Can Love Survive After the Spark Fades?
Tonight, something hit me. My son, just nine years old, looked up at me after I tucked him in and asked, “What will happen to me when I grow up?” It wasn’t just a child’s curiosity. It was the beginning of deep self-awareness. The fact that he’s beginning to wonder about his future, his identity, and his becoming, it struck something inside me. Because I’ve been asking myself that same question, just from a different angle. What kind of man will he become? And will I have loved him and guided him well enough by then?
That same day, I had a two-hour conversation with a lady eight years younger than me. She’s in her early 30s, navigating the complex terrain of purpose, grief, and motherhood. She lost her father before getting married. You could feel the residue of that grief in her voice, not because she was broken, but because she was still searching for what that loss meant. She’s married, with children, and yet wrestling with the burden of holding everything together. And she’s doing it with remarkable strength. That conversation made me reflect on the paradox we often face as leaders, partners, and parents: how to stay when everything in us wants to escape.
Marriage: Where Romance Dies, but Love is Reborn
In Chinese culture, there’s a saying: “婚姻是爱情的墟墓”, marriage is the tomb of romance. But the full truth is richer: “当爱情埋入土里时，爱在你我之间生长”,Love doesn’t end when the spark fades. That’s where it begins. This reflection journeys through the five stages of marriage, the shift from emotion to identity, and the quiet courage to stay. Because the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s escape. And some days, all you have is the vow.
when romance is buried, love begins to grow.
Even deeper, traditional wisdom teaches us that no matter who you marry, you will go through five stages of marriage:
- The honeymoon phase.
- The struggle.
- The death stage.
- The partnership.
- And finally, a new honeymoon phase.
At first, this sounds almost too scripted, but there’s a reason why this framework survives across cultures and generations. Because it reflects how love matures, not just how it begins.
The honeymoon phase is full of chemistry, dreams, and idealism. You see the best in each other and imagine building a life that feels effortless. Then comes the struggle, where conflict, differing expectations, and deep-seated emotional patterns surface. This is the phase where most couples experience their first real doubts. The death stage follows. This is the most fragile and misunderstood part of a marriage. Not the death of the relationship, but the death of illusions. The moment you realize that your spouse cannot complete you, heal your past, or meet every need. This is when the fantasy collapses, and reality arrives.
But if you stay, if you choose to love even through the disillusionment, you enter the partnership stage. Here, love becomes quieter but deeper. It’s not about excitement. It’s about alignment. You start building something together not out of emotion, but out of shared identity. And if you keep growing through that, something surprising happens. You enter a new honeymoon phase. Not because you return to how things were, but because you discover a deeper intimacy that was never possible before. One rooted in trust, safety, and respect.
This is why the five stages matter. Because it means the struggle isn’t a sign you married the wrong person. It’s a rite of passage. It means love is not lost when you feel disconnected. It’s being reborn. The question isn’t whether the stages will come. The question is whether you’ll stay long enough to see love evolve.
True strength in marriage isn’t about resisting or escaping the hard stages. It’s about accepting and letting go. That’s what transforms love from a feeling into a lifelong covenant.
When I first got married, I didn’t understand this. Like most couples, we started with romance, attraction, and idealism. But once kids came, expectations collided and exhaustion kicked in. Romance started to feel like a luxury we couldn’t afford. There were days I thought, “Maybe I married the wrong person.” But over time, I realized it wasn’t about marrying the right person. It was about becoming the right person.
I stopped trying to change my wife. I started changing myself. And something happened. Slowly, she began to respond. Not because I manipulated her into it, but because I made space for her to be safe. Real love is not about intensity. It’s about safety. It’s about staying. Especially when you don’t feel like it.
Identity Over Emotion
So why does all this matter? Because we live in a culture of escape. When love no longer feels good, we assume it’s wrong. But emotions aren’t a compass. They’re weather. Unstable. Unpredictable. Temporary.
Harvard’s 85-year study found that the strongest predictor of long-term happiness is not money, fame, or freedom. It’s stable, meaningful relationships. Not the ones that always feel good, but the ones where you stay. Where you show up. Where you commit, even when you’re tired.
And staying requires something deeper than feeling. It requires identity.
Emotion is a visitor. Identity is a foundation.
I’ve learned this through fitness. Most mornings I don’t feel like working out. I feel tired. I feel lazy. But I remind myself that I am a fitness-first person. That’s who I am. I want to inspire others by my actions, not just my words. And that means showing up, even when I don’t feel like it. Because if I settle for a 7 out of 10, I’ll never inspire someone else to reach their 10.
It’s the same in marriage. In parenting. In life. We must act from identity, not emotion. Love, like fitness, is not just what you feel. It’s what you practice. What you build. What you choose.
When the Party Ends, the Vow Begins
We make vows on our wedding day: For better or worse. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. But most of us don’t understand the weight of those words until much later.
The vow doesn’t matter when everything is beautiful. The vow matters when everything is hard. When you are misunderstood. When you give and get nothing in return. When the feeling dies.
And this is where the miracle of love begins. Because the greatest gift I can give my children is not just tuition, time, or toys. It is how I love their mother. That’s what they will remember. That’s what will shape their identity.
It’s easier to love our children than our spouse. Children are innocent. They come with no baggage. But spouses? Spouses are mirrors. They reflect our fears, wounds, and unmet expectations. That’s why loving a spouse is harder. But it’s also holier.
The Death That Sets You Free
I’ve seen this truth unfold in my own parents. My mother didn’t always feel seen or loved by my father. There were decades of silence, misunderstandings, and unspoken pain. But in her final years, something shifted. She began to see not the man who failed her, but the man who stayed. And she embraced that identity, not out of resignation, but reverence. She stopped resisting and started accepting. And somehow, peace came.
That shaped me more than any sermon ever could.
And in my own marriage, I’ve seen something similar. I chose to stop fixing her. I started fixing myself. I chose to stop comparing who we were with who we are becoming. And when I made that shift, something opened. She softened. Not because I demanded it. But because I made space for it.
When you love someone even when you don’t feel like it, they become safe enough to grow.
The Reverse That Redefines It All
When feeling dies, love is born. The opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s escape.
We think walking away is freedom. But the truest form of freedom is the decision to stay. Again and again. Quietly. Courageously.
Some days, all you will have is the vow. But the vow is enough. Because the vow is what anchors you when the storms come. When the spark fades. When everything inside you says, “This is too hard.”
But love is not the spark. It’s the staying.
And that’s what I want to pass on. To my son. To the lady I spoke with. To anyone wondering if love can survive after the feeling dies.
Yes, it can. Not just survive. It can be reborn.
Not in the butterflies.
But in the roots.
