Marriage in an age of quick endings

 Marriage in an Age of Quick Endings

By Nidhi Guglani

Marriage, at its best, is a shared decision to witness life together—its seasons, its silences, and its steady transformations. As an institution, it has survived centuries not because it is perfect, but because it has allowed people to grow within it, sometimes slowly, sometimes painfully, often imperfectly.

I am writing this on my wedding anniversary, at a moment when two divorce cases are unfolding close to me. Standing at this intersection of celebration and separation, I find myself observing rather than judging, thinking rather than concluding.

In recent times, I have seen relationships end at very different points. A marriage barely a month old, continuing despite unresolved emotional histories. Another, built over a decade or more, dissolving quietly because somewhere along the years, the effort to stay connected stopped feeling mutual. Then there is the difficult truth of a marriage that appeared pleasant on the surface but ended after three years because of physical abuse—where leaving was not a choice but a necessity.

I have also seen women choose solitude over repetition. Women who decide not to remarry after experiences of domestic violence. Women who fight for financial security not out of greed, but out of survival. These decisions are layered, heavy, and deeply personal. They do not invite easy opinions.

And yet, alongside these endings, there are continuities. Families celebrating golden jubilees. Couples marking decades of togetherness—not because life spared them difficulty, but because they learned how to sit with discomfort, disagreement, and change. These stories rarely make noise, but they exist quietly, steadily.

No marriage is perfect. No individual enters it complete or fully healed. Marriage asks for acceptance—of flaws, of differences, of evolving identities. Acceptance is not passive; it is an active, daily practice. It involves listening when it is uncomfortable, adjusting without erasing oneself, and holding space for another human being’s needs while learning one’s own.

Adjustment, often spoken of with reluctance, is actually the invisible architecture of marriage. Both sides bend. Both sides learn. Growing together does not mean growing identically; it means growing with awareness, responsibility, and care. Building a family is not only about raising children but about nurturing relationships—between partners, with extended families, and with the shared history that accumulates over time.

At the same time, acceptance has limits. It cannot be demanded where dignity, safety, or self-worth are compromised. Some separations are acts of clarity and courage. Staying is meaningful only when it does not require self-destruction.

What perhaps needs deeper understanding is that neither staying nor leaving is easy. Life after divorce brings its own silences—emotional distance, social judgment, financial adjustments, and the ongoing work of remaining sensitive without becoming bitter. Detachment is not a clean break; it is a long, uneven process.

Marriage today often appears fragile because expectations have become louder than patience, and speed has replaced reflection. But fragility is not the same as failure. Marriage, like any human institution, reflects who we are becoming as individuals and as a society.

From the balcony of observation, one thing becomes clear: being part of another person’s life—consciously, imperfectly, and responsibly—still matters. Whether one chooses to stay, to leave, or to begin again, the real work lies in remaining humane.

Perhaps that is what needs preserving—not marriage as an idea, but companionship as a practice.