Married Again

When I broke up with my ex-husband, I swore I was never going to get married again. I was never going to twist and shape my life around another human being. And I was certainly never going to move to another country for another person again. 

I ate my words. 

Because I got married again. 

And I’m moving to another country for another person. Again. 

It’s hard to explain how I got from point A (would rather be on my own, never to be in a relationship again) to point B (married and moving to another country). Even upon reflection I can’t even pinpoint the exact moments where I immersed myself in this new life and I changed my mind regarding getting married and moving.

Describing the situation as “my resolve waned” or I’m simply not strong enough as a person to not fall in love and not bend my life around someone else is too simplistic. 

This is not a blog post to justify my decisions or gain anyone’s approval: I don’t give a shit what conclusions anyone draws. 

I’d like to put a part of my story out there to normalize falling in love and creating a new life with a new person. I’m talking about making conscious decisions based on what one values and what one prioritizes which may or may not include another person. I’m talking about building a healthy, balanced relationship where relationships are balanced equally with the person that you’re in a relationship with.  

I’m not talking about losing yourself in a relationship, or a lifestyle. I’m not talking about becoming inseparable, where you and your partner do absolutely everything together, start adopting your partner’s interests and clothing style. 

In previous blog posts I mentioned how hard and painful it was to close the last chapter of my life, the one with my ex-husband. The pain of healing, redefining oneself, and readjusting to a new life: Even though I wanted the break up there were still holes in my everyday life. But this process was shoved to the side and I ended up in some weird life limbo when my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and then the grieving process of a major break up and my mom’s death was skewed again when the first COVID-19 lockdown was put in place. 

My 2020 can be summarized with me drowning in grief. 

Of course I tried to keep going, just make the best of it. What other option did I have? 

May 2020. In the middle of the first COVID-19 Lockdown. I took a long walk and came across a memorial cross for someone’s mother on Towan Headland, looking back at Fistral Beach and the Headland Hotel.

But I just kind of existed in Cornwall without any connections. My teenage existential dread resurfaced and day after day all I could think about was, “If I died tomorrow, no one would know, and no one realize I didn’t exist, and no one would show up to my funeral.”

There was a desperation that developed where all I did was look up flights and entry requirements for Canada and Morocco. Of course I wanted to be in Canada: I had the remainder of my family there and I felt like I would be able to ride out my grief. And of course I wanted to be in Morocco with Rachid, the person that had been there through some of the lowest moments of my life and had the patience to let me rebuild myself. He had become my chosen family. 

As much as I appreciated the quiet that the coronavirus lockdown brough, I was desperate to socialize and make connections in a place I had just moved to. And as much as I have always enjoyed my own company, it was in isolation that I became painfully aware where I really wanted to be and who I wanted to be with. 

Five years ago, I went on a trip with some friends to Imi Ouaddar, just north of Taghazout. Even before I met Rachid and fell in love, this part of Morocco felt eerily like home despite being next to the ocean: the dry, brown landscape and the rural but urban influenced way of life. It was the perfect atmosphere and environment to try to forget the problems I had with my ex because I was so far removed, and I was quite content not to have a man around or be gunning for any man. 

April 2017. Rachid and I had just met. This was our first picture together.

And then I had to take surfing lessons and meet Rachid. He was 100% not my type. I was not attracted to him at all. But he had something that pulled me in and made me smile, made me laugh, from the very first day. The brief conversations we had during my short stay were surprisingly deep and without knowing anything about me, he said things that made sense, and like he really understood me. 

We spoke on the phone for months before we saw each other again in person. And while it was the furthest thing from “love at first sight” for me, Rachid’s patience and understanding made him so loveable and paved the way for me to fall in love. 

Neither of us are very romantic, and we are the WORST at flirting, so this relationship doesn’t fit a very romantic definition of “love story”. Perhaps this story is just a redefined “love story”. Or, in the words of Esther Perel, we’re decided to write a life story instead of a love story.

Every subsequent visit to Morocco to see Rachid appeared to intensify this feeling of home. I felt content in a way that I hadn’t been since I was a child, living my best life during the summer holidays. I never wanted to leave, no matter how long I stayed. Everytime I had to go I would start to get stressed and couldn’t sleep, I would start crying days before the departure date. I started to find excuses to stay longer, hoping my flights would be canceled. When the departure date wasn’t altered, and I HAD to go, I would be inconsolable. 

April 2018. Marakech, Morocco. We knew each other 1 year.

Even now, I start bawling my eyes out on the car ride to the airport. I’m dragging my feet to the entrance and through security. And I never stop praying that my flight gets canceled until my rear is seated. 

When Rachid broached the subject of me moving in with him, I flat out refused: I was not going to move in with anyone before I felt I was capable of living on my own again. He suggested that if I wanted to, I could leave a few clothes so I could pack lighter for subsequent trips. It still took me another few visits before I finally gave in to that suggestion: clearly our relationship was becoming more serious and continued visits seemed likely enough for me to justify leaving some clothes. 

But moving was out of the question. 

At one point I had to ask myself why. There was more to this answer than just “I’m never going to move for a man again”. 

Five years ago I felt really fragile and susceptible to the opinions of those around me. I was judged quite harshly by those in my circle when they started finding out I was seeing Rachid. How could I give up a stable, secure, and a good social standing by being with my soldier ex-husband for a surfer in Morocco? Was he treating me well? Was he putting pressure on me to wear a hijab? He couldn’t possibly love me like my ex, Rachid was clearly using me and  my money to get a visa into Europe. 

Ironically, the accusation that Rachid was using me to get to Europe was met with an expectation that, of course, he was going to move to the UK. Right? I mean, what kind of life could he possibly have that was worth living in Morocco? And what kind of life could we possibly create in Morocco that would be better than a life in the UK?

Sept 2019. Surf trip to Imsouane.

I was on the defensive about my relationship all the time and I didn’t know how to handle it. I had never known anyone who had their life choices and relationship criticized so badly before. I said things so I wouldn’t be further ostracized by my social circle and network: despite social progress, divorce is still relatively scandalous. So often I found myself saying things to ease the pressure, the judgment, and the expectations.  

At first I believed the words that were coming out of my mouth, that creating a life in the UK with Rachid was the ideal option, the best option. I was going to throw myself into my nursing career and Rachid could just come along for the ride. He could bend his life around mine. I started planning out the steps I would have to take to make sure I could meet the various criteria to bring Rachid over to the UK. 

Marriage inevitably came up. In the eyes of governments, marriage is still the most recognized and legitimate way to prove that you’re in a relationship with someone. Unfortunately, bureaucracy doesn’t care about your feelings or if one is “ready yet” to get married. While I was sure I wanted to have Rachid in my life, I was still healing from my previous marriage. I still wanted to enjoy being on my own without the pressure and expectations of a marriage, even if this relationship was radically different from the last and I felt good in it. 

I would have been quite happy being in a relationship with Rachid and never getting married. Even after he proposed and we were engaged I only referred to him as my partner as opposed to my fiance. But did that make our relationship less legitimate? He was still my person. My confidante. The one was even considering procreating with (super romantic, I know). 

But the deeper we got into the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent lockdowns, the more I just wanted to be with Rachid. I longed to do the simple things with him: make breakfast, go surf, chill at the beach, hang out with friends together. You know, all the domestic things that couples already living together take for granted. 

All the day to day simple things that make a love story a life story. 

December 2020. Sunrise at Desert Point, Aghroud, Morocco. Finally reunited after 10 months.

Rachid and I had been separated for 10 months because of the COVID-19 lockdowns and restrictions before we saw each other again. I was in Morocco for 10 days when the borders closed down again, resulting in an extended 9 month stay. True to fashion, and ever the pragmatics, Rachid and I agreed that we should look into our marriage papers. 

I mean, what else were we going to do? 

In all seriousness, while we had been engaged for some time, getting married and having a marriage certificate in our hands would allow us to move our lives forward. In Morocco we would no longer be living in sin (read: Article 490) and we would be able to apply for visas to travel to the countries where I would be. Which, given the pandemic, seemed very practical and important. 

It wasn’t difficult per se to get the paperwork sorted. The process was mostly a test of our patience, and revealed to each of us how we handled bureaucratic challenges. We traveled together for the first time outside of the surfing bubble, providing us with the opportunity to learn how we handled the stress of travel. None of these experiences made me doubt my relationship with Rachid. In fact, they made me love him more for how he handled himself out of his element: he could connect with anyone and make them smile, or even laugh. 

February 2021. Rabat, Morocco. Sorting out our marriage papers.

Our marriage paperwork had been submitted early in the week, a Monday I’m pretty sure. By Tuesday the Adul had phoned us to say that there was a cancellation on Thursday and could we make it. It was Lockdown, what else were we going to be doing? 

My second “wedding” was in stark contrast to my first: there was no months of planning, just the ad hoc court appointment; there were no witnesses other than court officials, we didn’t buy new clothes and only put on our best, and we didn’t have any special meals or treat ourselves since all the restaurants were closed. 

After the judge expressed his congratulations, signed our papers, and we walked out of the court house, Rachid and I looked at each other wondering what we were going to do now. Rachid tentatively asked if we should grab our surfboards and see what the waves looked like. I agreed, of course; I didn’t have a better idea of how to spend the rest of our day. The fact that we were legally married hadn’t sunk in yet. 

It’s been over a year since we got married. Rachid and I have even celebrated our first wedding anniversary, and that had more visible effort put in than our wedding day at court. As we’ve learned throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, time is a construct and means very little. On one hand, it feels like Rachid and I have been married for many more years than we actually have. On the other hand, it feels like only a few months ago we stepped out of the courtroom, papers in hand. 

Sure, the marriage could be considered to be part of the lockdown wedding statistics, but that wouldn’t take into account the years we had spent together prior nor the dynamics or context. I have been, and still am, grateful at how different our relationship is and how that was reflected in our marriage. 

If the whole process of getting married had been anything more than the simple, legal requirements, I don’t think it would have happened. I think any inclusion of any sort of cultural or societal rituals and traditions would have freaked me out. I probably would have bailed. This wedding was for us, and only us. It was to move our life forwards, not to show off or make a statement. 

As special as being together and getting married has been, I’ve been so relieved that nothing about our relationship has changed. Not as in, we haven’t kept growing, but the way we treat each other is as good, if not better than when we first met. 

February 2021. Imsouane, Morocco. Shortly before we got married.

It’s finally nice to look back and see how much progress we have made, even in the last year.