“Nearly All Married Men Tell Me Not to Get Married”

I’ll never forget the first time someone told me not to get married. I was twenty-four, standing in line at the church potluck, balancing a plate of fried chicken and potato salad, when old Mr. Jenkins leaned over and said, “Son, you’re smart to stay single. Marriage is a trap.” I laughed, thinking he was joking. But his eyes were serious, and he just shook his head and moved on to the dessert table.

That was the first of many warnings. Over the next few years, it seemed like every married man I knew—at work, at church, even my own brother—told me the same thing. “Don’t do it, Paul,” they’d say, sometimes with a chuckle, sometimes with a sigh. “Enjoy your freedom while you can.” Some would joke about their wives’ “honey-do” lists, or how they hadn’t watched a football game in peace since 1997. Others would get quiet, almost sad, and talk about how marriage wasn’t what they expected.

I didn’t know what to make of it. I grew up in a Christian home, and my parents had a good marriage—at least, it seemed that way to me. They prayed together, laughed together, and never raised their voices (at least not when I was around). I always figured I’d get married one day, have a couple of kids, and build a life like theirs. But the more I listened to these men, the more I wondered if I was missing something.

It got to the point where I started avoiding the topic altogether. When my friends would talk about dating or getting engaged, I’d just nod and smile, keeping my thoughts to myself. I didn’t want to be the guy who got burned, who ignored all the “wise” advice and ended up miserable. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be more to the story.

Then I met Rachel.

I wasn’t looking for anyone. In fact, I was actively avoiding dating. But Rachel had a way of making you feel seen. She volunteered at the local food pantry, led a Bible study for teenage girls, and could quote C.S. Lewis better than most pastors I knew. She was kind, funny, and had a stubborn streak that matched my own. We started talking after church one Sunday, and before I knew it, we were spending every spare moment together.

I remember the first time I thought about marrying her. We were sitting on her front porch, watching the sun set over the hills, and she was telling me about her favorite Psalm. “God sets the lonely in families,” she said, quoting Psalm 68. “I think He knew we’d need each other.” She looked at me, her eyes full of hope and something else—something I couldn’t quite name. In that moment, all the warnings I’d heard seemed to fade away.

But as things got more serious, the warnings came back louder than ever. My brother pulled me aside one night and said, “Paul, are you sure about this? Marriage is hard. It’s not all date nights and roses. Sometimes it’s just two people trying not to drive each other crazy.” Even my dad, who’d always seemed content in his own marriage, gave me a long talk about sacrifice and patience. “You have to be ready to put someone else first, every day,” he said. “It’s not easy.”

I started to worry. Was I being naive? Was I setting myself up for disappointment? I prayed about it, asking God to give me wisdom. I read the Scriptures, looking for answers. Ephesians 5 kept coming up—“Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her.” That sounded like a tall order. Was I really up for it?

One night, I brought it up with Rachel. We were sitting at a little diner, sharing a plate of fries, when I blurted out, “Do you ever worry that marriage might not be worth it?” She looked at me, surprised, then smiled.

“Of course I do,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of marriages fall apart. My aunt and uncle barely speak to each other. My best friend’s parents got divorced last year. It’s scary. But I also believe that God designed marriage for a reason. It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s supposed to make us more like Him.”

I thought about that for a while. I realized that most of the men who warned me about marriage weren’t really talking about their wives—they were talking about themselves. Their disappointments, their frustrations, their unmet expectations. Maybe they’d gone into marriage thinking it would fix all their problems, or make them happy all the time. Maybe they’d forgotten that love is a choice, not just a feeling.

Rachel and I kept talking, and praying, and seeking counsel from couples we respected. We asked the tough questions: How would we handle money? What about kids? What if one of us got sick, or lost our job, or just got tired of the other person? We didn’t have all the answers, but we agreed on one thing: We wanted our marriage to be built on Christ, not just on our feelings for each other.

A year later, we stood at the front of our church and said our vows. I promised to love Rachel, to honor her, to put her needs before my own. She promised the same. We prayed together, asking God to help us keep those promises, even when it was hard. Our families and friends cheered, and for a moment, everything felt perfect.

But marriage, I quickly learned, is not a fairy tale. The first year was tough. We argued about little things—how to load the dishwasher, whether to buy name-brand cereal, how often to visit her parents. We discovered each other’s quirks and flaws, and sometimes it felt like we were speaking different languages. I remembered all those warnings, and I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

But then something happened. We started praying together every night, asking God to help us understand each other. We read Scripture together, looking for wisdom. We talked, really talked, about our fears and hopes and dreams. Slowly, we learned to forgive, to listen, to give each other the benefit of the doubt.

I realized that marriage wasn’t about finding someone who made me happy all the time. It was about learning to love someone the way Christ loves me—sacrificially, unconditionally, even when it’s hard. It was about becoming less selfish, more patient, more kind. It was about building something together that was bigger than either of us.

Now, five years in, I still hear the jokes and warnings from other men. “Enjoy your freedom while you can,” they say to the single guys. “Marriage is the end of fun.” I smile, but I don’t agree. Marriage is hard, yes. It’s messy, and sometimes frustrating, and it forces you to confront your own weaknesses. But it’s also beautiful. It’s a daily reminder of God’s grace, of the way He loves us even when we don’t deserve it.

Rachel and I have had our share of struggles—money problems, health scares, disagreements about parenting. But through it all, we’ve learned to lean on each other, and on God. We’ve seen Him work in ways we never expected. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve grown.

If I could go back and talk to my younger self, standing in line at that church potluck, I’d tell him this: Don’t let fear keep you from something good. Marriage isn’t a trap—it’s a calling. It’s not about finding the perfect person, or having a perfect life. It’s about choosing to love, every day, even when it’s hard. It’s about becoming more like Christ, together.

So, to all the single guys out there, here’s my advice: Don’t listen to the cynics. Marriage isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. If God calls you to it, He’ll give you the strength to do it well. And if you build your marriage on Him, you’ll find a joy that’s deeper than anything this world can offer.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll be the one giving hope to the next generation—one honest, hard-earned story at a time.