Stop Calling Your Relationship a “Partnership”
Congratulations: you found someone who puts up with your neuroses, shares your music taste, and loves looking at you. That’s a big deal. So why are you — and everyone now — calling their other half partner?
Let’s be clear: “Partner” is what you call someone when you’re splitting a WeWork subscription or launching a vegan candle startup. It’s vague. It’s sterile. It sounds like you’re either in a business venture or a lesbian couple from Portland with two rescue dogs.
We live in a commitment-phobic society. Yet people love the benefits of a truly meaningful long-term relationship. They want the cake, eat it, vomit it and say they’re not hungry anymore.
But words matter. They signal how seriously we take things. Calling someone you love your “partner” is like calling your mom your “primary caregiver.” Technically true. Deeply weird.
A meaningful relationship is not a merger, nor some co-living experiment you update quarterly like a Google Sheet. It’s not sexy. No one whispers, “I want you to be my… partner” in a moment of passion. That sounds like an HR violation. You know what’s hot? Saying, “This is my husband.” Or “Here is my wife.” It carries weight. It says: I chose someone. I vowed in front of everyone. I’m in.
People dating are also now using the term. A friend of mine told me, “I call him my partner so it sounds more serious.” But that’s all it was — a sound. When they broke up, she just moved out of the apartment. It was easy. Because a boyfriend is a boyfriend, not a husband. You don’t leave a marriage like you leave a relationship… or a partnership. Nor should you. Divorces are very hard, because marriages matter. “Partner” is just branding. It makes it look like people are committed to each other in front of God or the law — but it’s only in front of Instagram.
There is a war on the fundamental structures of our society — on Husbands and Wives. We didn’t kill these words by accident. Somewhere between brunch and burnout, we decided “wife” was anti-feminist and “husband” was toxic masculinity. So we went with “partner.” It’s safe. Modern. Cool. Neutral — and that’s the fucking problem.
Neutrality is a cope. It’s a way of keeping one foot out the door. “Partner” says: This is serious, but not too serious. You love them just enough to share a lease with — not a lifetime. Don’t project any expectations on me. We’re just two autonomous beings co-navigating existence.
Using “partner” instead of “husband” or “wife” is supposed to be inclusive. But marriage involves role clarity. Expectations. Responsibility. Even a little sacrifice. “Partner” isn’t forever. It’s a long-term venture. It screams: We are free. We can do whatever we want. We are independent.
NO. YOU. ARE. NOT.
A marriage isn’t a partnership. It’s a union. Whether you’re Christian — becoming one flesh — or Jewish — two trees sharing a root system — it’s about transcending the self through love. It’s poetic and sacred. It’s the fusion of alterity and devotion. It’s understanding that we all need each other — and there’s beauty and harmony in that.
It’s realizing the person you love is your mirror. Your significant other saw your growth and knows everything about you. A partner could be a business partner. A sports partner. A law firm. There’s nothing significant or special about it anymore. People who love the term think they are free. But hyper-independence is as toxic as codependence — and the only reason the system tells you otherwise is because it benefits from separate individuals and weakened family units.
Real love is about interdependence: choosing someone you can trust and rely on when life gets hard. And believe me, it will. Someone you share a bed, a home, kids, and a LIFE with isn’t just a partner. They are your family. It’s way bigger than any “partnership.” It’s a unit.
If you’re married, say you’re married. Don’t downgrade a high-stakes, high-reward institution to a vague collab. You didn’t stand up in front of friends and family and promise to optimize your bank accounts, audiences, and skill sets.
And don’t tell me: Married people divorce all the time.
Yes, they do — because nothing is sacred anymore. Everything is supposed to be risk-free and easy. But if there’s no risk, there’s no value.
At least divorced people tried. They knew the risks of a real union. “Partners” don’t even try. They admit from the get-go they can’t commit for too long. It’s cynical.
Say boyfriend. Say girlfriend. Say wife. Say husband. Or say you haven’t met the one who made you take the risk to lose everything by opening your heart and inviting someone into it forever — in front of everyone who matters to you, the government, and God.
Act like it matters.
Because it really, really does.