Our Marriage Survived Infertility, Bankruptcy, and Cancer — Barely

When people ask how long we’ve been married, I say “Twelve years,” but what I really want to say is, “Twelve years, three breakdowns, two therapists, one bankruptcy, and a cancer diagnosis later.”

We didn’t get a fairy-tale. We got a war. And somehow, we’re still standing.

When Alex and I got married, we were that annoyingly perfect couple. You know the type — inside jokes, weekly date nights, shared Spotify playlists. Everyone said we were “meant to be.” We believed it, too.

Then came the first crack: infertility.

We tried for a baby for nearly three years. Ovulation tracking, hormone shots, IVF. Nothing worked. Every negative test felt like a small death. I saw parts of Alex I’d never seen — the quiet way he mourned, the way he’d avoid the baby aisle in grocery stores, the way he once said, “Maybe we weren’t meant to be parents.”

We argued a lot then. Not screaming matches — just sharp, tired words. We slept with our backs to each other. I resented how he seemed to move on while I grieved month after month. He resented how I made him feel like he wasn’t enough.

We considered adoption, but it felt too soon. We paused everything and let ourselves breathe. Eventually, we accepted that maybe our love wouldn’t grow into a child, but it could still grow into something.

That was when we started healing. Slowly. Quietly. Together.

Then came the bankruptcy.

Alex’s small business, which had once been thriving, took a hit during an economic downturn. We drained our savings trying to stay afloat. Then the house. Then the car.

I worked two jobs. He took night shifts. We barely saw each other — and when we did, we were too exhausted to talk. I remember one night coming home to find Alex sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by unpaid bills, just staring. He didn’t cry. He just looked… hollow.

“I failed us,” he said.

And I believed him. Not because it was true — but because everything in our life was falling apart, and blaming each other felt easier than facing the chaos.

But something shifted one night when we had to sell our wedding rings to pay for groceries. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tragic. It was just us — sitting in the pawn shop parking lot, holding hands, laughing through tears.

“We’re not our stuff,” I said. “We’re still us.”

That became our mantra.

We slowly climbed back. New jobs. Cheaper rent. Less pressure. More time. We started dancing in the kitchen again. The laughter came back. It felt like we were finally winning.

Then, cancer.

My diagnosis came during a routine checkup. Cervical cancer. Early stage — but aggressive. I’ll never forget the way Alex held my hand when the doctor said the word. He didn’t flinch. He just squeezed tighter.

Chemo started fast. Hair loss, nausea, weakness — all the horrors I’d only ever seen in movies became my new reality. And through all of it, Alex stayed.

He bathed me. He carried me to bed. He held my head when I threw up and whispered, “You’re still beautiful,” when I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognise myself.

I wanted to push him away — to spare him, to hide the worst of it — but he never let go.

He once said, “I’ve watched you fight for us for years. Now let me fight for you.”

And he did. Every day.

We’re not the same couple we were twelve years ago. And thank God for that.

We’re messier. Softer. Quieter. More honest.

We’ve learned that marriage isn’t about constant happiness. It’s about choosing each other — when things are heavy, when the bank account is empty, when the test results are terrifying.

We lost a lot: the dream of children, financial security, parts of my body I’ll never get back.

But we also gained something unshakeable: a deeper kind of love — the kind forged in fire, not fantasy.

Today, I wear a new wedding ring — a thin, simple band we bought after my final scan came back clear. It’s not flashy, but it’s enough. It’s more than enough.

And when people ask how long we’ve been married, I still say “Twelve years.” But now, I also smile and think, You have no idea how much those years have held.

Because we didn’t just survive.

We stayed.

We fought.

We healed.

Barely — but beautifully.