have the chance to see each other in person. At the start of the relationship, my then-boyfriend and I mutually agreed that we will break up and never get back together if one of us cheats on the other. As should you, if your partner cheats during the long-distance relationship.

So to give your LDR the best shot, try out this principle:

Not to cheat on each other for as long as you are together.

It was only when a friend texted, “Happy Wedding Anniversary!” that I remembered it was a day of any significance.

Later, I asked my husband if he remembered what day it was.

He forgot too.

🤣

One would think, after an 11-year LDR, we will enthusiastically celebrate our wedding anniversary, a day where we “made it”.

Instead, for the rest of the day, we let the hours pass as though it’s any other day. No candles, no special dinner, no card.

My dear friend will probably be aghast when I tell her (and she will chide me for not being romantic enough 🤣).

(ChatGPT Generated Image)

Nonetheless, her beautiful gesture of texting us also points to an underlying wider societal expectation, that wedding and other anniversaries are to be celebrated.

It’s beautiful to celebrate anniversaries; however, my husband and I later mused that this particular wedding anniversary didn’t matter to us.

For starters, if we had to pick a day of significance to us both, we would have picked the day that we first got together. In the grand scheme of our relationship’s timeline, the start date of our LDR is a more precious reminder that we made it this far.

Second, even if this particular wedding anniversary was a day of significance to us, the act of forgetting wouldn’t turn our relationship sour immediately. According to the Gottman and Levenson’s research (1970), the magic ratio of a happy and stable relationship is 5 positive interactions for every 1 negative one. Almost embarrassingly, I have forgotten my husband’s birthday and our dating anniversary before - not because I don’t care, but life gets busy. And, in the grand scheme of things, forgetting an anniversary is a teeny tiny blip of all the positive interactions we typically have.

Professor Gaub, in her research, put it eloquently:

“Valentine’s Day [or any other anniversary] is probably best seen as one day in 365 rather than a meaningful event in the relationship. Couples should perhaps see it as a launchpad; the start of a commitment to the relationship and daily gestures that show how much it means.”

So what does this mean for couples (especially those in an LDR)?

1. Ask yourselves: what are we celebrating?

   Is this date meaningful to both parties? Do we need to celebrate all milestones e.g., dating anniversary, wedding anniversary, Valentines’ etc.? And why is this celebration important to each partner?

   The principle of celebrating a mutually-agreed meaningful date cannot be emphasised enough. I know of couples when one party is very unhappy with her partner as he didn’t see the point of celebrating Valentines’ as well as their dating anniversary (and it didn’t help that their friends posted the flowers they received from their partners on Instagram).

   For my husband and I, as we equally couldn’t care less for any other date beyond our dating anniversary, we simply giggled over the fact that my friend remembered whereas we didn’t.

   Principle: You should ideally match your partner’s expectations.

2. Can I get away with not celebrating?

   A man doesn’t want to celebrate Valentine’s. I forget a birthday.

   Both are not great situations.

   However, if the commitment to the relationship is there, shown in daily affirmations of “love you’s” and a thousand acts of little kindnesses - then, there is no real need to beat oneself up for forgetting, or for pushing too hard in celebrating something a partner doesn’t care much about.

   Principle: Compromise and grace. It goes a long way.

Action items I would do this week: Before an important date rolls by, have a conversation with your partner and ask them what they’d like celebrated and why.

So ta for now. I’m off to uncover which other dates means a lot to my partner, and maybe pre-plan something that will make him feel extra loved!

11 years of LDR and (perhaps, despite!) 1 year of marriage later, my husband and I are still in love.

I say that not to brag, but in wonderment that our relationship has lasted that long and is still going strong. Today marks the official one year anniversary of our second(!) wedding party. Being an LDR couple for 11 years meant that we had built communities in our respective countries, and our communities can’t wait to celebrate with us as we finally got married. In my case, my community probably also wanted to ascertain with their own eyes that I am marrying a decent man, given that I was moving to his country for good, and for most of the LDR, he was unable to travel to me.

Nonetheless, I digress.

Many ask of our 11-year LDR, “How did you manage?”

And I usually replied, “I don’t know.”

What a BS answer, if I say so myself.

The truth is, I do know now.

After spending the first year of our marriage in person, I have come to realise that my husband and I had unwittingly built simple systems that helped sustain and grow our relationship despite the LDR, and these systems are now helping our marriage. I love him more today than one year ago at our wedding, and I loved him more at our wedding than at the beginning of our almost foolhardy LDR, when we both decided as final year university students to begin our relationship, knowing full well that we each have government scholarship bonds to serve in our respective countries.

As a hopeless romantic who thinks that there should be more love in this world, I’ll not be sharing our private lives but the principles and systems that helped us, in the hope that you too will have a love that endures.

Please subscribe and follow if you’re interested in learning more!

PS. As some of you might have realised, this publication’s title is a cheeky allusion to Shakespeare’s Love Labours’ Lost. The King of Navarre and his 3 friends swear off women to devote themselves to study, and immediately falls in love with the Princess of France and her ladies. However, unlike his typical comedy plays, the play doesn’t end in marriage; the wedding is set for “a year and a day” later because the Princess’s father dies.

In an almost ironic parallel, my husband and I fell in love at university back in 2013 when we were supposed to devote ourselves to study, didn’t get married immediately because of our scholarship bonds, and my father also passed away a month before my wedding. However, in our case, it is a blessing to be able to say that our Love Labours Won.

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