Our Song

In this, the year of our 46th anniversary—my marriage to Laurel—I find myself returning to the foundation of our relationship: our song.

It’s the music in our lives—the light of invisibility. It’s what brought us together, kept us together, and now feels like the tree that holds us and gives us space to grow—both individually and together.

Our relationship was never about fostering dependency or pleasing each other at the expense of ourselves. We both knew how that felt—and believed we deserved more and could do better.

A healthy tree—not a coat rack
I wasn’t looking for someone to lean on me endlessly. I needed someone strong enough to stand on her own and tell me what she needed—someone who could also show her vulnerability and accept my comfort, forming true reciprocity—not unhealthy dependency.

Laurel used to tell me, “I’m not your coat rack.” It took me a while to realize she didn’t want to wait on me or pick up after me, as my mother had done. Even though she thought my driving could be smoother (and save gas), she believed I could stand on my own—be my own tree. And she'd let me know if it started looking like a coat rack that was out of balance.

When I pushed her away, she reminded me that I needed her just as much as she needed me.

At first, I thought she meant I wasn't good enough. Then I thought she wanted me to fix her. Eventually, I realized it wasn’t that at all. It was about loving someone unconditionally—not trying to change them, but empowering them to be their best self.

Finally, I told her I thought she needed me. She just smiled and hugged me, saying, “Now you get it. Sometimes we need each other to see the light inside, especially when we're caught in the darkness.”

Showing up
Recognizing how important we were to each other helped me show up for myself, too, and that keeping people at a distance was not the same as being independent. That was just the fear of getting too close and getting hurt—a fear I had carried since childhood.

During a time of women’s liberation and equal rights, Laurel told me that she wanted someone with the courage to do his own thing, even if others didn’t like it—including herself. And I knew that was what I wanted, too.

We didn't think we were asking for much, but as we discovered, it was a lot. It took a lot of work to learn to share a coat rack and to keep it in balance—especially when life became more complicated.

Trusting
When we met, Laurel knew I was interested in pursuing my doctorate. She encouraged me to go for it, despite all the ominous warnings from many of my esteemed colleagues—speaking from their own experience—that few marriages survived grad school.

She trusted me and believed she would be okay. She knew how to stand on her own—being a little sister with two high-achieving older brothers wasn’t always easy. And she knew I believed in her to stand up for her truth when she needed to.

I remember her saying, “I’m a teacher. I learned a lot from my mom. She taught in a one-room schoolhouse and tutored children with dyslexia in reading and math. I helped her take care of my grandmother when she was dying. I know how to work with someone and get things done. I’m pretty damn adaptable.”

I wasn’t worried about that part, especially after hearing how she and her mom stayed with her beloved grandmother to the end—and seeing how she could light up a room. She was the best teacher I’d ever seen. That’s where we met. I was evaluating one of her students and saw her work and great spirit—and I fell in love immediately.

Those kids knew she meant business. She didn’t yell at them and put them down. She knew what they could do and expected nothing less.

A two-way street
That’s how she treated me, too—and I tried to do the same for her. When we fell short, we talked. We made space for each other’s pain—connecting to the wounded little ones inside, who would sometimes pop up when they felt we didn't treat each other the way we deserved.

We listened and pushed through those moments—not giving up when life got harder. The tree continued to grow stronger, its core expanding, and its branches reaching around us. Precious little birds graced our presence for many years, then flew away. They returned with more of their own to remind us they’re still in our lives—and that we will always be needed.

Finding us again
Though it was quiet at first, we learned that strength in a marriage isn't about being together all the time. After all, she needed a break from my endless dad jokes and attempts to fix an old Kirby vacuum I found in front of a neighbor's house, with a sign reading, “Take Me As I Am.”

I knew we could give it a good home, even though it weighed a ton, and the dog would run and hide every time I used it. Although not as streamlined as those modern models, it was like a faithful companion I could always depend on to do its job. And she appreciated my not giving up on her and putting her out in the trash again.

On the other hand, my wife found joy in reading, spending time with friends, and making blankets—lots of baby blankets. Our house became a workshop for her ”projects”—so many things we often take for granted—knitting and putting together the special pieces of love she thought other people would appreciate—in her own heartfelt way.

Sometimes, she'd mutter a few choice words to herself when she missed a stitch and had to take the whole thing apart—never blaming me, even though I suspected I might have distracted her.

The job of retirement
My dear wife finally retired after 42 years of teaching, but I’ve continued to work in a way that has given me autonomy as a therapist, consultant, and writer—my perfect retirement job. We realized once again that to have a strong relationship, each of us needed to feel independent and not give up our sense of self.

I'd already been pushing that limit during my marathon days, taking long runs without telling her where I was going. Now, she just tracks me on my cell phone or calls if I disappear—even when I’m driving. She also feels grateful when I do the same for her.

That’s love: not living in the fear of loss and getting too close, but finding the harmony in the shared song we sing together that expresses the meaning of who we are and our relationship. In some ways, that’s what therapy is, too.

Therapy and marriage
Just as our marriage taught me about true presence, much more than any formal training, therapy, too, invites us into that shared song—no matter where we sit in the room. It’s about believing in the other person so they feel truly needed, not just as a coat rack, but as a whole human being—making space for corrections and adjustments—appreciating every moment as a special gift to ourselves and each other.

Although therapy is different from marriage, the main similarity is that in both places, I have to remember to leave my all-knowing therapist hat on the coat rack when I enter the room. My skills and expertise are still there, but I lead with my presence—showing up as a fallible human being who doesn't get caught up in my own wounds or those of others—and can truly say, “We're doing this work together.”

The shrink and the teacher
And so it goes: the story of a psychologist from Buffalo and a teacher from northern Maine, who, through their love of children and wanting to make the world a better place, discovered the meaning of love, learning, and healing—life.

Now that you’ve heard about our song, you’re probably wondering if we had a special one. There were many over the years, but we kept returning to Anne Murray's “You Needed Me.”

As the song ends, these words always bring us home: “You put me high upon a pedestal, so high that I could almost see eternity. You needed me, you needed me.”

When Laurel and I heard this song, we both could see in each other's eyes that we were meant to be together. Maybe she saw it first—but in time we both knew that we would hold each other tight and keep each other steady, as the light within us grew brighter, and our marriage and family got stronger.

A celebration for everyone
A year later, a close friend sang it at our wedding, surrounded by family and friends holding hands—many in tears—as they shared their blessings and trust in us, and remembered what they were all about as well.

Laurel, I hope you will always remember how much I love you and how much we still need each other to keep the light shining in our lives. Thank you for being on this journey with me, which will continue when the sun sets on our lives.

Thank you, all of you, for taking the time to read this, even though it may be hard for some. I share this as my truth, in the hope that it helps you find the light within and remember that we all deserve to be loved.

When we feel each other’s tears, love grows as it flows in both directions. That’s what we do: we give and receive dignity with our Core Self—becoming the person we were always meant to be.

Our blessing
Although a little reluctant at first to tango in public, with Laurel's delight, I now find great joy in dancing to this tune. Feel free to sing this sacred song in your life and share it with those close to your heart.

Above all, keep singing your own song—the one that holds your deepest meaning and truth. That’s what keeps us growing together, even when we're lost or apart—guiding us back home.

May the light of hope spread through time and space, connecting all of our hearts—making the world a safer place to heal and grow.

Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold close or long to be held.

Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.