I met my husband my very first day at college.

I moved into Koonce Hall early on that Sunday and got ready for the 5 p.m. meeting with the hall staff.

I settled into a spot on the floor as they went around introducing themselves. This light-skinned black guy with the easygoing demeanor opened his mouth and said, “Hello, my name is Thomas Jefferson….”

I honestly didn’t hear anything else after that. Something in my brain clicked and I said to myself, “Oh, all that is good and holy – I think I just met my husband!”

He was the assistant hall director in his first year of grad school. He had taken the assistantship to pay for his degree, a Master’s in higher education administration. He was 23 and very mature for his age. Didn’t swear, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke.

I spent my freshman year chasing after him. He wasn’t looking to date a college freshman, but I was so darned persistent. I went to every hall meeting, regardless of what else was going on, and made up excuses to go see him. He had no choice but give me a second look.

We hooked up right before I left for summer break and things were always hot and heavy with us. One month in, we were saying, “I love you.” Three months in, he told me he could see us getting married. Six months in, he bought me a promise ring on a surprise trip to the mall. One and a half years later, he purchased an engagement ring (without telling me.)

Almost two years into our relationship (after he bought the ring but before he proposed) we discovered I was pregnant. My junior year of college. We decided to keep our original plans and get married after I graduated.

Our daughter, who we affectionately call Baby, was born my senior year. We had moved in together and he worked while I stayed with Baby and went to class. We were planning our wedding, raising Baby, he was looking for a new job, and I was trying to graduate and land a full-time job.

It was stressful, but we managed. We got married as planned and it was a wonderful day and an even better honeymoon. Not even six months after saying, “I do,” we got another positive pregnancy test. I was not at all ready for another baby. We had talked about trying for another baby, but not at that time. 

I admittedly was very grouchy. I still had dreams of becoming this big-time writer and every single decision I was making – having kids, getting married – was seemingly keeping me from my dreams. I became resentful toward my husband without realizing it.

Every little thing he would do wrong – not offering to wash the dishes, his refusal to bathe the kids, the fact that piles of dirty clothes would sit there for weeks and weeks – would make me question why I married him. I know I loved him, but why was I married? Why weren’t things working out the way I had hoped?

Things came to a boiling point after my son was born, when I had had enough of crying and in the middle of one of these breakdowns, I asked my husband, “Why is it that I cry every single damn day? I’m getting tired of this!”

In his typical calm, cool demeanor he simply said, “It’s because you resent me. You think you got married too young. You weren’t ready for this.”

It’s like a lightbulb went off in my head. He was right. I did resent him. Every single thing I felt was wrong with my life – in my mind at least – stemmed back to him. The reason I wasn’t in New York working for a glossy magazine? His sperm created a child I had to take care of. The reason I wasn’t spending enough time with my friends? I was too exhausted from taking care of everyone else throughout the week that I just wanted to sleep all weekend.

I sat down and determined there were two ways to end my resentment toward him:

One, become the writer I’ve always wanted to be. There was no reason, now or then, that I couldn’t write. Just because I didn’t live in the center of the media world, didn’t mean that I couldn’t fulfill my dreams.

Two, stop blaming him for everything. I actively pursued this relationship and wanted it to work.  He has always been the perfect guy for me. Smart, ambitious, extremely considerate and caring for others. He was a fabulous dad, who was always willing to go all out for his kids. He always put our needs first. And I did love him.

So I began this blog. Suddenly, I felt like a writer again. It felt like my words mattered, and even if I only had 100 visitors a day, it was enough for me to let go of the resentment I had allowed to fester over the past two years.

So know that when you read these posts, you’re not just reading about my every day experiences. You’re helping to repair my marriage.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Tara