Sleeping With the Snorer: A Love Story

I didn’t know what I was truly committing to when I said “I do.” Sure, I knew about his love for barbecue, his inability to fold laundry properly, and the way he always left the cupboard doors open like a raccoon had ransacked the kitchen. But I had no idea I was marrying a human chainsaw.

The first night we slept together as husband and wife, I thought a bear had wandered into our hotel room.

There we were, in a cozy cabin on our honeymoon, surrounded by silence and romance—until he fell asleep. That’s when the snoring began. It started with a soft rumble, which I found oddly adorable. But as the minutes passed, it crescendoed into a thunderous roar, echoing off the log walls like a rock concert with no rhythm.

At first, I laughed. Then I poked him. He rolled over, grunted, and for one glorious moment—silence.

But five minutes later, the bear returned. Louder. Angrier. Possibly holding a grudge.

I spent that night curled up in the bathroom with a pillow and a towel as a blanket, questioning every decision I’d ever made about love and sleeping arrangements.

The next morning, I emerged like a sleep-deprived gremlin. He smiled at me, bright-eyed, and said, “You sleep okay?”

I blinked slowly. “Like a dream,” I lied, mostly to preserve the marriage.

Over time, I tried everything. Earplugs. White noise machines. Strategic pillow walls. At one point, I downloaded a snore-tracking app that rated his snores on a scale of 1 to “Is that a jackhammer?” He regularly hit a 9.8.

Eventually, we settled into a rhythm. He’d fall asleep in five seconds flat, and I’d spend the next hour pretending his snoring was a calming ocean wave. (A very angry ocean with occasional foghorns.) When I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d gently nudge him, and he’d say something like, “I’m not even asleep yet,” while clearly mid-dream.

One night, in my most desperate moment, I stacked two pillows over my head and taped them down with a scarf. I looked like a mummy preparing for battle. Still, the snore storm raged on.

Despite the nightly noise, I learned something unexpected: this was love, too.

Love wasn’t always candlelit dinners or surprise notes. Sometimes, love was watching someone snore like their life depended on it and still deciding you’d rather be next to them—sleepless, cranky, and in love—than alone and well-rested.

We developed code words. “Siren Mode” meant his snoring was off the charts. “Pillow nudge” became an unspoken signal: please, for the love of sleep, roll over. He even tried breathing strips once, which lasted until he sneezed one off and we thought the cat ate it.

Years passed. Our lives grew busier. Work, bills, family, life—it all piled up. But every night, no matter how chaotic the day, we returned to our bed. He snored. I rolled my eyes. Sometimes I yelled into a pillow. But sometimes, I laughed.

Because what once drove me crazy eventually became one of the quirks I adored most. His snoring was a part of our love story. A loud, ridiculous, sleep-depriving part—but a part nonetheless.

Now, I take pictures of him passed out, mouth open, mid-snore, and send them to our group chat titled “Love and Other Nightmares.” My friends sympathize, some even admit their husbands are worse. We swap snoring horror stories like war veterans.

And when I look at him snoring, sprawled across the bed with one leg hanging off and the blanket twisted like a burrito, I smile.

This is marriage. This is love. Imperfect, noisy, funny love.

So yes, I’m still sleeping with the snorer. And I probably always will.

Just maybe… with noise-canceling headphones.