Twice, as far as public records and family WhatsApp groups are concerned.
The first time was straight out of a 90s romantic movie. I fell in love with my best friend—which, according to every Bollywood script ever written, is basically a guaranteed happy ending.
We got married when I was 21, and while some people expressed concern, I interpreted it as envy. Clearly, they were jealous that I had secured a lifetime membership to my favourite human.
Back then, my entire world revolved around him.
And when I say entire world, I mean entire world.
I still remember once getting into a ridiculous argument with my mother because she suggested I should take up a course and focus on building my career. My response, with all the confidence only a hopelessly-in-love 19-year-old can possess, was:
"Why do I need a backup plan? We are going to be together forever."
My mother looked at me the way seasoned travellers look at people packing for a Himalayan trek with flip-flops.
At the time, I thought she was being dramatic.
Years later, I realized she was simply older and wiser.
Then came marriage, followed by our beautiful son, and I genuinely believed life had peaked. The movie was over. Everyone could go home.
Unfortunately, life wasn't following my script.
The fairy tale slowly turned into a nightmare. Looking back, the six years we stayed together were held together less by love and more by my inability to imagine another life. Divorce wasn't even a possibility in my mental drop-down menu.
It took years, oceans of tears, spectacular emotional breakdowns, depression, therapy, self-discovery, and a tremendous amount of courage to finally walk out and into a future I had never planned for.
Life, apparently not done surprising me, introduced me to love again.
This time, the package arrived very differently.
My husband is the calmest, sweetest, kindest person I know.
Of course, nobody else knows this.
The rest of the world gets the rough-and-tough, no-nonsense version who looks like he'd reject your leave request before you've finished asking.
I get the version that remembers how I like my coffee, tucks the blanket around me, and sends me random messages asking if I've eaten.
Frankly, it's a scam. The man is running two completely different brands.
But here's where things get interesting.
I love him deeply.
I know this is forever.
And yet, if he were to kick the bucket before I do (relax, darling, purely hypothetical), I can imagine a life afterwards.
Not because I love him less.
Because I've already survived what I once thought was unsurvivable.
At 19, I loved like someone jumping out of a plane because she was absolutely certain gravity didn't apply to her.
At 35, I love with a detailed risk assessment, contingency planning, and emotional insurance.
The younger me believed:
"I cannot live without him."
The older me knows:
"I can. I just don't want to."
And honestly, I think that's healthier.
Sometimes I feel guilty.
My husband deserves that innocent, pure-hearted girl who loved with reckless abandon. The one who handed over her entire heart, user manual included, without reading the fine print.
Instead, he got a woman who double-checks passwords before logging in.
A woman who has trust issues with automatic software updates.
A woman who needs contingency plans.(backups to my backups as I call it)
A woman who knows that happy endings are not guaranteed and who therefore values happy moments instead.
A woman who has learned that even when your whole world falls apart, somehow, life keeps moving.
But maybe that's what growing up really is.
Maybe mature love isn't about loving less.
Maybe mature love isn't about losing the ability to love completely.
Maybe it's about learning to love while keeping a piece of yourself intact.
Maybe love at 19 says:
"You are my entire world."
And love at 35 says:
"You are my favourite person in a world I've learned to build for myself."
One is beautiful.
The other is sustainable.
So here we are—two slightly damaged, slightly wiser adults, holding on to each other and our not-so-tiny-anymore kiddo as we navigate this rollercoaster called life.
The first love gave me butterflies.
The second gave me peace.
And if age has taught me anything, it's this:
Butterflies are lovely.
But after a certain point in life, you'll happily trade them for someone who remembers to pay the electricity bill on time and still loves you after seeing your Amazon order history.
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