A widower reflects on his 41-year marriage, realizing that comfort and routine led to emotional distance and missed opportunities for connection, a lesson he learned too late after his wife's death.
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I'm Peter Whitmore. I'm 73 years old.
[music] Some of you might remember me
from a few weeks back. The response to
that video was overwhelming, and [music]
I want to thank you for that. But today,
I need to talk about something I didn't
mention then, something more uh
personal, something that changed [music]
everything about how I see
relationships. And I need you to hear
this, you see, because what I'm about to
tell you could save [music] you from the
kind of pain that stays with you for
decades. My wife Susan [music] and I
were married for 41 years. That's longer
than some of you have been alive. And
for most of that time, I thought we had
a good marriage. Not perfect, [music]
but good. Solid. The kind of marriage
people stay in. But here's what nobody
tells you about long marriages. You can
live with someone for decades [music]
and still not really know them. You can
share a bed, a home, a life, and still
be um strangers in [music] the ways that
matter most. Susan died 6 years ago.
Pancreatic cancer, diagnosed in March,
gone by July, 4 months [music] from
healthy to gone. And in those final
weeks lying in [music] that hospice bed,
she said something to me that I think
about every single [music] day. She
said, "Peter, we wasted so much time
being [music] right instead of being
close." Honestly, I didn't understand it
at first. I was [music] defensive. We
had a good marriage, didn't we? We
rarely fought. We were comfortable
together. We'd built a life. But that's
exactly the problem. We were
comfortable. And comfortable isn't the
same as connected. Let me tell you what
I mean. For years, [music]
Susan would suggest things, small
things. Let's take a pottery class
together. Why don't we go dancing
anymore? Remember when we used to stay
up talking for hours? And I always had a
reason why not. Too tired. too busy, too
expensive, [music]
too impractical. I wasn't trying to hurt
her. I just thought we had time. I
thought those little moments didn't
matter. I thought the big things,
providing, being faithful, being >> [music]
>> [music]
>> uh reliable, I thought those were
enough. They weren't. You see, [music] I
thought love was about grand gestures,
being there during the crisis, paying
the bills, showing up. And yes, those
things matter. But what I didn't
understand is that love is [music] built
in the tiny, unremarkable moments. The
conversations you have over breakfast,
the walks you take for no reason, the
way you listen. really [music] listen
when your partner tells you about their
day. I stopped doing those things. Not
all at once. It happened gradually. So
gradually I didn't even notice. One
[music] mis conversation led to another.
One not tonight I'm tired led to a
thousand. One we can do that later
became um never. And Susan being Susan
she adapted. She stopped asking me to
dance. stopped suggesting we take
classes together, stopped trying to have
those deep conversations. She found her
own friends, her own activities, her own
life. We became roommates who happened
to be married, polite, considerate,
fundamentally alone. I didn't see it. Or
maybe I saw it and [music] told myself
it was normal. That this is just what
happens in long marriages. [music]
The passion fades. You settle into
routine. You become comfortable. But
comfortable is just another word for
complacent. When Susan got sick,
everything changed. Suddenly, [snorts]
we had a deadline. Suddenly, all those
things I thought we'd do someday had a
very clear expiration date. And in those
final months, we talked more honestly
than we had in 20 years. She told me
things I never knew, dreams she'd given
up on. Hurt she'd carried silently,
times she'd felt uh invisible in her own
marriage. One night, about 3 weeks
before she died, she told me about a
trip she'd always wanted to [music] take
to Scotland. Her grandmother was from
there and she'd always dreamed of seeing
the highlands, walking through the
villages, [music] understanding where
she came from. She'd mentioned it to me
multiple times over the years. And every
time I dismissed it, too [music]
expensive, not a good time. Maybe when
we retire, we never [music] went and now
we never would. She wasn't angry when
she told me this. That's what made it
worse. She was just sad, resigned, like
she'd accepted years ago that I wasn't
going to be the partner she needed. I
asked her why she never pushed harder.
Why she didn't insist. And you know what
she said? I didn't want to make you do
something you didn't want to do. I
wanted you to want to do it with me.
That sentence broke me because she was
right. She didn't want me to take her to
Scotland out of obligation. She wanted
me to want to share that experience with
her, to be excited about it, to care
about it because it mattered to her. And
I couldn't even give her that. Listen,
here's what I've learned, and I hope
you're listening because this is
important. The biggest threat to your
relationship isn't cheating or fighting
or some dramatic betrayal. It's
indifference. It's taking each other for
granted. [music] It's the slow erosion
of intimacy that happens when you stop
trying. You stop asking questions
because you think you already know the
answers. You stop making effort because
you think your partner will always be
there. You stop prioritizing the [music]
uh relationship because you think you
have time. And one day you wake up next
to a stranger [music] or worse, they're
gone and you never got the chance to
really know them at all. After Susan
died, I found a journal in her
nightstand. She'd been keeping it for
years, [music] and reading through it
was like discovering a person I'd lived
with but never truly seen. She wrote
about loneliness, about feeling like she
was screaming into a void. About small
moments that hurt her. [music] Times I
was physically present but emotionally
absent. Times I chose work over her.
Times I was more interested in my phone
than in what she was saying. She also
wrote about love, about the man she
married, about hoping that version of me
would come back, about trying to reach
me and not knowing how. I was right
there. We slept in the same bed every
night, but honestly, I might as well
have been on another planet. [music] And
here's the part that kills me. It wasn't
malicious. I wasn't trying to hurt her.
I just got lazy. I thought showing up
was enough. I thought providing was
enough. [music] I thought not doing
anything wrong was the same as doing
things right. But relationships don't
die from dramatic failures. They die
from a thousand small neglects. If
you're in a relationship right now, I
want you to ask yourself some questions.
When's the last time you had a real
conversation with your partner? Not
about logistics or schedules or what's
[music] for dinner. a real conversation
about dreams, fears, ideas. [music]
When's the last time you did something
just because it would make them happy?
Not because it was their birthday or an
anniversary, but just because. When's
the last time you looked at them, really
looked at them, and felt grateful
they're in your life? If you can't
remember, [music] well, you're making
the same mistake I made. Your partner
isn't going to be there [music] forever.
I know that sounds dark, but it's true.
One of you will die first. [music] And
when that happens, you don't get a
doover. You don't get to go back and
have those conversations you postponed.
You don't get to take those [music]
trips you kept um delaying. You don't
get to say those things you assumed they
already knew. Sus and I had 41 years
[music] and I wasted at least half of
them being comfortable instead of
connected. Being right instead [music]
of being close. Being present instead of
being engaged. Don't [music] make my
mistake. Love isn't something you feel
and then stop working on. [music] Love
is something you do every day in small
ways and big [music] ways. It's choosing
to be curious about your partner even
after decades together. It's trying new
things together even when it's
uncomfortable. [music] It's having hard
uh conversations even when it's easier
to avoid them. It's caring [music] about
the things they care about, not because
you have to, but because they matter to
the person you love. After Susan died,
people kept telling me I'd been a good
husband. They meant well, but they
[music] were wrong. I wasn't a good
husband. I was an adequate husband. I
met the minimum requirements. I didn't
cheat, didn't [music] abuse, didn't
abandon, but that's an incredibly low
bar. Being a good partner means [music]
actively building intimacy, choosing
vulnerability, staying curious, making
effort, prioritizing connection even
when you're tired or busy or stressed. I
didn't do those things. And now I live
with the regret of knowing I had
something precious and I let it slip
away through sheer neglect. [music]
Six years later, I still think about
Scotland, about how little it would have
cost me to say [music] yes. A week of my
time, some money, that's it. And it
would have meant everything to her. I
think about the pottery classes she
wanted to take, the dancing lessons, the
long conversations,
all the small ways she tried to stay
connected, and all the times I said no
or not now or maybe later. [music] Later
never came, you know, it never does. If
you love someone, if you share your life
with someone, don't wait for the perfect
time to show them they matter. Don't
assume they know. Don't take them for uh
granted. Ask them about their dreams.
Listen to their stories. Do the things
they suggest even if they don't interest
you, particularly because strengthening
your bond should interest you. Be
[music] present. Be curious. Be
intentional. Because one day [music]
you'll be where I am, sitting alone,
looking through old photographs, reading
journals, and realizing you had
everything you needed and you didn't
appreciate it until it was gone. I'm not
telling you this to make you feel
guilty. [music] I'm telling you this
because you still have time. Your
partner, if you have one, [music] is
still there. You can still have those conversations,
conversations,
take those trips, make those memories,
but you have to do it now. On my desk, I
keep a photograph of Susan [music]
from our honeymoon, 1972.
She's laughing, squinting in the sun,
her hair blowing in the wind, [music]
so full of life and hope and dreams. And
I think about the woman. She became
still [music] beautiful, still kind, but
with a quiet [music] sadness in her eyes
that I put there through years of benign
neglect. Susan was right. [music] We
wasted so much time being right instead
of being close. [music] Don't waste your
time the way I wasted mine. Love the
people in your life [music] actively,
intentionally, while you still can. This
channel features [music] people like me
sharing life advice and memories. If you
found this helpful, [music] please
subscribe and turn on notifications for
more. And if you've got something from
this, leave a comment, hit that like
button. If you've got a story to tell,
[music] something you've learned that
might help someone else, there's a form
down in the description. [music]
Fill it out. Maybe next time we'll be
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