When I Said I Don’t Believe in Marriage…. (That Was a Lie)

Back then, I often said it with a firm tone, like a protective mantra I pinned to my chest. “I don’t believe in marriage,” I told my friends at that little café, while sipping my favorite matcha. They laughed, nodding as if it were a chic modern rebellion, fitting for a mature, independent woman.

But that night, as I lay alone in my rented room that felt too quiet, I knew it was a lie. Not a malicious one, but a lie born from complicated memories from my early years, from the years that taught me love is a fragile gem, beautiful, yet easily cracked if not handled with care.

I know it’s unfair to name the people behind all this. But it all began in the place where I grew up and returned to, where the walls held more secrets than the crooked family photos hanging in the living room. My father and mother, two souls who loved each other in a tangled way, like the roots of a banyan tree that entwined but never truly merged.

I still remember those nights when their voices seeped through my bedroom door, not harsh shouts, but painful whispers that hurt even more, like the gentle seep of rainy season wind, soaking everything without mercy.

I was just a snot-nosed little kid back then, without enough understanding to grasp what was happening. But I learned quickly, by feeling it all.

“Wow, My girl is all grown up, getting prettier. Surely lots of boys are crushing on you, right?” Mom said one morning as I was brushing my hair in front of my dresser.

I know part of it was my fault for not being open enough with my family. They thought I’d inherited both my parents’ tightly guarded personalities when it came to personal matters. And I thought I hadn’t just inherited it, I simply didn’t know how it was supposed to be.

One afternoon, as a teenager, Mom and I sat relaxed on the porch, peeling mangoes from the backyard garden. Her eyes, once bright like morning dew, were now dimmed by lines of exhaustion. “We have to hold on tight to each other, but sometimes, the hand we’re holding is the first to let go.”

Mom continued, “You’re grown up now, aren’t you? Mom’s just got one piece of advice, find the right life partner, okay? Don’t be too picky. Marriage is about accepting each other’s flaws.”

I nodded, my small hands gripping a knife that felt too big for me. I was only ten then, but I’d already learned that love wasn’t a fairy tale ending in happily ever after; it was a struggle, a rare treasure worth fighting for with every breath.

Dad kept his distance and never showed his feelings.

Now, his affection only touched me through the distance of prayers and brief monthly phone calls asking how I was. Sometimes I wonder what Dad felt that day when he came home from work without greeting me as I waited on the porch. Or what he was thinking when he suddenly teared up as I tried on my graduation kebaya. Dad stayed silent, undisturbed by the urge to share his emotions.

“Love isn’t always happily ever after, sweetie,” Mom said to me one afternoon, as we sat watching Titanic for the millionth time. “But what matters is that you fight for the best for yourself.” Her words, simple yet profound, were like roots piercing through hard soil, teaching me my first lesson :

Love is precious, yes, but don’t lose yourself in the midst of the fight.

The years flowed by like a rushing river, carrying currents full of mud that piled up into a dam in my heart. I grew into a independent woman, building my career like a fortress and my friendships like a garden of flowers I tended diligently. But behind my warm smile when meeting new people, there was a quiet fear creeping in,

“What if marriage is just an illusion, the biggest gamble in life that not everyone can play for a lifetime?”

I saw it all around me friends who married full of hope, only to part with wounds deeper than they could bear. “Marriage can be fulfilling, but if I had a choice, I wouldn’t want to get married, Beth,” one close friend said.

One night, as I brushed my hair before bed while heavy rain pounded the window like held-back tears, the mirror didn’t answer; it only reflected my weary eyes, full of longing for the fragments of hope I kept tightly tucked in my chest.

In that journey of growth, I learned to love myself more than ever before. Like a gardener who finally realizes her own soil is the most fertile, I began sowing seeds of kindness for myself. I was never trained to hope that others would care for and love me, so I learned to love myself more than anyone else. That self-love made the world seem more beautiful.

“You deserve all the best. Believe it,” I chanted as my daily mantra.

It was the most intimate conversation I’d ever had not with a potential lover, but with the part of myself that had been forgotten for so long.

Psychology calls it self-compassion, but to me, it’s like a warm hug from a freshly baked chocolate bread straight from the oven, whispering that the wounds of the past aren’t curses, but gentle teachers.

But oh, the sweet irony of it. The more I loved myself, the bigger that fear grew.

What if there’s no one in this world who can love me as deeply as I love myself?

One day, chatting with my best friend at a spice-scented coffee shop, she asked with sparkling eyes, “You still don’t want to get married, huh? And yet you’re beautiful, smart, and full of stories.” I laughed softly, stirring my latte that foamed like afternoon clouds. “Back then, yeah, I said that. But now? I miss it, you know. I long for someone who sees me not as a savior or a burden, but as a partner in that dance, the dance on a thin tightrope we call marriage. Rare, isn’t it? Like a shooting star that only appears now and then, but when it does, we know it’s a blessing.”

Like a shooting star that only appears now and then, but when it does, we know it’s a blessing

Marriage, to me now, is no longer a dream I deny, but a gentle invitation from the universe. It’s a gamble, yes. A bet of the heart that can win or lose but with new rules I’ve set for myself, I won’t play if it means losing who I am.

I’ll wait, patiently like waiting for the mango tree Mom planted in the garden to finally bear fruit, yearning but not rushing. Because in the end, my old lie wasn’t a rejection of love, but a call to love more deeply. Myself first, and then, perhaps one day, someone worthy of sharing that embrace.

And as I close my journal tonight, under the soft glow of my bedside lamp, I smile at my shadow on the wall.

“Thank you for lying back then,” I whisper softly.