Sir Isaac Newton said that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
He never mentioned marriage, but I suspect he simply chose not to complicate his research.
Nadia and I have disagreed about many things through the years. Direction. Timing. Parenting decisions. Whether a risk was courage or stupidity.
We never argued about money.
Which is strange.
Because when we started, we barely had any.
You would think poverty alone could produce enough disagreement to fuel a small war. Instead, we somehow agreed that survival required teamwork more than debate. Money came and went. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes painfully slowly.
But decisions?
Ah.
That was different.
When I decided to move forward, Nadia questioned why.
When she insisted something felt wrong, I asked for proof.
If momentum was my specialty, resistance was hers.
At the time, it felt like driving a vehicle where one foot pressed the accelerator while the other searched for the brake.
I used to think one of us had to be right.
Years later, I realized something uncomfortable.
Most disasters were avoided because she resisted me.
And most opportunities existed because I refused to stop pushing.
Newton called it opposition.
I now call it navigation.
There were arguments strong enough to rattle furniture. Silences long enough to measure distance in kilometers instead of minutes. Once or twice, I am certain the neighbors learned more about our opinions than they ever asked to know.
And yet…
The children grew.
The business survived mistakes that should have buried it.
Properties slowly appeared where empty plans once stood.
Laughter returned faster than pride expected.
Looking back, many of our best decisions were born immediately after disagreement.
Apparently, we negotiate with destiny through debate.
Some couples float peacefully downstream.
We built a paddle boat.
Two people rowing in opposite directions should go nowhere.
Unless they learn rhythm.
Somewhere between action and reaction, something unexpected happened.
We moved forward.
Despite opposing each other, neither of us ever stopped showing up.
Newton described forces canceling each other out.
He never considered what happens when both forces refuse to let go.
Perhaps that is marriage.
The presence of collision ignited friction. The friction that should have bruised us both have only callused and tempered our wills. It made us strong together. In fact, the constant blows might have fused us into a one singular voice, tempered our will, and made us stronger, better.
This is the strange miracle of two stubborn people discovering they were always pulling toward the same horizon.
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters