Stella Reddy's Story

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Well, now—here we are again. Another New Year rolling in, steady as the tide. I sometimes catch myself wondering why time seems to move faster now that I’m retired. Maybe it’s because the days are finally my own to spend as I wish. Perhaps it’s because I’m no longer rushing from crisis to crisis. Or maybe it’s simply that when life softens, we start noticing how quickly it all goes by.

Either way, here we are at the end of 2025, and this will be my last post of the year. And today, I want to talk about something I don’t often write about—not because it’s a secret, but because it’s one of those quiet, steady parts of my life that has shaped everything else.

Marriage.

I enjoy being married. Truly. And I am forever grateful—deeply, consciously grateful—that my husband is not a narcissist. With my education and experience, I can spot traits when I see them, and sure, he has a few. Then again, so do I. That’s the thing about being human: none of us is spotless. The difference is self-awareness. The willingness to look at ourselves honestly. The courage to say, “Yes, that’s mine,” and then do something about it.

We’ve been together for over 30 years now, and one thing that shaped our marriage more than anything else was our work. For 18 of those years, we weren’t just living together—we were working together as Building Superintendents in Ontario. That job wasn’t a nine-to-five. It was a lifestyle. A commitment. A constant balancing act of responsibility, patience, and teamwork.

And let me tell you: if you want to learn how to communicate, solve problems, and support one another, try managing a building full of people with diverse needs, emergencies, and personalities. You learn quickly who handles what. You learn how to divide tasks without resentment. You learn how to trust each other’s strengths and compensate for each other’s weaknesses. You learn how to have an argument at 2 p.m. and still show up together at 2:15 because someone’s toilet is overflowing or the fire alarm won’t stop screaming.

Working together taught us how to be partners in the truest sense. Not just romantic partners. Not just life partners. But functional partners.

We learned how to communicate without words. How to step in when the other was overwhelmed. How to laugh in the middle of chaos. How to let the small things go because the big things need our attention. How to trust that even on the hard days, we were on the same team.

Then there has been my health. I’ve faced more than my share of medical battles: multiple cancers, mental health issues, broken bones, various surgeries that left me exhausted and stitched back together, recoveries that demanded every ounce of strength I had.

Those seasons were frightening and humbling, and they stripped life down to what truly matters. Through every diagnosis, every hospital stay, every moment when I wasn’t sure what the next day would bring, my husband was there. Not with grand gestures, but with the steady, unwavering presence that only real partnership can offer. He got me to appointments, sat beside my bed, learned what I needed before I could say it, and held the parts of our life together when I couldn’t.

Illness has a way of revealing the truth of a relationship, and what it revealed for us was a quiet, durable love—one that doesn’t flinch in the face of fear, one that stays.

And that carried into our marriage in ways I didn’t fully appreciate until later.

He helped me raise my children, stepping into a role he didn’t have to take on, and doing it with a steady heart. He still does, even though they are adults now with partners of their own. And while a part of me would have loved to have a child together, life had other plans. By the time we met, that chapter of my body had already closed. It took time to grieve that, to accept it, and to understand that family can be built in more ways than biology alone.

What we created together—this life, this partnership, this home—has been its own kind of child. Something nurtured, shaped, challenged, and cherished. Something that grew because we did.

As I step into a new year, I find myself holding a softer gratitude for the ordinary things: shared coffee in the morning, the familiar sound of him coming in the door after working all day, the way we can sit in the same room doing different things and still feel connected. Marriage isn’t fireworks. It’s a slow burn. A steady flame. A choice made daily.

And after everything I’ve lived through, everything I’ve healed from, everything I’ve rebuilt—I don’t take that for granted, ever. I know how lucky I am to have the relationship we have.

Here’s to another year of choosing each other. Here’s to the quiet, sturdy love that doesn’t need to be loud to be real. Here’s to time—however fast it moves—and the people who make it worth noticing.