I Thought Quiet Quitting Was Just for Jobs… Until It Happened in My Marriage

It’s no secret that marriage is hard, and it takes work to maintain. Nor is it a secret that about 40% of first-time marriages in America will end in divorce. We all know someone who is divorced, and we’ve likely all been impacted personally by divorce in one way or another. All of that to say, I’m not writing this with any groundbreaking news about marriage or the reality of its challenges. I’m writing it because I think that our perception of how marriages end is causing us to miss a really common cause of death in relationships.

Quiet quitting.

“Quiet quitting” is a term made popular in recent years in the workforce world. It’s the phenomenon that occurs when employees quietly disengage from their work as a response to their dissatisfaction with their job or company. They stop showing up with any effort for tasks, conversations, or relationships beyond what is required at the most basic, necessary level. It’s a term that, while known for its application in the employment sector, I think needs to be known for its relevance in the marriage arena.

We’ve all seen the movies and TV shows where marriages end. Usually, it’s depicted as one of two scenarios:

• Scenario 1: One major incident occurs and changes the relationship forever: infidelity, a huge lie, etc. It’s typically very dramatic and hyper-focused on one moment.
• Scenario 2: The two individuals are fighting constantly and end up getting a divorce as a result of ongoing disagreements. Usually, this situation is depicted as couples who are loudly arguing all the time, having public disagreements, fighting, saying hurtful things to each other, etc.

I’m sure you can think of books, movies, shows, etc., where those circumstances took place. But can you think of one that shows the slow unraveling of a marriage — where the precipice for divorce isn’t a particular moment in time? Where, instead, the falling apart happened slowly and quietly over the course of many years? It’s probably a harder storyline to recall because it’s way less common. And listen, I get it; the lack of dramatic flair here makes it less sexy for production value. But hear me out, while the slow erosion of marriage doesn’t make headlines, it is the story most of us know too well.

It’s the constant tugging at threads that once weaved two people together that eventually leads to their unraveling.

For me… it was the exhaustion from years of being the sole instigator, organizer, initiator, dreamer, doer, and pusher in my marriage. In the early days of marriage, it was fun most of the time. It was putting on lingerie and heels, then surprising my husband by sitting on the staircase like that, ready for him to devour me as soon as he walked through the door. It was decorating our first apartment, and then house, however I wanted because he didn’t really have an opinion. The freedom to make those decisions was initially delightful. After all, I am (and always have been) an abnormally independent woman. I’ve never felt like I needed a partner, but I’ve always known I wanted one.

Over time, it became clear to me that the thing that once felt like freedom to make decisions was not an intentional choice by my partner to ensure I had autonomy. But instead, it was a way for my partner to avoid having to make any decisions. As we moved into new seasons of life (home ownership, sharing pets, parenting, etc.), this avoidance of decision-making became an infection that slowly killed our marriage. It manifested as me being the only partner who planned our days and weeks, who dreamt up vacations and/or date nights, who communicated with family members, friends, and/or the staff at our children’s schools, who initiated sex, and made sure that the administrative parts of life were taken care of. The unshared balance of decision-making — what’s for dinner, what should the kids wear, should I email the teacher about this issue, does someone need to go to the doctor, does the dog need its monthly medicine, etc. — was crippling. Once the decisions were made, I was also the only one who then did all the things, too (the doer).

And here’s the thing: I didn’t stop showing up in my marriage because of that. In fact, I took on more responsibility because I thought doing so would save our marriage. I added the mental load of ensuring that I was verbally asking for help, creating written outlines of the plans for each day, dividing responsibilities with a shared to-do list, and following up on all tasks. For years, I created opportunities for my partner to show up in our marriage. I got so good at asking for help and partnership that by the time I stopped, I’d essentially created a user manual and atlas on the ways to my heart.

But as my ability to consistently ask for help increased, my emotional investment in the outcome decreased. Because each time I asked for support was an act of vulnerability. It was me acknowledging that while I didn’t need him to do the thing, I was asking him to do it because I wanted to share life with him. Which meant that every time he committed to doing something, and then didn’t do it, it was more than just an incomplete task. Each time he chose not to show up was a rejection of the partnership I was vulnerably inviting him into. And eventually, I had to stop reopening the wounds of rejection because the wounds were getting too deep. So, I continued to ask to be pursued and for help, but I stopped holding my breath as I waited to see if it would happen. In the release of those breaths was also the release of hope.

It was in the absence of hope that the quiet quitting began. The space in our marriage that was once filled with trust became a space consumed with resentment and disconnection. My marriage didn’t collapse in a fire. It, like so many others, eroded silently, one quiet step at a time.