10. The Promise Was We’d Get Through Anything – Where Did That Go?
How the words we once meant become the silence we sit in now.
Maybe it was said in the car, or whispered across a pillow. Maybe it wasn’t said out loud, but it was there. Felt. Known. The kind of certainty you don’t think to question, because you don’t imagine a future where it might not be true. We’ll get through anything. It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t dramatic. It was simply understood. A quiet vow wrapped in a thousand ordinary moments.
And then, somehow, it wasn’t.
The promise faded not in a single moment, but through the soft corrosion of time. At first, it holds. Through sleepless nights with babies, job losses, family illness, the grinding routine. We hold hands. We keep showing up. The promise helps us stay steady. But slowly, subtly, it begins to shift. "Anything" becomes everything. And everything becomes too much.
What once felt like a shared burden starts to split. One person carries the weight while the other begins to drift. Resentments go unspoken. Needs go unmet. The busyness of life takes over. And somehow the storm isn’t out there anymore, it’s between us. We’re no longer facing it together.
The cruelty is not just in the loss, but in the confusion. One of us still believes. Still turns up, still holds the line, still thinks this is part of the anything. But the other no longer sees it that way. The promise isn’t just broken. It’s disowned.
That’s where the real grief lies.
For many men, the promise is not just emotional, it’s a commitment etched into identity. We build our lives around it. We understand that things will be hard. That there will be seasons of distance, frustration, loneliness. But we believe we agreed to stay through all of that. That we would figure it out. Repair it. And when the other person walks away, or says they’re still here but with conditions, with distance, with exit plans, it doesn’t just feel like a change of heart. It feels like a betrayal of the entire foundation.
But we’re told not to see it that way. We’re told they’re finding themselves. That we shouldn’t take it personally. That love changes.
We understand all of that. But what we don’t understand is: why the promise had to die.
Why couldn’t we find ourselves together? Why couldn’t we let love change without letting it dissolve? Why couldn’t we face this, too, side by side? We did it before. What made this storm different?
The culture doesn’t help. We live in a time that worships exit. Individual fulfilment is the highest good. Discomfort is seen not as part of the path but as a signal to leave. We’re told to honour our truth, even if that truth changes next week. Therapy-speak has taught us that boundaries are about keeping people out, rather than building strength within.
And so the promise becomes unfashionable. Old-fashioned. A relic of co-dependence, rather than a sign of depth.
But some of us are still here. Still carrying that promise. Still trying to hold steady while everything around us urges collapse.
And perhaps the promise itself changes once we have children. It stops being just about the relationship and starts being about the family. That shift can go unnoticed, but it’s huge. What we promised each other becomes a promise we now hold for those we’ve brought into the world. The weight of that isn’t small. It can turn even the idea of walking away into something far more complex, because leaving a partner is one thing. Leaving a family, even partially, is another. And that’s why many of us stay, not out of weakness, but out of honour. Out of the belief that they deserve the version of us who keeps going, even when it hurts.
Part of being a modern, masculine man lies in integrity, not the curated kind, but the real, sometimes bruised kind that shows up when no one else does. Integrity isn’t about having always got it right. Most of us haven’t. It’s about what we hold to now. What we anchor to when the storm hits.
Each man will face different circumstances, but what doesn’t change is the need for a set of core values. Some call them principles. Others, boundaries. A programme I once took part in called them terms, and I’ve kept that word ever since. I like it. Your terms are the conditions under which you live. They aren’t negotiable. They aren’t loud. They’re just there, unmoving, like bedrock.
For many men, one of those terms sounds something like: I will take care of my family. But what that means can evolve. In marriage, it might mean provision, protection, emotional presence. At the point of separation, it often shifts. It becomes: My family is still better off as a whole than divided. That belief carries us through a period of uncertainty, tension, and holding on.
But there are times when even that term has to be re-examined. When an ex-wife has moved on into another relationship. When the atmosphere becomes toxic, and the children begin to absorb it. When the supposed wholeness starts to fracture the health of those within it. Then the man must ask: Am I still protecting my family, or am I protecting an idea of it?
It’s not a simple answer. And it shouldn’t be. But the key is that your decision is rooted in your terms, not your ego. Not fear. Not revenge. Integrity means staying faithful to your compass, even when the path ahead isn’t clear.
You don’t abandon your values. You adjust your direction to honour them more truthfully.
And sometimes, that means letting go of the form family once took, in order to protect its essence.
Maybe we were naive. Maybe we were idealistic. Or maybe we just understood something that doesn’t trend well on social media: that real love is forged through the fire, not found outside of it. That the good stuff comes after the disillusionment. That keeping the promise isn’t weakness, it’s the strongest thing we ever do.
So if you’re the one who still believes, I want to tell you: you’re not crazy. You’re not stuck. You’re not behind. You’re not less evolved. You are the steady hands in a world that has forgotten what it means to hold on. That promise you made? It still matters. Even if you have to carry it alone for a while.
Because sometimes, even now, people remember. They circle back. They rebuild.
And sometimes, they don’t.
But either way, the person who keeps the promise becomes the person you can trust with anything. Even heartbreak. Even silence. Even rebuilding.
Maybe that’s the real promise after all.
If this resonates, share it. Or leave a comment. These conversations matter.
Absolutely spot on. Fantastic writing.