I married my best friend.

And I don’t mean that in the way people sometimes toss it out at weddings or in picture captions. I mean it in the quiet, steady, all-the-way-down-to-the-soul kind of way. The kind you don’t always notice until you’re in the thick of life and suddenly realize you’ve been holding onto the same thread all along.

There is an invisible string between us. I’m sure of it.

Not one we wove ourselves, but one that was placed there gently and divinely before either of us had the wisdom to know how much we’d need it. It’s not bright or shiny. It doesn’t demand attention. But it has held through the weight of real life: babies crying in the night, stacks of unpaid bills on the kitchen counter, hospital waiting rooms with stale coffee and tense silence, long drives home after arguments no one won. It held when we laughed so hard we couldn’t breathe. It held when we wept quietly, our backs turned to the world, and our hands still found each other in the dark.

We are different, he and I. In ways that don’t always match on paper. Where I am scattered, he is steady. Where I overthink, he simply knows. Where I feel everything all at once, he holds the line. And maybe that’s the miracle of it. That two people can be so unlike and yet so deeply connected.

There is something sacred about a soul tie. It’s not just about affection or shared memories. It’s something deeper, something eternal. A soul tie is a binding of spirits, knit together in a way that defies logic. You don’t just love them. You recognize them. You feel their ache like a weight in your chest. You carry their joy like sunlight on your skin. You pray for them with a kind of urgency that has no words, only breath. And you know, in a way that doesn’t need explaining, that your heart was never meant to walk this life without theirs beside it.

That’s how I feel about him.

He doesn’t complete me. I am whole on my own. But he holds a part of me that no one else can reach, a part I didn’t even know needed holding until he came along.

I think about the years that brought us here. I think about how we met during a storm we didn’t know would pass. How we sat on worn-out couches and talked until the sky turned pink. How we fell asleep to the sound of lullabies from the baby monitor and woke up to coffee brewing in a kitchen that smelled like burnt toast and tired hope. How we’ve grown not just older together, but closer. How we’ve forgiven things that never needed to be spoken out loud. How we’ve found laughter even in the hardest places, like wildflowers growing through cracks in concrete.

Some days love is easy. A glance across the room while the dog barks at the mail truck. A shared joke whispered in the grocery store aisle. A hand brushing mine as we pass each other in the hall.

And some days, love is a choice. A quiet resolve to keep showing up, even when the words feel sharp and the air between us feels cold. A commitment not to the feelings of love, but to the act of it. To the promise of it. To the slow and steady building of something that lasts.

I married my best friend.

That friendship, the foundation of it all, is what has carried us through. It reminds me, even on the weary days, that the thread between us is still there. Tucked beneath the surface. Stronger than the winds. Wiser than our words. Anchored not just in emotion, but in faith, in grace, and in the quiet kind of love that doesn’t need an audience.

We are two imperfect people, tethered together by something holy. Not just by vows, but by a soul tie.

And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.