I’m lovemaxxing (not looksmaxxing or longevitymaxxing)
Even if it means I'll die younger and uglier
It isn’t new news that single women (supposedly1) live longer than married women. But that doesn’t stop it from making the rounds.
As my eyelids shook at 1 am on a red-eye flight, while my husband and two children slept around me, this statistical phenomenon, questionable causality aside, was on my mind.
That week, a women’s hormone expert that I follow on Instagram criticized women in relationships for taking on labor that contributes to the mortality of coupled women, suggesting we demean ourselves to our own demise.2
As I contorted myself – reaching behind my seat to pull a blanket over my child, seated beside my sleeping husband, with my arm that wasn’t cradling a sleeping baby and tingling from blood loss – I considered the Influencer’s case.
I certainly was depriving myself of rest for them. And even though sleep deprivation makes me crabby, I still – STILL – thought to myself: I’d do it again and again and again.
What the influencer might not know, given her demographic status, is that I cannot not.3
There’s a problem with the suggestion that coupled women simply stop doing the labor that theoretically plucks years off our lives. Sure, the data paints a grim picture. But the report, and this Influencer, doesn’t get what it’s like to live it. To be the married mom who loves someone so fudging much that she can’t go to sleep until she knows everyone she loves is comfortable.
And my, can that sometimes be uncomfortable. Grim, even. I likely get less sleep than the average single woman. I likely have more stress. I can absolutely see how it might cut a few years off my life. It probably will. But if I live fewer years than my peers of different relational status, it’ll be worth the cost.
The years I do have will be filled with the kind of love that is literally stretching my heart beyond its limits. And smiling, squishy, well-rested baby faces. And the pride and soul-level contentment of knowing I helped them get that sleep. No spare year is worth trading for this heart-size-growing love that makes you the sort of crazy that forgets you too are a human who needs sleep.
People could argue that I should, or could, work on that insanity. The subconscious attachment that needs to know my children, and even my husband, are asleep, breathing, and tucked in before I feel comfortable doing the same. The mother’s condition could absolutely be painted as psychosis in an absurdist suspense film. It wouldn’t even be absurdist.
But I don’t want to fight it. I like it. This love compels me, yes, but that compulsion doesn’t preclude choice. When you love people this much, the distinction collapses. And in this season of life, that’s my natural cycle. And isn’t that what that hormone Influencer’s account is actually all about?
I’m not saying I’m perpetually satisfied with my twitching eyelids. Sometimes the sleep deprivation and stress skews my gratitude. Sometimes I wonder why I’m optimally organizing children’s airplane backpacks when I could be lathering lotion so the cabin pressure doesn’t accelerate the wrinkles that came on extra quickly since delivering my children. And sure, in those moments, I think: where is the person packing my backpack? And did these munchkins say thank you enough? And does my husband acknowledge and appreciate all I do to keep this family going?
But on my deathbed, those few years premature, I don’t think I will be tallying moments of potentially unnoticed labor. I definitely won’t care what my face looks like. I’ll want to look into someone I love’s eyes and remember how happy we all were.4
Before then, I’m not longevity-maxxing. I’m not looks-maxxing. I’m love-maxxing.
Because love might make you forget you’re human. But prioritizing lifespan and looks, above all else, is not natural.5
So if you see me picking up socks in the afternoon and being the last to fall asleep, know I have someone bringing me coffee when I finally wake up after sleeping in late. Or don’t think of me at all. I have enough people thinking of me. I’ve filled my days with love.
Besides – and I saved this for last because it’s besides the point – there are also reports that parents live longer. But don’t go telling the longevitymaxxers. They’re making too many decisions based on data rather than the heart.6
I can’t see the causality that others are implying. There are co-determinant variables.
She also mentioned the report about married women’s life satisfaction that still makes the rounds despite being a known statistical misunderstanding.
Or as Schopenhauer says, "Man can do what he wills but he cannot will what he wills."
Which isn’t to say I only need payment in smiles. I notice when I need more appreciation or help, and I ask for it. But I won’t be asking my husband to learn how to pack backpacks. He has his own skill set that contributes to our family in ways I’d be equally useless at, and likely am equally blind to. For which he surely has moments of feeling underappreciated, too. We all have stress. It just shows up in different ways. And, as data also shows, men suffer an earlier demise than women, single or otherwise. And as for the frequency of appreciative words and gestures toward backpacks, I acknowledge that I’m fostering the ecosystem I require.
A fear of death is, of course, a very natural phenomenon, but it is, by definition, a distraction from truly living.
Longevity Bannerman, Bryan Johnson, has had zero impact from stealing his son’s plasma.
I love this article so much! You articulate the power of love so well. I definitely acknowledge that in the often thankless tasks of loving and nurturing a child and their needs, mothers are often much better at than dads. I know my mom was definitely better at it than my dad. My mother-in-law, despite all of her imperfections, was better at it than her husband (my father-in-law) by a country mile. And my wife was better at it than I was (am). But all of the dads in my life (including me) were better at other things — especially the parts that involved pushing the children to stretch and grow and be prepared for life beyond the parental nest — to take chances, to get up again if you fall down and skin your knee, to try hitting that baseball or playing that sport again after a moment of failure. I think it is a natural and powerful dynamic that moms create the safe space — where a child feels loved and cherished and fully supported, while the dads are there to help developing young people to push beyond their comfort zones and to support them when things go sideways, as they often do when you try something new. I embraced that role as a father for my daughter, specifically encouraging her to be able to compete with and against boys (and later men) in sport, play, and later work. Now she is in a field that is dominated by men and is quite successful. She is also happily married and contemplating children of her own now.
Abigail, this was a breath of fresh air to read! You've captured the nuance of labor/love so eloquently and precisely. Again, we are the same, ha! Thank you for always being so brave and so thoughtful in your writing. I always come away from your writing feel more self-assured and happy. 💕