Relationship Rhythms

Vibrant, rhythmic northern lights dance across the night sky, casting colorful hues over a tranquil rural landscape.

The rhythms of life and love—aren't they both achingly unpredictable and yet strikingly familiar, like the pull of a melody you can't quite name? The more I reflect on my life, the more I see it. A relationship—any relationship—is a lot like music. There’s a divine, almost metaphysical cadence to it, pulling you in ways that feel both natural and profoundly disorienting. To write about this love story—this magical, otherworldly connection with David—feels like it would inevitably devolve into one of those glossy highlight reels we’re all too familiar with on social media. But let’s not pretend here. A relationship is hard. Damn hard. Even under the best circumstances. Add in the barriers of texting, limited phone calls, and no face-to-face connection? It stretches you to places you didn’t even know you had to grow.

Here I am, the day after Christmas, sitting alone in my bedroom, staring at the story of my life. Twenty-some years of relationships are behind me, and I can’t help but ask: Am I really cut out to do this again? To navigate the mess and the beauty, the fear and the love? I love David. That I know in the deepest, most unshakable part of me. But the truth? The blunt, ugly truth? I don’t know if I have it in me to handle another relationship—especially one that will undoubtedly shift into something unrecognizable when he comes home. Right now, it’s a waiting game. Waiting for in-person visits. Waiting for clemency. Waiting for the universe to show me what’s next. And in that waiting, I’m trying, so hard, to trust the process.

But my intuition? It’s been nagging me lately, whispering that something feels off with David. I brought it up tonight, and…defensiveness. That’s what I got. And it only confirmed what I already knew: I’m right. I’m not doubting myself anymore. My intuition has never failed me, and I refuse to start questioning it now. My gut tells me he’s grappling with this being his last Christmas in prison, his last New Year’s Eve behind bars. The weight of coming home to a relationship must feel enormous. He’s been there for 14 years. I wasn’t part of his world until recently. Maybe he’s rethinking us. Maybe he’s not.

And then he called me back. Told me two things: he loves me, and that never changes. And he doesn’t think relationships are sustainable in a rigid rhythm. It’s a valid point. A solid one, actually. But as an empath, I feel everything. I crave the rhythm, the steady beat. And when it fluctuates, it’s like trying to dance on uneven ground. Does that mean he’s wrong and I’m right? No. Not at all. It’s just another lesson from the universe, dropping me exactly where I need to be to learn something new. Relationships don’t need to have a perfect rhythm.

Let’s talk about rhythm for a second. Rhythm, as Merriam-Webster defines it, is “movement, fluctuation, or variation marked by the regular recurrence or natural flow of related elements.” I stumbled on the types of musical rhythms, and suddenly, it all clicked. Life, love, relationships—they all have rhythms, don’t they?

Polyrhythm. When multiple rhythms are performed simultaneously. That’s us, me and David, each moving to our own unique beat, yet somehow finding a way to create something that reflects cooperation.

Syncopation. When parts of the music are off-beat, when stress is placed where it wouldn’t normally go. That’s the tension, the mismatched moments, the rhythmic stresses of two individuals trying to coexist.

Alternating rhythm. Two elements alternating back and forth. The push and pull, the give and take, the ebb and flow of words, emotions, and personalities.

Cross rhythm. Conflicting rhythms heard together. That’s the conflict, the arguments. Because let’s be real: a relationship without conflict isn’t a relationship. It’s a lie. The beauty lies in working through those cross rhythms, in finding harmony in the dissonance.

Free rhythm. Music without a regular pattern of strong and weak beats. This is the ebb and flow of a relationship—the 80:20 rule. One person carrying the load when the other is in the dark spaces, and then switching when the roles reverse. It’s the space to grow, to heal, to stumble, and rise.

Reading these, I realize something profound. My default is to run, to hide, to build walls so high no one can climb them. To convince myself that maybe I’m just meant to be alone. But tonight, after everything, I can’t deny what’s clear: I love this man. Deeply. Unequivocally. He doesn’t complete me; he doesn’t make up the best parts of me. I do that. I bring to him a woman who is healing, who is learning to love herself first. He sees me. All of me. The broken parts, the blooming parts. And he loves me through it all.

I want to tell him all of this. Every word. But I know now isn’t the time. So I’ll put it here, in these words, to be read later. Maybe when this story becomes a book that sits on our coffee table, these words will make sense. He makes me better. Not because I need him, but because he inspires me to keep becoming who I was meant to be. For that, for him, I will always be grateful. And I will always, always love him.