I’m Peter Whitmore. I’m seventy-three years old, and I never thought I’d be sitting here, recording a story like this. Some of you might remember me from a video I shared a few weeks ago. The response was overwhelming. People from across the country, emails, messages, comments—you name it. But today, I need to talk about something I didn’t mention then. Something far more personal. Something that changed everything I thought I knew about love and relationships. And you need to hear this, because what I’m about to share could spare you the kind of heartbreak that lingers for decades, quietly, in the corners of your mind.

My wife, Susan, and I were married for forty-one years. Forty-one. That’s longer than some of you have been alive. And for most of that time, I honestly thought we had a good marriage. Not perfect, mind you, but good. Solid. The kind of marriage people stay in. But here’s the thing nobody tells you about long marriages: you can live with someone for decades and still not really know them. You can share a bed, a house, a life, and yet remain strangers in the ways that matter most.

Susan died six years ago. Pancreatic cancer. Diagnosed in March, gone by July. Four months. From perfectly healthy to gone. And in those final weeks, lying in that sterile, quiet hospice room in Cleveland, she said something to me that I think about every single day. She said, “Peter, we wasted so much time being right instead of being close.”

I didn’t understand it at first. I was 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. Comfortable is not the same as connected.

Let me give you an example. For years, Susan would suggest little things. Small, seemingly trivial things. “Let’s take a pottery class together,” she’d say, eyes bright with a spark I hadn’t noticed in months. “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. 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 reliable—were enough. They weren’t.

Love isn’t just grand gestures. Yes, those matter. Being there during crises, paying the bills, showing up. But what I didn’t understand is that love is built in the tiny, unremarkable moments. The conversations over breakfast in our sunlit kitchen with the smell of fresh coffee and bacon filling the air. The walks we took around our leafy neighborhood in Shaker Heights, just because the day was beautiful. The way you really listen when your partner tells you about her day, the little details you pretend to forget so you can surprise them later with a memory.

I stopped doing those things. Not all at once. It was subtle, gradual, like water wearing down stone. One missed conversation led to another. One “not tonight, I’m tired” led to a thousand. One “we can do that later” became never. And Susan, being Susan, adapted. She stopped asking me to dance. Stopped suggesting classes. Stopped trying to have those deep conversations. She found friends, activities, her own life outside of me.

We became roommates who happened to be married. Polite. Considerate. Fundamentally alone.

I didn’t see it. Or maybe I saw it and told myself it was normal. That this is just what happens in long marriages. Passion fades, you settle into a routine, you become comfortable. But comfortable is just another word for complacent.

When Susan got sick, everything changed. Suddenly, we had a deadline. Suddenly, all the “someday” things I kept putting off had a very clear expiration date. And in those final months, we talked more honestly than we had in twenty years. She told me things I never knew: dreams she’d quietly abandoned, hurts she carried silently, moments she felt invisible in her own marriage.

One night, about three weeks before she died, she told me about a trip she had always dreamed of taking. To Scotland. Her grandmother had been from there, and she’d always wanted to see the Highlands, walk through the villages, understand where she came from. She had mentioned it to me multiple times over the years. And I had dismissed it every single time. “Too expensive,” I’d say. “Maybe when we retire.” We never went. And now, we never would.

She wasn’t angry. That made it worse. She was just sad, resigned, like she had 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 she said, simply, “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. She didn’t want Scotland out of obligation. She wanted me to be excited, to care, to share the experience because it mattered to her. And I couldn’t even give her that.

Here’s what I’ve learned, and I hope you’re listening: the biggest threat to a relationship isn’t cheating. It isn’t fighting. It isn’t some dramatic betrayal. It’s indifference. Taking each other for granted. 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 assume your partner will always be there. You stop prioritizing the relationship because you think there’s always more time. And one day, you wake up next to a stranger. Or worse—you wake up, and they’re gone, and you never truly knew them at all.

After Susan died, I found a journal in her nightstand. Years of thoughts, scribbled in neat handwriting. Reading it was like discovering a person I had lived with but never truly seen. She wrote about loneliness, about screaming into a void, about small moments that hurt her—times I was physically present but emotionally absent. Times I chose work over her. Times I was more interested in my phone than in her words.

She also wrote about love. About the man she married. About hoping that version of me would return. About trying to reach me, and not knowing how.

I was right there. Sleeping in the same bed every night. But I might as well have been on another planet. And the worst part? It wasn’t malicious. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I just got lazy. Showing up was enough, I thought. Providing was enough. Not doing anything wrong was the same as doing things right.

Relationships don’t die from dramatic failures. They die from a thousand small neglects.

If you’re in a relationship, ask yourself: when was the last time you had a real conversation with your partner? Not about schedules, logistics, or dinner, but about dreams, fears, ideas? When was the last time you did something just to make them happy, not because it was a birthday or anniversary, but just because? When was the last time you looked at them—really looked at them—and felt grateful they’re in your life?

If you can’t remember, you’re making the same mistake I made. Your partner won’t be there forever. One day, there’s no do-over. No going back. No taking those trips, no postponed conversations, no “maybe later.” Susan and I had forty-one years. And I wasted at least half of them being comfortable instead of connected, being right instead of being close, being present instead of engaged. Don’t make my mistake.

Love isn’t something you feel and then stop. Love is something you do. Every day. In small ways and in big ways. It’s choosing to be curious about your partner even after decades. It’s trying new things even when it’s uncomfortable. It’s having hard conversations even when it’s easier to avoid them. It’s caring about the things that matter to them, not because you have to, but because it matters to the person you love.

After Susan died, people said, “You were a good husband.” Well, I wasn’t. I was adequate. I met the minimum. Didn’t cheat, didn’t abuse, didn’t abandon. But that’s an incredibly low bar. Being a good partner means actively building intimacy. Choosing vulnerability. Staying curious. Making effort. Prioritizing connection even when tired, busy, stressed. I didn’t. And now I live with that regret every single day.

Six years later, I still think about Scotland. About pottery classes she wanted to take. About long conversations. About small gestures I brushed off. Later never came. 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 granted. Ask about dreams. Listen to stories. Do the things they suggest even if they don’t interest you. Strengthening your bond should interest you. Be present. Be curious. Be intentional. Because one day, you’ll be where I am. Sitting alone, looking at photographs, reading journals, realizing you had everything and didn’t appreciate it until it was gone.

I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I’m telling you because you still have time. Your partner is still there. You can still have those conversations. Take those trips. Make those memories. But you have to do it now.

On my desk, I keep a photograph of Susan from our honeymoon in 1972. She’s laughing, squinting in the sun, hair blowing in the wind. So full of life and hope and dreams. And I think about the woman she became—still beautiful, still kind, but with a quiet sadness in her eyes that I put there through years of benign neglect.

Susan was right. We wasted so much time being right instead of close. Don’t waste your time like I did. Love the people in your life actively, intentionally, while you still can.

I’m Harold, and this is my wife, Denise. We’ve been married for sixty years. Sixty years. Some of you might read that and think, “Wow, they must have figured it out early.” But let me stop you right there. What we’re about to share isn’t small stuff. These aren’t cute little tips. These are the mistakes that nearly broke us. And if you’re in a relationship—or thinking about one—you need to hear this. We wish someone had told us all of this on our wedding day back in 1964, right after the ceremony in the tiny church in our hometown in Ohio, when the smell of fresh paint and church pew polish still lingered.

Denise: When Harold says “almost broke us,” he means it. There were years, honestly, where I wasn’t sure we’d make it to the next anniversary. And now, sitting here in our sunlit living room, surrounded by the photographs of our three kids, seven grandchildren, and two great-grandkids, people assume it’s been smooth. But it wasn’t. We made mistakes—big ones—that cost us closeness, laughter, and precious time we can’t get back. But we learned. And that’s why we’re here.

Harold: Mistake number one: keeping score of who does more.

For the first fifteen years of our marriage, I kept a mental tally. I took out the trash, mowed the lawn, fixed things around the house. Whenever Denise asked for help with something else, I’d think, what about everything I already do? I never said it directly, but she felt it. The resentment was like a wall, thick and invisible, stretching between us.

Denise: And I had my own list. I cooked every single meal. Raised our three kids. Managed their schedules. Stayed up nights when they were sick. Cleaned, organized, remembered every birthday and anniversary for both our families. And when Harold came home tired, I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I just added it to my list—the list of all the ways I was doing more, caring more, trying more.

Harold: It poisoned us. Marriage isn’t a transaction. It’s not about fifty-fifty down to the last dish washed or diaper changed. Some seasons, one person carries more. Back in 1983, I had an injury and couldn’t work for four months. Denise carried everything. She worked double shifts as a nurse, came home, took care of me, took care of the kids. I couldn’t keep score then. And years later, when she faced her own health struggles, I did the same. But we wasted years before that, measuring, comparing, resenting.

Denise: The turning point came when our oldest daughter said something to me. She was maybe thirty, having her own marriage troubles, and she asked, “Mom, do you and Dad even like each other?” That hit me like a punch in the chest. We loved each other. I know we always did. But had we become so focused on fairness that we forgot to be a team? I stopped counting after that. Not overnight, but gradually. Harold did too.

Harold: Mistake number two: thinking you can change each other.

Denise is a planner. Always has been. Lists, schedules, agendas. She needs to know what’s happening three weeks from now. Me? I’ve always been more spontaneous, more “go with the flow.” For decades, we fought about this. She’d get frustrated that I wouldn’t commit to plans; I’d get frustrated she couldn’t relax and be in the moment.

Denise: I thought if I explained it right, or got upset enough, Harold would understand why planning mattered, and he’d change. I’d say things like, “Why can’t you be more organized?” And he’d respond, “Why can’t you loosen up?” We were trying to turn each other into people we weren’t. And it didn’t work. It only made us feel inadequate and misunderstood.

Harold: What finally changed was acceptance. Denise’s planning isn’t a flaw—it’s her way of navigating the world. My spontaneity isn’t irresponsibility—it’s how I find joy. Stop seeing differences as problems to fix. Start seeing them as tools to complement each other. She plans our big trips, finances, calendar. I surprise her with little spontaneous moments—flowers, ice cream drives, small day trips. We complement each other now.

Denise: Mistake number three: not saying the difficult things until you explode.

I am guilty. So guilty. Small annoyances built up, and I stayed silent because I didn’t want a fight. I thought, it’s not worth it, just let it go. But it doesn’t go anywhere. It piles up inside. Until one small thing—like forgetting to buy milk—sets you off. And suddenly, it’s about six months of resentment, all dumped at once.

Harold: Early 2000s, Denise exploded because I forgot to pick up milk. And she was yelling about how I never listen. I stood there thinking, this is about milk? But it wasn’t. It was six months of feeling unheard.

Denise: If I’d said calmly, earlier, “Harold, when you forget things I ask you to do, I feel like you don’t value my time,” we could have talked. Instead, I stayed quiet until I couldn’t anymore. Then it came out as an attack. That solves nothing.

Harold: We learned to speak up sooner. Not aggressively, but honestly. “This bothered me; can we talk about it?” Awkward at first, but better than exploding. Hard conversations don’t need to be fights—they can be conversations.

Denise: Mistake number four: treating your marriage like it runs on autopilot.

After twenty-five years, we fell into routine. We knew each other well, had been through everything, and assumed the relationship would sustain itself. We stopped dating. Stopped asking real questions. Life became logistics: groceries, dentist appointments, electric bill. Roommates who occasionally slept together.

Harold: And it happened gradually. No single moment where we decided to stop trying. Romance, curiosity, effort faded. Comfortable became complacent.

Denise: Friends divorced after thirty-eight years. Shocked everyone. But they were fine. Just fine. Not happy. Not connected. Just existing. And one day, I realized I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life just existing. That terrified me.

Harold: So we changed. Dinner at the table, not in front of the TV. Real questions again: “What made you happy this week?” Evening walks, twenty minutes, just for us. Date nights returned—not fancy, but intentional. Ice cream drives, card games at the kitchen table. Focused on each other, not tasks. Your marriage needs attention, care, and it won’t thrive if ignored.

Denise: Mistake number five: forgetting you’re on the same team.

Arguments used to feel like battles. One person wins, one loses. But marriage isn’t a competition. If one wins, both lose. We had to remember we’re partners, moving through life together, not opponents.

Harold: Middle son Daniel hit hard times—lost job, marriage failing, moved back in at forty. Denise and I had different ideas on helping him. We couldn’t fight. We had to listen, compromise, work together. That reminded us we are a team. Harold and Denise, together, facing life’s challenges, not trying to defeat each other.

Denise: Remembering we’re teammates changes arguments. Stop trying to hurt. Start asking, “Help me understand your perspective.” Look for solutions, not ways to prove a point.

Harold: We’re not perfect. Even now, after sixty years, mistakes happen. We still get frustrated. But we catch ourselves. Correct course. Choose each other every day.

Denise: If I could tell my younger self anything, it would be these five things: stop keeping score, accept who he is, say hard things early, never stop dating your spouse, always remember you’re on the same team.

Harold: Sixty years is long. We’ve buried friends, raised children, survived losses, celebrated victories. We’ve changed so much since 1964. But we’ve changed together. And that makes all the difference.

Denise: We hope sharing this helps you avoid the pain we went through. Strengthen your relationship now. Don’t wait. Choose each other every day.

Harold: After we started making those small changes, something remarkable happened. It wasn’t overnight, but slowly, life began to feel alive again. The kitchen table wasn’t just for bills and cereal anymore. It became the place where we’d linger over breakfast, talking about dreams, stories, the little things that had been buried under decades of routine. The smell of pancakes on Saturday mornings, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the sound of our three kids laughing at the table—it all reminded us why we fell in love in the first place.

Denise: I remember one spring afternoon in the early 1990s, we were in our backyard in Ohio. The tulips were blooming, bright reds and yellows lining the garden. Harold grabbed the baseball mitt from the garage, and for no reason at all, he said, “Let’s play catch.” Now, he hadn’t played catch in years, but there was something playful, almost mischievous in his voice. We tossed the ball back and forth, laughing like kids, completely forgetting the world outside our fence. Those twenty minutes were worth more than a month of vacations.

Harold: That was the moment I realized the small things—the spontaneous, unplanned moments—carry more weight than grand gestures. It doesn’t take a cruise to the Caribbean to strengthen a marriage. Sometimes it’s a simple walk, a shared joke, a quiet cup of tea together.

Denise: And we learned to celebrate milestones in our own way. Not extravagant gifts, but meaningful moments. I still remember Harold surprising me on our fortieth anniversary with a scrapbook. He’d gone through decades of photos, ticket stubs, little notes we’d exchanged. Every detail he remembered, every memory carefully preserved. I sat on the couch, tears streaming, realizing he had been paying attention all along—even when I thought he wasn’t.

Harold: Mistake number six, though we didn’t call it that at the time, was underestimating the power of routine intimacy. Not just sex, though that’s part of it. But hugs, hand-holding, sitting close while watching TV, those small gestures. We thought physical presence was enough. But it’s the intentional touch, the silent communication of care, that builds a lasting bond.

Denise: We learned that the human heart thrives on these small doses of connection. Harold started leaving little notes for me—one on the fridge, a Post-it on my nightstand, a scribble in my planner. Sometimes it just said, “Thinking of you.” And those notes meant more than anything expensive or extravagant.

Harold: Mistake number seven: forgetting to involve each other in your dreams. For years, I kept my hobbies private—woodworking in the garage, reading detective novels late at night—thinking they were my own, separate from her. Denise did the same. But slowly, we started sharing. I invited her to the garage, showed her a birdhouse I was building. She laughed at my clumsy attempts at carpentry, and it felt like life itself was opening up again. She shared her own passions—quilting, painting—and I paid attention, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Denise: One of my favorite memories is when we took a road trip through the Midwest. It was 1978, summer. We rented a small RV, packed the kids, and just drove, no strict plans. Harold navigated, I handled the meals, and we stopped in every small town that looked interesting. We visited diners with neon signs, baseball fields with local leagues playing, farmers’ markets bursting with fresh produce. Those little towns, the smells, the sounds, the laughter, it all became part of our story. And we talked—really talked—about our dreams, our fears, what we wanted from life. For once, we were partners in adventure, not just in survival.

Harold: Mistake number eight: letting pride get in the way. We both have stubborn streaks. For decades, we’d let pride keep us from apologizing, from admitting when we were wrong. I remember one Christmas Eve in the early 1980s, we had a massive argument over something trivial—whose turn it was to set up the Christmas lights. The fight escalated, words thrown like daggers. Hours later, neither of us had said sorry. The house was cold, the kids asleep, and we sat in silence. That night taught us that pride can freeze the heart. Apologies aren’t weakness; they’re bridges.

Denise: And learning to apologize changed everything. Not the “I’m sorry, but…” type, but the genuine, “I was wrong, and I don’t want to hurt you” type. The kind that opens space for understanding. That’s how we began to rebuild trust after decades of minor resentments.

Harold: Mistake number nine: not letting laughter in. Life is hard. Raising kids, working long hours, paying bills, dealing with loss—it wears on you. We forgot to laugh at ourselves. One rainy day in the 1990s, the kids were at school, and we got stuck trying to fix a leaky roof in a thunderstorm. I slipped on the ladder. Denise slipped helping me down. We ended up soaked, muddy, laughing until we cried. It was a moment of pure joy, ridiculous and imperfect, but it reminded us that love thrives on laughter as much as on sacrifice.

Denise: And that’s what we tried to do from then on—infuse our life with moments of joy. Little pranks, small surprises, spontaneous dancing in the kitchen. Our neighbors must have thought we were crazy, but it didn’t matter. Happiness, even in small doses, strengthened our bond more than any grand event could.

Harold: Mistake number ten, and perhaps the most profound: assuming love is static. Love isn’t a feeling you achieve and then rest on. It’s a verb. It’s active, daily, deliberate. We realized that showing up physically isn’t enough. Emotional presence matters more. Listening, asking, understanding, sharing—this is the work of a lifelong partnership.

Denise: That realization hit hard when we celebrated our fiftieth wedding anniversary. Surrounded by friends and family in a small banquet hall in our hometown, I looked around and realized how many marriages had crumbled around us. Some couples had been together for decades but had drifted apart. And I thought, this could have been us. But we were here because we chose to engage, to nurture, to fight for each other every day.

Harold: And we continue that choice today. We still have disagreements. Harold forgets things, I over-plan, old patterns creep in. But now we catch them before they escalate. We correct course. We choose each other, every single day. And that, more than anything, is the secret to longevity in marriage.

Denise: We hope sharing this helps you avoid some of the pain we went through. Don’t wait. Strengthen your relationship now. Choose each other actively, intentionally. Make memories, have conversations, take trips—even small ones. Don’t assume tomorrow will come.

Harold: Life in America is fast, noisy, and full of distractions—jobs, technology, social obligations. But love, real love, requires focus. It requires presence. If we can do it, you can too. And it’s never too late to start.

Denise: So, from our hearts to yours: stop keeping score, accept each other, say the hard things early, never stop dating, remember you’re on the same team, laugh together, share dreams, apologize genuinely, embrace small moments, and keep love alive every single day.

Harold: Looking back now, sitting on our porch in the late afternoon sun in suburban Ohio, I can see the decades stretching behind us like a winding river. The house is quiet, the kids grown and scattered, the garden blooming as it always does in spring. And Denise sits beside me, holding my hand. I can feel the warmth, the life, the history between us. It’s a quiet kind of happiness, hard-earned, full of scars and laughter, regrets and victories.

Denise: And I think about Peter Whitmore. His story hit us both when we first heard it online. A man reflecting on a lifetime with the woman he loved, only to realize too late how many moments he’d missed, how many chances to connect had slipped through his fingers. Susan’s words—“We wasted so much time being right instead of being close”—echoed for us too. Even after sixty years, we see the truth in that. Comfort can masquerade as love. Routine can hide distance. And it’s all too easy to take someone for granted.

Harold: We’ve spent our lives trying to avoid that fate. Every decision, every conversation, every laugh, every argument—all of it was meant to bring us closer. And still, the reflection of Peter’s regret is a cautionary tale. We remind ourselves constantly: don’t let comfort turn into complacency. Don’t let silence become distance.

Denise: I remember one evening in the mid-2000s, sitting in our living room in Ohio, the rain tapping softly against the window. Harold had just returned from a hospital shift—he’s a retired firefighter, so he’s seen the worst of life—and I was exhausted from my work at the clinic. We sat in silence for a while. I wanted to talk, but I hesitated, thinking he was too tired. Then he reached out, took my hand, and said, “Tell me what’s on your mind.” That simple invitation broke down years of unspoken words. We talked for hours—about fears, regrets, hopes. It was like uncovering a hidden room in our house that we never knew existed. And it was in that room we found each other again.

Harold: Mistake number eleven, though we don’t always call it that, is failing to ask for help. Life throws curveballs—jobs, health issues, family crises—and too often couples try to carry everything alone. Peter’s story with Susan, my story with Denise, it all points to the same truth: vulnerability is strength. Asking for support, being honest about struggles, leaning on each other—these are the moments that build enduring love.

Denise: And let’s talk about grief. Peter’s reflection on Susan’s passing is something no one can prepare you for. Watching someone you’ve shared decades with fade away—it’s an emotional earthquake. We’ve seen it too, friends who lost spouses, neighbors who faced it alone. It’s a reminder that time is precious, fleeting. And it’s not about doing grand gestures at the last moment; it’s about daily acts of presence, daily choices to love fully while you still can.

Harold: One summer evening in 2010, we visited the Cleveland Metroparks with our grandchildren. The sun was low, the river glinting gold. Denise and I walked a little apart from the kids, talking quietly. She said, “Harold, sometimes I worry we’ll forget the small moments, get lost in the noise.” I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. Those small moments—an evening walk, a quiet joke, holding hands during a movie—are what make a lifetime meaningful. They are the threads that weave a strong, resilient marriage.

Denise: And we’ve seen it in action. Our children, now adults, tell us how much they notice our connection. It’s not perfect, it never will be, but they see love as effort, as attention, as presence. They see that marriage isn’t magic—it’s work, daily, intentional, persistent.

Harold: Mistake number twelve, if we’re counting, is forgetting that your partner’s happiness is intertwined with yours. Too often, we’ve focused on personal comfort, personal preference, forgetting that the joy of your partner is part of your own joy. Peter’s regret about not taking Susan to Scotland resonates here. It’s not about the cost, the effort, the inconvenience—it’s about valuing what matters to them and sharing it with them wholeheartedly.

Denise: And let’s be honest: life in America is full of distractions. From social media to constant news, long commutes to demanding jobs, it’s easy to let love slip into autopilot. But every single day, couples have the opportunity to choose each other, to prioritize their relationship, to nurture the intimacy that will carry them through decades.

Harold: That’s why we keep telling these stories. We’re not here to preach or judge. We’re here to share what we’ve learned, what we’ve lived, what nearly broke us and what saved us. Stories like Peter’s, Susan’s, ours—they’re warnings and guides. They’re proof that love, sustained over decades, is deliberate, active, and beautiful—but only if you put in the work.

Denise: We also want people to see that mistakes are inevitable. We made plenty. Arguments over trivial things, miscommunications, pride, stubbornness—all of it. But recognizing mistakes, learning from them, and choosing differently—that’s the key. You can’t undo the past, but you can shape the future.

Harold: And yes, we still have our challenges. Even now, in our seventies, we forget things, misplace keys, slip back into old habits. But we correct ourselves, we apologize, we listen. We prioritize connection over comfort, curiosity over assumption, closeness over convenience. That’s what keeps marriage alive, that’s what keeps love growing.

Denise: And it’s not just about the big gestures, the anniversaries, the vacations. It’s about the daily rituals—the way we start the morning together, the coffee, the small conversations. The way Harold makes me laugh, the way I leave him little notes to remind him I’m thinking of him. Those tiny acts, accumulated over decades, become the foundation of a lasting bond.

Harold: So if you take anything away from our story, from Peter Whitmore’s story, from Susan’s memory, let it be this: love is active, not passive. Love requires attention, curiosity, effort. Don’t wait for a tragedy or a loss to remind you. Be intentional today, now. Make the calls, have the conversations, plan the trips, hold hands, laugh, apologize, ask questions, and share dreams.

Denise: Because one day, you might look back and realize that every “later” you postponed, every small gesture you skipped, every conversation you avoided, could have been a moment that mattered more than you knew. Love isn’t guaranteed. Time isn’t guaranteed. But effort is always in your hands.

Harold: And as we sit here, looking out at our garden, our grandchildren playing, the sun setting over the Ohio landscape, we are grateful. Grateful for sixty years of marriage, for lessons learned the hard way, for the moments we didn’t waste, and for the moments we still get to create.

Denise: Life is fleeting. Love is fragile. But love is also resilient, if you nurture it. Choose to nurture it. Fight for it. Laugh with it. Live with it. And when you look back, decades from now, let your heart be full, not with regret, but with the richness of having truly loved.

Harold: This channel is full of stories like ours. People sharing what they’ve learned, what they’ve lived, what almost broke them, and what saved them. If our story resonated, subscribe, turn on notifications, leave a comment. Tell us which lesson hits you hardest. Ask us anything about marriage, life, love, mistakes. We’ll answer, because sharing what we’ve learned may help someone else avoid the pain we faced—or help them love better, deeper, longer.

Denise: We won’t be here forever. None of us will. But while we are, we want to leave these lessons behind. So that someone, somewhere, hears them, feels them, and chooses differently. Chooses connection over convenience. Chooses presence over distraction. Chooses love every single day.

Harold: Because in the end, it’s not the material things, the achievements, or the comfort that matter most. It’s the people beside you, the moments you share, the love you nurture. Don’t wait. Don’t assume. Don’t postpone. Start now.

Denise: And if you do, decades from now, you’ll sit on your porch, holding hands with the person you chose to love every day, looking back on a life full of memories, full of laughter, full of joy—and you’ll know it was worth every single effort.

Harold: That’s the kind of love Peter Whitmore wished he’d had more of. That’s the kind of love we fought to keep. And that’s the kind of love we hope you’ll choose to build, starting today.