In 10 years of being together - 6 while dating and 4 in marriage

In the scroll of companionship, a leader sets down a rare praise: “In 10 years of being together—6 while dating and 4 in marriage—my wife has never once complained about my physical or mental absence in our relationship.” So speaks Bhavish Aggarwal, and the words ring like a bronze bell at dusk—steady, grateful, and grave. The saying does not boast of superhuman presence; it confesses the opposite: that great labors pull the body far and the mind farther, and that love, if it is to endure, must sometimes hold vigil with an empty chair. It is an acknowledgement that the arithmetic of devotion is not always symmetrical, yet the covenant remains whole because one heart keeps the hearth alight.

Consider the meaning behind each stone in this sentence. Dating lays foundations; marriage bears the weight. The testing is not only in storms, but in long stretches of blue sky where attention wanders to distant wars—deadlines, teams, voyages of enterprise. Physical absence is the late flight, the light that burns in an office window when supper grows cold. Mental absence is subtler: eyes in the room, spirit away at the frontier. To say there was never a complaint is not to say there was never a wound; it is to honor a discipline—the discipline of mercy, of choosing to interpret absence as purpose rather than disregard.

So we hear the origin as well: the forge of founding and building, where calendars are cruel and sleep is sparse. In such seasons, many unions crack on the anvil of ambition. Aggarwal’s line is thus a garland laid upon a partner’s steadfastness—a public thanks for private patience. The relationship survives because one soul mastered a priestly art: blessing the pilgrim’s road while tending the sanctuary at home; meeting fatigue not with accusation, but with a basin, a towel, and a question that heals—“How shall I help?”

History offers its witness. Vera Nabokov guarded Vladimir’s time like a lioness—chauffeur, first editor, negotiator, sentinel against waste and noise. In lecture halls and rented rooms, she created circumference so his wandering star could write. The novelists’ marriage was not free of weather, but her refusal to cheapen his vocation with daily reproach gave him the continuous thread all great work requires. She is a parable for every age: when one partner must range, the other becomes map, fire, and compass—and both are authors of the book that follows.

Yet the saying does not license neglect; it consecrates gratitude. For patience without thanks sours into quiet resentment, and drive without reverence corrodes into tyranny. The heroism here is mutual: one ventures, one anchors; later the roles reverse—as they must in any living bond. The wisdom is to keep score not in hours spent together, but in honors paid to each other’s callings. In such honoring, absence can ripen into meaning, and reunion becomes sacrament rather than truce.

What lesson shall we seal for those who walk this boundary between purpose and presence? First, name the seasons aloud—when physical journeys and mental battles will thin your gaze—and make a shared plan for tenderness anyway. Second, practice ritual return: a fixed night for unhurried talk; a small token from each trip; a habit of eye contact that says, “I am wholly here.” Third, let gratitude be daily bread: thank the keeper of the lamp as earnestly as the slayer of dragons. Fourth, trade places at appointed times, that both may know the weight of road and the weight of home.

Take these actions as provisions. (1) Keep a two-column ledger—work fires and home fires—and ensure each week that both have been fed. (2) Set a “no-phantom” hour each day: devices down, minds unhitched, the relationship given unbroken attention. (3) When apart, send one message that is not logistics but affection. (4) When together, ask one question that cannot be answered with a number. (5) On the first evening after long labor, lead with apology and thanks before news and needs. Thus you teach your hearts to meet as partners, not as creditors.

In the end, the sentence stands like a carved lintel over a well-kept house: generosity above, endurance within. It tells the young that greatness is seldom solitary, and tells the seasoned that love is not merely passion but practice. If we learn this art—giving room without losing touch, returning promptly and praising freely—then the ledger of our own years will read the same: not perfect presence, but faithful love; not the absence of absence, but the presence of grace.