This August, my partner James and I celebrated five years of marriage.
This month also marks 10 years since we started dating at our 10-year High School Reunion. Our 20-year Reunion is tomorrow.
So, taking a break from my salty political commentary, I'd like to reflect on James and my life together. I'm sure something salty will come out; it usually does.
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According to Bride Magazine, the gifts at the 5-years of marriage mark are wood, silverware, or sapphire.
Every year, James and I look up the gifts, and then we do whatever the hell we want.
This year, we spent too much money attending two back-to-back Mariner's games.
With our shared bank account, James bought me a discounted (but still expensive) Griffey, 50th Anniversary Jackie Robinson jersey. We drank too many "discount" beers and got on the big screen twice with our House of the Dragon Luis Castillo Bobblehead while dancing to Chappell Roan's Pink Pony Club.
In the second game, we went with members of the Planned Parenthood Board, which ended with a Mitch Haniger walk-off base hit in the 9th to win the game. I got my dose of government and politics, James got his baseball fix, and we both got our favorite pastime.
We slept in on Saturday, he did a house call for work, and I went garage sailing with friends. We used a $25 gift card from Target and finally gave into the blank wall space in our back room and bought another television (hello, I need my pop culture, and he needs his baseball). His brother came over to work on our stairs (one of our never-ending projects). We topped the day off with a Wagyu steak dinner, sex, and bed by 9, at which time I streamed a fantasy novel on audible, and he immediately passed out with our 75-pound dog Charlie on his chest.
It was the best anniversary yet!
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Those of you who have been married much longer may find that we have barely skimmed the surface of the gigantic book of love or a marriage contract, which is true.
But these last five years came with some unique challenges.
I know there is much more to come – more challenges to face, more love to unravel and weave back together, more emotions and physical attractions to work through, and more tasks to take on.
And those of you who know my husband know that he's not much for the spoken word. He's much better with project details and numbers and has a fantastic knack for short, witty one-liners.
I asked him how he felt about our time together, and after much prodding and attempting to ask the question multiple ways, he said, "We got through it."
It wasn't one of his best one-liners, but he's right. We did "get through it."
Again, James is not much for speeches or long talks about feelings.
That's what I'm here for.
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We started our first three years of marriage during a global pandemic and political upheaval. At the same time, I ran the first-of-its-kind endorsement and campaign process and experienced the first virtual State Legislative session on record.
Even without everything happening in the larger world, running and serving in public office showed me how difficult it can be on families and relationships. You're constantly held to a different (not necessarily higher) standard; everything you do is watched, judged, and rated. You begin to act in ways that you think will protect you from the bad feelings so you can show up for your family. Still, in doing that, you're slowly becoming a different person, which takes you further away from your family and sometimes the realities of life.
This period was difficult, painful, and educational. While it eventually strengthened our marriage, it was touch-and-go for a while.
The pandemic and God Damn Donald Trump made us reckon with our varying thoughts and opinions on what our marriage should look like.
I'll never forget hearing James' footsteps coming up the stairs and seeing him peek in, coffee in hand, at 5:30 a.m. on February 15 to find me exactly where he left me after a Valentine's Day dinner. I had been staring at the three computer screens in my makeshift home office.
While I knew he was shocked and angry at the situation, he seemed mad at me and me alone.
That day was an extreme example of what one of our evenings looked like, but every day, zoom meetings started at 7 a.m. and ended at 7 p.m. And that's if you were lucky. Meetings were typically followed by phone calls to legislators, lobbyists, and advocates while making dinner… and drinking.
Sure, I guess I could have better planned my week ahead and carved out time for us, and not accepted every invite to every event I was asked to attend, but let's be honest, whenever a politician does that, they are accused of not being serious about the work or being selfish. I couldn't decide not to show up when constituents were going to be present or turn down an invite because my husband wanted to spend time with me. These excuses are reasonable in theory but never work in practice.
One day in 2022, James finally had it. It was a Saturday evening and the last day of the Washington State Legislative Session. He had been patient for 105 days and wanted to do something with me. I didn't wholly know the plan for that day. We were listening to personal speeches about people retiring. People I didn't really know or had a chance to care about.
And I was mad, too. I was angry that the Speaker of the House was there in person and that I, and probably everyone else joining in online from across the state, had no idea what the timeline was. I was angry for being forced to stare at a fucking screen while I waited for people there to figure their shit out. I was mad that with all this talk about self-care, they expected us to just be here. To wait.
I wanted to say, "Yeah, I can leave," but I felt I couldn't. I'm a rule follower. I kept telling him it would be just a few more minutes. I was worried about leaving my computer for even a moment, which is generally how I felt for nearly three years.
Telling him I would join him and my visible concern for getting in trouble if I decided to leave the screen made us both snap.
There were tears and yelling, door slamming, and insults thrown. Every stressor, from my appointment process to legislating from a home office, bubbled to the surface.
We had it out that day, and it felt like it would destroy us.
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Right after the 2021 Legislative Session, I wondered if this was right for me. I summarized my feelings about my first session in a Facebook post dated April 25, 2021, where I said, "I have never felt this much a part of an organization while feeling this alone."
I tried to talk myself out of this feeling. During the interim, I thought I could find a second job to help balance my public office role and participate in our finances like I once did. James used to joke that I was his sugar mama when I made more money than him.
I thought I'd have time to build those advocacy lists and strategize how to help my legislation in the next session. I would like that. A couple of months of "free time" would give me the strength to do this again.
And again.
And again.
I quickly learned that you should be solely concerned with getting reelected after the first year of a two-year term. This meant the legislation you care about is essentially dead in the water. And if you didn't care about getting reelected, it didn't matter because no one else would sign on to help you with anything that might push the envelope or start a conversation about change. It would have to wait another year. Another election cycle.
During the interim, I found the stress could be even worse. There were other high-profile local campaigns to help, decisions about who to endorse, constituents and groups that wanted you to be at every event and meeting, speeches to give, questions to answer about every type of legislation, even the legislation you were never looped in on, and the looming threat of more exhaustion and fear surrounding running for office again after a 60-day legislative session.
And everything you did and everywhere you went was a landmine.
Whatever aspirations I once had in politics were disappearing. I felt like I was trading happiness for this false appearance of wealth, prestige, and power.
People would say, "Give it a chance. It will be different when you're in Olympia."
The thing is, I knew it wouldn't be different. I worked there. I lobbied there. And just to make sure no one could talk me out of dropping out, claiming I didn't know what it was like to be "in Olympia," I showed up in person for the last 10 days of the session.
Those 10 days sucked even more than being online. I couldn't fathom how Republicans could say some of the shit they said. It didn't help that I'm deaf in my right ear and was placed on the far left of the Democrats. I was smack dab in the middle with my ear directly facing the ever offensive and loud Jim Walsh. At least I wasn't Rep. Berg. She had to sit on the Republican side, but lucky for her, she had hearing in both ears.
It was Covid, so instead of sitting in the Caucus Room to discuss legislation, we sat in an empty public hearing room in the same chairs I hated sitting in waiting to testify on a bill. Being online would have been so much better at this point.
"10 Days, Emily. Just 10 days," I whispered to myself.
The voices of people in the hallways reverberated from the marble building, and we wore masks (this is not a complaint - please protect your health and everyone else, thank you). I never realized how much I relied on reading lips. I hated that I couldn't hear anyone and simultaneously could hear everything. It was stressful. The Legislature should consider this when supporting deaf and hard-of-hearing legislators and constituents who visit the Capitol. I know it's affected others as well.
Now, this all sounds like I am a little baby complaining, and at this point, I was. I was looking for any and every reason not to come back.
I started to point to all the reasons this job sucked, not just for me but for everyone. I said that our skills were not going to be used in a way that could move the needle on the things we cared about. We were a number on a board and a line on a political scale, one of 149 legislators to be controlled and managed. This job wasn't anything with real substance but simply spinning people's wheels and trying to appease as many people as possible.
I remember Rep. Lovick telling me how much he loved driving into Olympia, coming up from under the bridge to see the Washington State Capitol Building. I know that feeling, but I never felt it here. I always felt a pit in my stomach.
That last night in the House Chambers, the Speaker mocked a silly line I uttered after being caught off guard by a Republican claiming I was reading. Which I probably was because after talking to people on a screen for two years, I was nervous as fuck to speak in front of live people.
Later that evening, a colleague brought a group of us together to make a pact to coordinate in the future. They had us put our hands in. I placed a finger on top and disclosed I was seriously considering not trying to return.
I don't think they believed it, but my decision was already made. This was not the life I had imagined.
I knew what the post-pandemic world would look like; I dreaded it more than the current situation. After the pandemic, it would be the same, but with twice as many virtual and in-person meetings and twice as many expectations on our time and capacity. It would mean being away from James five days a week and busy every weekend with events. He would hate it and blame the whole system while mostly resenting me.
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Let me get one thing straight. I'm not here to tell you not to run for office. We need women, people of color, and people with different lived experiences in our state capitol and running our governments. But this space was designed by people existing with power who didn't need to consider inclusion and diversity because they didn't have to. From the marble walls and bathroom placements to the rules around decorum, there is a lot to undo, including who and how the rules apply.
I won't be able to offer you any amazing words of wisdom or solutions for improving the state legislature, Washington, D.C., or any government institution.
Yes, it would help if acoustics were better. Yes, it would help if we were paid more. Yes, it would help if money dictated less of our politics. Yes, it would help if serving in public office didn't take people away from their homes and families for weeks. Yes, it would help if we were restricted to only working a certain number of hours. And yes, it would help if our government wasn't initially designed by a bunch of old, rich, white men.
My departure from public office doesn't have to do with that, yet it has everything to do with it.
I've thought long and hard about how to frame why I left public office.
I have wanted to give folks a good answer. One that alters this space for the better. A lot needs to change to create a more welcoming, safe, and healthy working environment for all politicians and current and future elected officials.
But after two years and lots of contemplation, the only answer I have for why I got out is this:
James.
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It was the summer of 2014, and I worked at Nyhus Communications. This was the second of the four times I returned to working for consulting firms after I said I hated working for consulting firms. I spent 2012 working on Governor Inslee's First Gubernatorial campaign and 2013 working as an aide for then-State Representative Cyrus Habib. I had also finally broken up with my way-to-long-term boyfriend and was living my best single life, working and living in downtown Seattle and experiencing all the things that come with being in your late 20s.
After a year of lots of dating, I began dating a guy for four months. It was nearing a head where we either needed to get serious or break up. He was kind, handsome, and midwestern, but something about him or our relationship reminded me of the last failed one. It could have been a lifestyle I was trying to lead and a future I was trying to build that I didn't want. I couldn't put my finger on anything I didn't like about him, but I felt like I was looking in a crystal ball, and all I could see was blah.
Before I officially started in politics, I applied for the program at the Institute for a Democratic Future. During my interview, they asked me where I saw myself in 10 years, and I said Marysville. I shared how I wanted to return, take what I've learned, and serve my community.
This was 2013, and at the time, it felt like pure bullshit. There was nothing for me in my hometown except my family. I didn't think I could return or that anyone would want me there. There were few jobs, and my life and boyfriend at the time were in Seattle. And he had absolutely no desire to go north. All throughout high school, all anyone with higher aspirations wanted to do was leave. If I wanted to be something other than a barista, police officer, firefighter, or work at Boeing, there was little for me. I knew coming back would make me look pathetic, but it didn't change the fact that I wanted to.
One August Friday in 2014, I left work and headed north to Marysville for my 10-year Reunion. I would return home often, so it didn't feel like a particularly different or exciting trip. My family was here, just 40 minutes away, without traffic. At this point, people were still around because, like me, their families were still here, so I often saw people from high school. Tonight, it felt like the same.
It was great to see everyone and catch up on people's lives, but when I noticed James "Bubba" Day hanging around me all evening, the future I proposed in that one interview began manifesting. It had been 10 years since I had seen him, and we were both immediately interested in everything the other had to say and what we had been up to. He asked if he could get me another beer, and I beat him to the bar to get one first. With all the liquid confidence in the world, I looked at him and asked him if he was hitting on me.
The answer was yes, and I was amused.
In front of me was the baseball, football, and wrestling star of Marysville-Pilchuck High School and 4A high school sports. So many of my friends swooned over him during those four years of high school that he was always off-limits. I also never imagined he would be remotely interested in me.
I always thought James was way too cool for the likes of me. And I knew, like any of the boys in high school who attempted to date me, he would quickly discover I was a huge dork. I figured he picked up on this in high school, so I wondered if he had too many concussions.
He was in the strength and conditioning class I took two semesters my senior year in an attempt to be a stronger lifter on the cheer squad. For the first time, I was working toward an athletic goal, and his name was on the weight room wall as a champion lifter.
We had math together for four semesters, and we're often placed together in a desk clump. This was when public education was deep into "Core Math." To this day, I can't explain what this math was or why they thought it was supposed to be good for learning. We would do one math problem a class period and had to write an essay about how we came to the answer. This meant we mostly talked the entire class period. "Math Buddies 4 Life!" he wrote in my senior yearbook.
James was a serious athlete. He was also kind and could rock a gold velour Echo two-piece suit and the first (and largest) smartphone ever made without fear or concern for people making fun of him. He was bold and hardworking, and it made him beyond likable.
He took me to the spring formal our junior year after he cut his hair like Jeff Daniels in Dumb-and-Dumber. I encouraged this behavior during math class, and I remember thinking, "This guy doesn't care what he looks like. He doesn't want me to think he's interested."
But there I was, 10 years later, flirting with the guy whose full name being spoken over a loudspeaker at Quil Ceda Stadium would live in my memories forever.
We danced the night away at the casino, laughed, and created inside jokes that set the stage for all future giggles.
On weekends, he would come to Seattle, and I would see him in Marysville. We reconnected with people from high school with whom the other maintained friendships and he began fitting nicely into my life in Seattle.
For the first time, I was getting to know James and simultaneously reconnecting with my family and hometown. James was becoming more than a cute guy from high school; he was becoming the person I would grow to love.
I learned that after high school, he continued his baseball career at Everett Community College and started "J.D.'s Yacht Cleaning Services," where he found his clients at the Port of Everett.
He ended up playing baseball at St. Cloud State in Minnesota. Even though he got further than most people skilled in baseball, he didn't get playing time, and without the scholarship, he couldn't continue his education and had to return home.
He worked various construction jobs until he found his trade skill in electrical work and became a volunteer coach for the high school baseball and football teams.
We were the youngest in our families, with tons of nieces and nephews. I later learned that his family moved around a lot and never had a stable home or a lot of stable income. His dad's construction work meant feast or famine. His mom worked as a paraeducator at his elementary school and as a childcare worker at the YMCA so he could maintain the same school district and friends no matter where they moved. His home was becoming more unstable, so he moved in with a family friend in high school.
His life growing up was less privileged than mine, but it mirrored many of my experiences. Siblings struggling with substance use disorders, moms who did and sacrificed everything for their children, and a personal drive to experience a world outside of Marysville.
I spent the first year of our relationship finding out that he was a dork, too, and that his life was not as easy as he made it out to be in high school.
James seemed to love me for me. He knew how I felt about work, life, and relationships. He was down with my feminism and comfortable enough with himself that he was unconcerned about any threat to his masculinity. This was a rare trait for men coming from my hometown, and I felt like I was winning the Snohomish County boy lottery.
In 2015, the housing market was hot, and I decided buying would be wiser than renting. We looked for a home to build a life together and ended up in Everett.
We were still learning more about each other and what it was like to care this much about someone other than our parents and ourselves.
Then Trump was elected, and we were forced to learn even more. I changed a lot during this time. I was distraught and angry knowing that so many people around me would rather have an insane person in the Oval Office than elect the first woman president. I had been motivated for years by this belief that we would finally see a woman president. I had built my career and volunteerism around encouraging women to run for office. But in just one election season, everything we worked for was seemingly squashed.
Meanwhile, James was seeing social posts from douchebags and mansplainers like Joe Rogan. The "Yeah, let's stick it to those she-woman-man-haters" was all over his social feeds. When he would repeat one of their asshat comments aloud or simply ask a question about something he read, it would fuel my existing anger even more.
We were fine day to day, but everything happening outside of our relationship seemed to threaten everything we had together and everything we were building.
At this point, I returned to a public affairs job for the fourth time, where my disdain for the type of clients that could afford our services grew to its highest level.
We got married in 2019, and I was intent on making our wedding not just about us but also about both of us: two unique and independent individuals. I refused to change my name. (If you want people to do that, it must be easier and more streamlined). I looked back at a video of our wedding, and I made my bridesmaids cheers to "Fuck Donald Trump." (Wow, this dude really affected me!)
Shortly after our wedding, I was ready to quit the public affairs job. Thankfully, the douche I worked for fired me, and I could collect unemployment. I started my own consulting firm because we needed the income.
Then, the opportunity to serve in public office representing the 38th Legislative District presented itself.
Having worked in politics for years, I knew I needed to jump in with both feet to succeed. James was encouraging, even though he didn't understand all the work it would involve. He showed up when I needed him, sat through photo sessions and video recordings, and never said anything when I stumbled into bed exhausted at 2 a.m.
More than ever, my life began to revolve around local, state, and national politics. The early meetings and late nights were never-ending, and I was slowly losing sight of my marriage and the relationship that kept me grounded.
I was so focused on fulfilling the role and proving I was smart, hardworking, and talented enough to meet every expectation that I neglected to set any expectations for myself and my marriage. I simply expected James to be okay with all of it.
I began losing touch with my friends, too. The minute I spoke to someone, they or I would lead it back to the Legislature, policy, bills, or political gossip. I didn't have the emotional or brain capacity for anything else, and I was boring and annoying the shit out of the people I needed in my life. People that gave me a sense of normalcy and reminded me why I even cared about politics and government in the first place.
I didn't understand how anyone working in this space could sustain their marriage and family. How are other people's partners okay with all this? How can some seemingly manage the insane number of spoken and unspoken rules around being a legislator? How will they not eventually devastate their relationship in the process? What's wrong with my relationship? What's wrong with me?
I hated that I felt this way. This is what I was supposed to want. This was closer to the top. I have always loved politics, but now that it's real, I can't take the heat? Why was I, Emily Wicks, letting my marriage and husband dictate my career and next steps?
To this day, when I watch other women in elected positions, I can't help but feel bad about myself. They do it. And they do it while pregnant, with multiple children, and significant others. Am I just weak? Am I just selfish? Did I marry an asshole? What do I do now?
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Many people told me I was brave to get out, but I didn't feel like it. I felt like a failure. Whenever I explained my reasons, I felt childish, weak, whiney.
I remembered watching the video of Beto O'Rourke announcing his run for president or governor of Texas. I've lost track of what he's run for and when. But his wife was silent about his run. She looked like and even said things that made it clear she wasn't happy about this decision. I thought he was a huge dick not to notice (or maybe care) how it was affecting his family. I thought he was being unfair to them and the commitment he made. Some politicians do seem to marry simply because it gives them some credibility or fodder. I also saw this with Donald and Melania Trump, even though his lack of concern for his third wife isn’t all that surprising. And when I read that Washington State Congressman Derek Kilmer dropped out and his comments about how it was affecting his family, I almost gave a shit. Then I learned he was getting divorced and screwing a lobbyist.
These male politicians didn't give a shit, and I was a female politician, choosing to bow out of a seemingly prestigious role because it "affected my marriage!?" Why couldn't I just "man up" and completely disregard James's feelings?
Then, I became justifiably mad at James.
Without politics, I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't know how to get out because my whole life, work experience, and far too many relationships revolved around it. Yet every job in this space felt like it would result in the same stress. I would try too hard and get overly invested. My deep-seated need to please others and be perfect pulled me away again every time. It was easy for me to be taken advantage of. I'd end up delegating myself with more tasks and mountains of work just to show I could handle it.
I worked at a boutique, consulted on political fundraising, and worked for another statewide candidate. I started a podcast, began writing this blog, and took on communications consulting jobs.
In the meantime, James left the company he had worked for 15 years, started at a new one, got laid off, and was forced to finally start the electrical business he had been talking about. So, I added the title CFO to my workload and invested any time I had available and the time I didn't have to get it set up, do the billing, and handle the taxes.
Then, one day, I read an article in Ms. Magazine from 1972 titled, “Click! The Housewife’s Moment of Truth.” Author, Jane O’ Reilly discusses what all women are familiar with: the burden of unpaid work. It hit me hard that nothing had changed since this article was written over 50 years ago.
The pandemic made me wonder how we managed our household before I worked from home and how people with full-time jobs and families could even do it at all.
Between all the paid work I was doing, combined with cleaning the house, coordinating the bills, doing the laundry, taking care of the dog, making dinner every night, and doing the dishes, I wondered how I managed my life before.
James didn't know what to do if I didn't make a dinner plan. One morning, he said it would help him if I made him lunch daily, so I started doing that, too.
That night, I told him how important it was that he recognize the unpaid labor I contributed to the marriage. I told him he didn't treat my contributions as worthwhile because I wasn't bringing in the same dollar amount as I used to. He got that but said, "Well, the paid stuff and home stuff is fine, but… your blog… your podcast."
It was that moment when I understood it didn't matter what I did; it wouldn't be enough. I cried and told James I kept altering my life and career to fit his needs. Those needs changed as my job did, and they didn't consider my needs. Every job I left or didn't take was intended to make his life easier, and no matter what I took on or what jobs I landed, he would find a way to hate it. If I was at the boutique, I needed to make more. If I was in the Legislature, I wasn't around AND wasn't making enough. If I worked on campaigns, I wasn't around AND wasn't making enough. If I worked for a firm, I would have made enough, but I needed to be home more to maintain the house, take care of the dog, make him lunch, and have dinner on the table.
It didn't matter if I finally found something I enjoyed doing or that I was, in fact, also working paid jobs. I would never find the "right" balance for him.
All the amazing and thoughtful reasons I was still forming about leaving public office to find my true calling and make the impact I wanted to make were replaced by "I left my career for a man."
This was as 2001 Sex and the City Charlotte York as I could get. And I. Was. Pissed.
My sisters and I always swore our marriages would be equal. We hated that it seemed my mom waited hand and foot on my dad when he was home. We never wanted partnerships like that. Now, here I was, the youngest sister who should know better than us all, in a marriage that reminded me way too much of the kind I was initially running from.
No matter how much of a feminist and self-sufficient human I have tried to be, no matter how hard I've tried to fight the cultural expectations of my cis-gender, white heterosexual marriage, and no matter how angry I get about the expectations placed on women combined and the shit pay they receive, I was just another example of how nothing has changed for women.
What the hell have I done?
But like James said, we got through it. But it took me finding confidence in myself to get here.
Communication is a wonderful tool in marriage, and his disparaging comments about my many unpaid activities made me realize just how much those things meant to me. I told him exactly how I felt and how hard I worked to make things work for us. I said, "I'm good at this. I'm going to continue doing it because it meets my needs. I can make something out of this. And I will."
Then I dove deeper into everything I liked doing that has yet to pay me a cent. And he has been supportive ever since.
Now that you have just heard what a tool James can be, wait a minute before you write him off completely.
Because I also had some things to learn about being a partner.
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I recently described politicians as self-centered, narcissistic, helpless asses, balancing their constant fear of being disliked with their deeply bloated egos. I didn't just get that from other people; it applies to me, too. These unfortunate characteristics are often necessary to have the fortitude to run for office.
Years ago, James asked me when I would finally help him start a business. I scoffed and said, "You need to do that yourself. I'm not going to do it for you." This is all well and reasonable coming from someone else, but I was his partner. We share finances. I am legally bound to him.
I kept telling him he had every opportunity to take the necessary steps to start an electrical business and every chance to make it on his own. He was competent! Why did he need me? Why did he need me at all his high school baseball games? I'm busy. I can't drop everything to score every game because the player's parents didn't sign up.
And then I realized. This self-centered, narcissistic, helpless politician had done everything to help my career and expected my partner to be supportive and go along with whatever I asked while doing absolutely nothing to return the favor.
That was a brutal truth to swallow.
I had been so consumed with what I brought to the table and what I wanted to accomplish that I forgot there were two people in this relationship—two people with skillsets and talents to be harnessed, two people who could serve and make the meaningful changes I wanted to see the community.
We were forced to start the business out of necessity, and I helped more at his baseball games.
Over time, it showed me how my lack of confidence, constant need for perfection, and desperate need to prove I was worth it to the world was also affecting his confidence and our willingness to show up in our marriage at the level we expected from each other.
So, I helped. I learned more about the construction and electrical industry. I showed up for James the way he showed up for me early in my legislative career. And I've watched him thrive confidently as a business owner, a project manager, a student of electrical code, a salesperson, and a customer service representative.
Oh, how much my big ego missed.
I finally get to see everything he brings to the table, and it feels like we are now in a real partnership.
I have enjoyed this once-hidden side of James. I love talking to him about the numbers, the work schedule, expenses, and project plans. I love tackling problems together. I love sitting in that makeshift home office, discussing work and strategies, and deciding what to do next to grow our business. I've never seen this side of him, and frankly, it's hot.
And I get to bring my skills, skills I didn't even know I had, to our business and everything else I’m doing.
James is working hard—he always was—but I see it more now. He's also doing more around the house again, and we're finally on the same page about our plans and the ways we are working toward a better future. We're finally in this together.
I've never cared for anyone like I care for James. He is the most important person in my life.
Marrying James was about more than expecting him to support my dreams; it was a commitment to support his dreams, too. It was also a commitment to my in-laws and sharing the responsibility for our past and future mistakes. Sometimes that fact really sucks, but he's worth it, and so am I.
There is room for both our dreams, but I've completely missed that for the past 10 years because I was so focused on my own.
James brought me back to the hometown that I secretly, and sometimes not so secretly, say I love. Our partnership allowed me to run for office and serve my community. He gave me someone else to think and care about other than myself. He helped me manifest the life I was really wanting.
Even though I love all things Sex and the City, I never imagined I was the Carrie Bradshaw type, where finding love was my only end game. But that's where I'm at. Now I just hope and pray every day that he doesn't die on me like Mr. Big.
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Yes, the Legislature is missing an incredible person because I'm not there (I still have a big ego), but we've all discovered that plenty of other fantastic people can work it into their dreams or those they share with a partner. Best of luck to all of them, and I hope they fare better in space than me!
For the first time, I did something contrary to selfish behavior and drive to make something of myself. I did something thoughtful and respectful of my commitment to the one person I truly love.
Getting out of public office wasn't about me but us.
It's not the big, impactful story you or I may have wanted. No, it's not life changing. It's just life.
Our marriage has not been and will never be the perfect example of a perfect partnership. We will need to make more sacrifices and keep adapting to make things work. But it's exciting that after 10 years together and five years of marriage, we've had these conversations, and every time, we come out better than we were before.
We got through it. We always did. And we always will.
Happy Anniversary, Boo!
High School, Marriage, Jobs, Dreams, and A Big Ass Ego
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