What if choosing to love fully, even with risk, is the real strength? What if vulnerability is the revolution?
By Chenai Mugunyani
I used to subscribe to the idea that marriage wasn’t an accomplishment. That it was “just a piece of paper”. That wanting it was outdated. I’ve reposted the tweets. I’ve nodded along to the podcasts. I’ve said it with my chest. But the older I got, the more I started to question what I was so quick to dismiss. Because when you really look at what it takes to share your life with someone, truly, how can you not see the accomplishment in that?
I’m single. I’ve never been married. But I’ve loved before. I’ve stayed too long before. And I’ve watched others, friends, strangers, family, navigate the complex beauty of lifelong love. I’ve listened to married people speak about each other with a kind of tenderness that isn’t showy, but sacred. I’ve heard the stories: of growing together, forgiving often, loving through depression, financial struggles, miscarriages, betrayals, and just plain boredom. And somewhere between watching all that and living through my own disappointments, something inside me shifted. Maybe marriage is an accomplishment. A holy one, even.
Growing up, I wasn’t taught to believe in love. Not intentionally, but by omission. Like many African children, I never heard the words “I love you” thrown casually across the room. There were no bedtime kisses or public displays of affection between our parents. Marriage, when it was spoken about, was often a survival tool, not a celebration. I didn’t grow up watching two people lift each other. If anything, I heard the whispers of how one had to carry the other. How the husband was useless, or the wife did everything. That was the only narrative passed down. That, or silence.
So, it made sense, then, to grow up thinking marriage wasn’t something to strive for. That love was either toxic or invisible. That the people who “wanted marriage” were either naïve or too traditional to know better. But I’ve come to believe that what society calls “liberation” is sometimes just pain in disguise. A reaction to trauma. A rejection of anything that requires vulnerability. We say, “Men are trash,” or “Women are evil,” not because that’s the whole truth, but because we’ve seen too much to still be hopeful. We create safety in apathy. We mock what we once wanted so no one sees us longing for it.
We praise detachment. We call it strength. But sometimes, what we call “guarded” is just fear in disguise. What if choosing to love fully, even with risk, is the real strength? What if vulnerability is the revolution?
We live in a world where showing desire for connection can be seen as desperate. Let’s rather chase the paper, love doesn’t pay the bills. But what if it’s not weak to want a partner? What if the boldest thing you can do in a cold world is still believe in love?
Yes, not every marriage is good. Some are toxic. Some should end. But just because some people fail at something doesn’t mean the thing itself has no value. We don’t stop valuing education because some schools are broken. Why do we treat marriage that way?
But the truth is, marriage is an accomplishment. It is work. It is dying to self, daily. It is listening when you’d rather walk out. It’s lifting someone up when you feel weak yourself. It is humbling. Especially if you’re a woman who is used to doing everything on your own. Especially when you’ve been told never to need anyone.
There is a verse in the Bible, Ephesians 5:25, that says, “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” That kind of love is no small task. That’s the highest standard. And marriage, in its truest form, is not just about compatibility. It’s about sacrifices. The way Christ loved. The way He died to save.
I think we forget that relationships, especially God-led ones, ask something of us. Not to shrink, but to serve. To submit to something greater than our egos. To let someone lead. To forgive, again and again. That doesn’t come naturally to everyone. And when two people choose to commit to that, to stay, that’s an accomplishment. Not a prize you win. But a posture you choose. A spirit you train. A victory you fight for.
Especially for women, we’re told it’s either/or. Either you’re strong and single, or soft and coupled. But what if strength is knowing your worth and letting someone in? What if the most powerful version of you is the one who chooses both?
We think the wedding is the finish line, but it’s the starting point. Marriage doesn’t complete you. It reveals you. It stretches you. And the couples who survive that stretching, they’ve accomplished something sacred.
I’m not saying everyone must get married. Some people genuinely don’t want to. And that’s fine. But for those who do, they shouldn’t be shamed for wanting it. And those who have it, and keep it, should be allowed to be proud of that. The same way we celebrate people for graduating or building a business, we can celebrate those who’ve spent years loving one person well.
The great marriages out there? They didn’t fall into place. They were built. Brick by brick. Forgiveness by forgiveness. Prayer by prayer. That’s not ordinary. That’s extraordinary.
And though I’m not married yet, I see the work. I honour it. And I hope one day to accomplish that kind of love with someone, too.
I’m not talking about fairy tales. I don’t need a perfect person, just a present one. A partner who chooses love every day, even when it’s hard. Someone who fears God, not in word only, but in action. Someone who knows that love is a verb, not just a feeling.
I think a beautiful partnership looks like trust that doesn’t have to be proven over and over, because safety has already been built. It looks like compatibility that goes beyond shared hobbies, compatibility in how we forgive, how we fight, how we show up when one of us is weak.
It looks like kindness that outlives attraction, and laughter in the middle of hard seasons. It’s inside jokes while paying bills. It’s carrying groceries and checking in emotionally. It’s praying for each other, not just posting each other. It’s being able to say “I’m struggling,” and hearing “I’m not going anywhere.”
And most of all, it looks like two people who don’t idolize each other, but put God at the centre, trusting that when the feelings fade or the storms come, it’s their shared faith that will hold them steady.
That kind of love? It’s not loud. It’s not performative. It doesn’t need a filter or a perfect Instagram caption. But it’s real. And it’s worth desiring. Worth working for. Worth calling an accomplishment.
The older I get; the more life shows me how fragile everything is. Love. Commitment. Time. And sometimes you have to pause and step back to question whether the things society laughs at are actually the very things we long for.
Because just like you go to school to study a degree, when you choose someone, they become your study. They become the book you learn, the subject you grow in. And when you pass through the storms, and remain soft, and hold onto each other through the years, you can take a moment, stand tall, and say: “I did that. We did that.”
That’s an accomplishment. And I won’t be ashamed to say so.
Chenai Mugunyani is a Zimbabwean writer based in South Africa. She writes to share stories that make people feel seen, spark hope, and stir the imagination. Her work explores themes of womanhood, healing, faith, and emotional truth. You can find her on X (Twitter): @Chenaymiranda.
Cover photo credit: CNN