"Did I Marry The Wrong Person?"

He walked into my office looking discombobulated.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” he admitted, barely sitting before the words tumbled out. “I’m really not sure if I can do this anymore.”

“This” was his marriage.

He had only been married a short time, and it had been a rollercoaster. Some days were tender and hopeful. Other days were cold, distant, and tense—leaving him wondering if it was all a mistake.

But this time, something specific had pushed him over the edge.

The night before, at a local function, he had a conversation with an older gentleman seated next to him. A casual back-and-forth, nothing remarkable—until the man began talking about shidduchim and zivugim. “Sometimes people marry someone who isn’t really their true match,” he had said.

A simple statement. Maybe even well-meaning. But to my client, it landed like a grenade. It tapped into his deepest fear: that maybe he had made a life-altering mistake.

His mind spiraled. Was this a siman? What if his struggles weren’t the normal growing pains of a new relationship—but evidence that he had chosen wrong?

I listened as he poured it all out—his confusion, his fear, his guilt. He wasn’t just afraid of being unhappy. He was afraid of ruining his life and his future children's lives, of disappointing his parents, friends, and community. And of letting himself down.

I told him I understood. When you're already in a vulnerable, precarious emotional space, even an offhand remark can feel like an arrow piercing through your heart.

He talked about the options in front of him. Staying. Leaving. Waiting. And everything in between. “But whatever you decide,” I said, “you need to find your center. You can’t live in this constant state of inner turmoil.”

That statement made an impression. He put his head in his hands and paused for a long time. Then he looked up at me and said rather firmly, “I’m committed to the marriage. Period.”

I could see the shift. His shoulders relaxed and he seemed to be at peace with what he just said. For the first time in weeks, he had drawn a line in the sand—not because everything was perfect, but because he was choosing to anchor himself in a direction.

“I have to tell you,” I said, “that’s bold. That’s clarifying. This doesn’t mean you won’t get knocked off balance. You may. But now you know your center point and its just a matter of figuring out how to get back there.”

From there, we began to explore what it means to be in a relationship long-term—not just during the good days, but through the inevitable disconnects.

I shared a metaphor I often use with couples: Imagine you and your spouse are standing in two side-by-side revolving doors. When your doors line up and you face each other, there’s warmth and connection. But sometimes, the doors turn. You drift apart, feel distant, maybe even frustrated. That’s normal. The key is remembering that the doors will keep turning. With time, you’ll come back around and face each other once again.

He nodded slowly. I could tell the image resonated.

“Don’t panic when the doors shift,” I told him. “Just hold steady. They’ll come back around.”

Many marriages goes through these cycles. The couples who make it aren’t the ones who never feel doubt—they’re the ones who learn not to take their doubt too seriously. Who learn to notice the emotional temperature without assuming it’s permanent.

By the end of our session, he looked lighter. He had reclaimed his footing.

He made a choice—not just to stay married, but to stop letting every difficult moment question the entire foundation of his relationship.