Relationships are not easy. They demand patience, compromise, and a willingness to evolve. They test us in ways we don’t expect and challenge us to confront our deepest fears, frustrations, and insecurities. And yet, despite the struggles, they offer connection, growth, and shared joys—if we are willing to put in the work.

Being human is complicated. Our emotions, experiences, and personal histories create intricate dynamics between us and those we love. No relationship is static; we are constantly changing, whether we realize it or not. After nearly twenty-seven years of marriage, I’ve learned that maintaining a strong partnership requires continuous effort. Open communication, the courage to face uncomfortable truths, and the grace to accept each other’s differences are all essential.

When I married my husband at twenty-four, I was a different person. I’ve spent decades on a journey of self-discovery, healing, and growth. As I like to say, I’m in a high-powered speedboat, cutting through the water at full throttle, while my husband—whom I affectionately call “Hubs”—follows in my wake in his rowboat. Our paces may not always match, but we’ve always moved in the same direction.

The past few years have been particularly stressful, shaped by family dynamics—his and mine—while trying to keep our nuclear family intact. From the start, we both agreed we wouldn’t raise our sons, now 25 and 26, the way we were raised. That shared vision grounded us through some of the most challenging times.

Middle age brings a different kind of reckoning. A chance to recover, to reconcile—not just with others, but with ourselves. I’ve always been an agent of change, speaking out against injustice, but these past years have permitted me to reset yet again. Not just once, but continually. I’m on Shannon 12.0 by now. And with each reset, I’ve realized that shedding outdated beliefs and expectations is essential. I’ve had to let go of the people-pleasing persona I once relied on, the version of myself conditioned by obligation and guilt. It felt like I kept placing my old identities in a box on a shelf labeled Outgrown Self—a reminder of who I no longer need to be and the masks I no longer needed to wear.

Last year, writing my memoir manuscript in epistolary form—letters to my dad from the time he died when I was eleven up until I turned fifty—brought another unexpected revelation….I had spent years operating from the mindset of a hurt, lonely, and scared little girl in survival mode. That version of me served a purpose, but she no longer needed to be in control. The patterns of survival I once relied on—protecting my mother and sister after my dad’s death, fighting for justice when my mother remarried a deeply flawed man, navigating relationships with people who weren’t willing to grow—kept me in a cycle of seeking validation from those who could never give it.

But one person did—Hubs. In his way, in his own time, he showed me his love and devotion. Did I push for more? Absolutely. Did he always meet my demands? Not even close. But he stayed. He listened. He loved me, even when we struggled in our ways.

A turning point came recently when we found ourselves at a crossroads. I was emotionally exhausted and fed up with his idleness. He, in turn, was retreating into himself, protecting himself from feeling too much. Both of us—Little Shannon and Little Tim—were in survival mode. But neither of us wanted to walk away. We both longed for a marriage that neither of us had witnessed growing up.

So we did the hard work. We had awkward, brutally honest conversations. We sought therapy—Tristen, our trusted therapist, became a bridge when our words failed. And we began the process of resetting.

Then, in a grand and unexpected gesture, Hubs planned a trip to Antarctica—my seventh and final continent. A place of raw, untouched beauty. Just the two of us, with no distractions.

Antarctica reset more than just our perspectives. It reminded us of what truly matters. The silence of the ice and the vastness of the landscape put everything into focus. But of course, in true Shannon form, I still found ways to exert my opinion but kept it in check. Also, Tristen recently told me to be less of an air traffic controller and more of a passenger. Yep, that behavior is still a work in progress.

Hubs, however, surprised me again. He added an excursion to our itinerary: kayaking in the icy waters, surrounded by glaciers and humpback whales. At first, control set in, and I resisted—visions of being swallowed whole by a whale (thank you, viral video) were less than appealing. But I went to the briefing. And something shifted when we pushed off into the water, just the two of us and another couple.

As we paddled through the frozen wonderland, I let go. I trusted Hubs– not our guide named Haman. I allowed the experience to be bigger than my fear. It was hands down one of the most breathtaking moments of my life—surpassing even my polar plunge and stepping onto the continent itself.

Hand in hand, oar in oar, we rediscovered something essential: laughter, love, and the simple joy of being together. Relationships challenge us, but they also provide a foundation of companionship and support. They hold up a mirror, forcing us to see ourselves in new ways. They push us to adapt, to grow, to find our way back to each other—again and again.

Antarctica was our reset. But the truth is, resets aren’t once-in-a-lifetime experiences. They are necessary, ongoing, and vital. They are the conscious decision to stay, to listen, to evolve. For us, resets make our relationship and our life together worth every effort.