John and I tried one of those TikTok trends the other day — the “How We See Each Other” challenge. You each pick nine images that remind you of the other person: animal, place, plant, character, season, hobby, food, color, and drink.
It’s meant to be lighthearted, like a digital vision board for your relationship. But because we’ve been together long enough to finish each other’s sentences, it turned into something unexpectedly tender — and, of course, a little funny.
He picked for me: Hazel (our dog), a winding country road, colorful flowers, Kermit the Frog, fall, writing, pasta, prism royal blue, and coconut Red Bull.
I picked for him: a golden retriever, a concert venue, an evergreen tree, Samwise Gamgee, spring, music, steak, ocean blue, and Monster Sunrise.
We laughed through it at first, the way you do when you’re trying not to get sentimental over a social media trend. But somewhere between, “You think I’m Kermit?” and his matter-of-fact, “Of course you are. You’re the one in the middle of chaos, clipboard in hand, keeping the show together,” the air changed. The laughter lingered, but underneath it was warmth — that small, sacred shift that happens when you realize someone really gets you.
When I made his list, I didn’t choose things because they were his favorites. I chose them because they feel like him — because they capture the quiet, steady heartbeat of who he is.
The golden retriever was easy. Loyal, good-hearted, and always ready to show up when someone needs him. That’s John to his core — dependable, patient, and kind in that effortless, unassuming way. He’s the kind of person who somehow makes it better just by being there. The world could be falling apart, and he’d still have this calm, “everything’s fine, we’ll figure it out” energy that steadies everyone else. You don’t realize how powerful that presence is until you’ve lived with it — until you’ve weathered a few storms and realized you’ve never once had to doubt that he’d still be standing beside you, golden as ever.
The concert venue came next, because that’s where I see him light up. It’s not just the music — though that’s a big part of it — it’s the atmosphere. The hum of anticipation before the lights go down. The way he scans the stage, waiting for that first note. It’s like he breathes differently there, like the air itself is charged with something that wakes him up from the inside out.
Music has always been his heartbeat. It’s not just a hobby; it’s woven into who he is. He processes through melody the way I do through words. A song can shift his whole mood, pull him out of a fog, make him laugh, make him remember. He’s the guy who makes playlists for road trips, who knows the deep cuts on every album, who notices the chord progression most people miss. When he shares a song, it’s not just because he likes it — it’s because he wants you to feel what he feels. Watching him at a concert feels a little like watching someone step into their element — completely at ease, completely alive. In a world that demands constant noise, he somehow finds the right kind.
The evergreen tree felt like the truest metaphor for marriage — staying rooted even when the weather changes. I’ve seen him steady through storms, staying green through winters, holding his ground when everything around him shifts. He doesn’t get swept up in every passing season; he endures them, quietly, faithfully. He’s the kind of person who stays. Who shelters. Who bends without breaking. There’s a quiet beauty in that — in loving someone who doesn’t need everything to be perfect to keep showing up.
And then there’s Samwise Gamgee. That one didn’t even need an explanation. Everyone should be loved by someone who’d walk with them to Mordor. He’s the steady companion who carries the pack when you’re too tired, who never complains, who believes in the journey even when you don’t. That’s John — loyal, humble, brave in quiet ways. The one who just keeps going, loving without fanfare or spotlight.
I chose spring because it’s the season that feels most like him — hopeful, grounded, and quietly full of life. He has this way of bringing warmth back into the room, of finding something to smile about even when things are hard. Where I sometimes see endings, he sees beginnings. Where I see mess, he sees possibility. Loving him has taught me that renewal doesn’t have to be dramatic — sometimes it’s just the steady choice to start again, together, every day.
Steak is simple, classic, and deeply satisfying — like the comfort of someone who knows you inside out. He’s not about frills or trends; he’s about substance. You know what you’re getting, and it’s always good. There’s consistency in that — the kind that makes you exhale after a long day. Loving him is a lot like that too — not flashy or loud, but filling and familiar in the best possible way.
He is ocean blue because it’s calm and endless, strong and peaceful all at once. There’s depth there — more than what you see on the surface. He’s not loud about his emotions, but they run deep. Like the ocean, he holds multitudes — quiet strength, still waters, unexpected depth. And just like the sea, being around him has this grounding effect. Even when life feels chaotic, he has a way of bringing everything back to balance.
And finally, Monster Sunrise because nothing says “lifelong commitment” quite like the Subscribe & Save caffeine shipment that shows up on our porch. We buy it in bulk now because life keeps asking us to be awake and functioning long before we feel ready. It’s not poetic, but it’s partnership — a reminder that love often looks like two people choosing to be awake, together, for whatever the day holds.
When we finished, we sat looking at two lists — two portraits drawn in symbols. By the time we were done, it wasn’t about TikTok anymore. It was about recognition.
If we’d done this ten years ago, our answers would’ve been completely different. I probably would’ve picked a sound booth or a science lab for him; he might’ve picked a wedding venue or a high school band room for me. Back then, we were defined by what we did — the daily grind of raising kids, working long hours, keeping up with the logistics of life. But somewhere along the way, we shifted from describing each other by roles to describing each other by essence.
That’s the beauty of time. When you love someone long enough, you stop seeing snapshots and start seeing landscapes. You begin to recognize their rhythms, the meaning behind their quirks, the way they move through the world.
He doesn’t just see me as “someone who writes.” He sees how writing keeps me alive, how it helps me process everything that doesn’t have words yet. And I don’t just see him as “someone who loves music.” I see how it restores him, how it connects him to people, how it brings him peace when everything else is loud.
The longer you’re with someone, the more you learn to see not just what they do — but who they are.
That’s what this challenge revealed. It wasn’t about performance or perfection. It was about presence.
In the rush of everyday life, it’s so easy to stop looking at each other. You exchange quick texts about groceries or schedules, and assume that’s connection. You forget that love also lives in noticing.
The nine little categories were really just prompts for what we forget to say:
I see your steadiness.
I see your humor.
I see your creativity and your heart.
And isn’t that what we all want? To be known not by what we accomplish, but by how we move through the world.
When I looked at his list for me, I saw a version of myself I sometimes forget — braver, softer, more vibrant. I don’t always feel like colorful flowers or a winding country road. Some days I feel more like a half-dead houseplant and a traffic jam. But through his eyes, I’m reminded that even in the mess, there’s beauty worth noticing.
That’s the kind of grace long-term love gives you. It doesn’t require constant excitement or fireworks. It asks you to stay curious — to keep looking at the person beside you, not just as they were, but as they are now.
When we first started dating, I used to worry about keeping things interesting. I thought love had to be full of surprises to stay alive. But the truth is, the real magic isn’t in novelty — it’s in deep familiarity. It’s in knowing that The West Wing is their comfort show to watch when they fold laundry, how they breathe when they fall asleep, how their laugh sounds when they’re caught off guard by a dry little observation.
That’s what marriage becomes — the steady noticing of an entire life unfolding next to yours.
So yes, it started as a TikTok trend. But it reminded me that love doesn’t always show up as grand gestures or big anniversary dinners. More often, it’s in the quiet, ordinary moments — the simple act of saying, “I see you.”
Sometimes it’s five unhurried minutes spent picking nine little images that tell the story of your person. And in doing that, realizing what you’ve really built together — a life stitched from a thousand small, intentional choices that keep saying, I’m still here. I still notice you.
Because being seen — truly seen — is one of life’s most generous gifts.
And sometimes, it looks like a golden retriever, a beagle, and two energy drinks on a dining room table. Nothing fancy. Just the everyday proof of a love still awake enough, and curious enough, to keep looking closer.
Rachel L. Richard is a small-town farm girl turned suburbanite, a delightfully irreverent optimist, Mrs & Mama, floppy dog ear scratcher, lifelong learner, channel surfer, wanderer, believer, occasional creative, out-of-practice musician, cupcake addict, book devourer, and lover of all people.
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