But with her

A few days ago, at a dinner party, the conversation turned to the future. A young man mentioned that his girlfriend was studying for a civil service exam and that her future might take her far away. Someone asked him what he would do.

—Once her situation is clear, wherever she goes, I'll go too. I'll figure things out on my own, but I'll do it with her.

He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then more dishes arrived, the conversation shifted, and the remark was left behind. I, however, couldn't just let it go.

Those words contained a decision capable of changing a career and a city. He didn't know where he would work, but he had accepted that the future of the person he loved would truly become part of his own.

«I’ll make a life for myself.» She didn’t expect her to sort things out for her. Nor was she giving up on her calling or going to live in anyone’s shadow. There was a sense of initiative and responsibility in that statement. She would start over if necessary. She would find her place.

«But with her.» That was the crucial point. Her project still existed, only it was no longer written solely in the singular.

We live surrounded by messages that portray lasting relationships as a loss. We’re told to travel, try new things, grow, find fulfillment, and, above all, «live life to the fullest.» Later on, once you’ve made the most of your youth and sorted out your aspirations, you can consider getting married or having children—as long as they don’t throw your plans too far off course.

Every time I hear that phrase, «First I have to live,» I wonder what it means. Those of us who’ve reached our early forties, married and with four children—are we dead, then? Have we failed to make the most of life? Are our children proof that we gave up too soon?

My daughters have robbed me of sleep, money, comfort, spontaneity, and some opportunities. Love doesn’t make the sacrifice any less painful. But they haven’t cut me off from life. They’ve drawn me into it as deeply as possible. They’ve forced me to step outside of myself, given me a story I couldn’t have built on my own, and expanded what I used to call my future.

Perhaps the misconception lies in equating living with always being able to do whatever one wants. As if a life were more valuable the less it owed to anyone, the fewer plans one had to change, and the more options one kept open. According to that logic, marriage limits one, children hold one back, and fidelity confines one. A fulfilling life would be one without too many ties: available, reversible, and permanently one’s own.

But a freedom that never chooses—out of fear of losing some option—ends up not knowing why it wanted to be free in the first place. Making a commitment isn’t about giving up the ability to choose, but about carrying a choice through to its consequences. And therein lies the decisive difference between an imposed renunciation and a voluntary surrender: where it comes from and from what kind of freedom. That young man wasn’t being held captive by another person; he had decided that she would have a real—and not merely decorative—place among his priorities.

St. Josemaría put it this way: «Nothing is more false than setting freedom against self-giving, because self-giving is a consequence of freedom» (Friends of God, 30).

It’s curious: we think it’s reasonable to move to another city for a promotion, but reckless to do so for the one we love. We admire those who sacrifice ten years for a career, yet we look upon those who give up an opportunity to support their family with a certain degree of pity. We’ve accepted that work dictates our lives; what unsettles us is when love does.

It’s not about imposing the same timeline on everyone or measuring a life by marriage or the number of children. There are unfulfilled desires, painful circumstances, and different paths. It’s about challenging a more subtle lie: that true love means living a shorter life; that all mutual dependence is slavery; that only those who have never given their word to anyone truly belong to themselves.

Commitment does not take away freedom—it gives it direction. Sacrifice is not always the denial of happiness; often it is the price of happiness, because almost everything worth keeping requires leaving something behind. Starting a family does not mean putting your own life on hold to care for others. It means discovering that life can be greater when we stop measuring it solely by ourselves.

That young man didn't talk about any of this. He simply said that, once her situation was clear, he would go wherever she went and make a life for himself there. He didn't say «because of her.» He didn't portray himself as a victim. He had chosen this himself.

Perhaps that is why the phrase was so powerful. In an era that advises us to live first and commit later, he seemed to have understood that commitment doesn’t begin once we’ve finished living. It’s a way of life. One of the most demanding, but also one of the ones that can set us free the most, because it frees us from the prison of always having to choose ourselves.

She didn't know how she would make a living, but she did know who she wanted to spend her life with. She hadn't stopped making choices. She was deciding what she wanted her future to be.