What Does a Worthwhile Marriage Look Like?
Three people, three ways of connecting with a partner.
Looking back a thousand years, the measurements taken with the same yardstick are, surprisingly, remarkably consistent.
Once, I went on a trip with two of my best friends. Over the course of a few days, the way the three of us kept in touch with our partners was as different as three parallel universes.
Friend A is the type who can’t help but share whatever she sees, no matter where she goes. If she spots a beautiful sunset, she’ll snap a photo and send it over; if she stumbles upon a fantastic little restaurant, she’ll immediately rave about it in the family chat group; if she passes by an interesting bookstore, she’ll pop in for a look, and as soon as she steps outside, she’ll call her husband—“Guess what I just saw?” It’s either because she needs to discuss something or simply because she wants him to see what she’s seeing.
Best Friend B is different. Her husband rarely calls her, and she doesn’t reach out much either. But when he does call, it’s usually to say, “Could you help me find that document?” or “Could you book my return ticket?” She doesn’t mind; she takes care of everything. It’s as if there’s a quiet conveyor belt between them: he places an order, she delivers—it runs smoothly, but the conveyor belt carries only goods, not people.
As for me, I’m even quieter. I don’t share much, and my husband doesn’t ask me to do things for him either. We’re like two trains running side by side—each traveling on its own track, heading roughly in the same direction, but the people inside the cars never look at one another. At night, I’ll occasionally text my husband, “I’m here, everything’s fine,” and he’ll reply with a simple “Mm-hmm”—that’s all.
At the time, I just found it amusing—even though we were all traveling away from home, the three of us had such different ways of staying connected with our families. Looking back now, I realize this wasn’t merely a difference in communication habits; it was clearly the underlying nature of three different marriages, laid bare during those few days of travel.
Sharing Type
She needs him to be part of her world—not because she can’t do without him, but because with him, the view she sees is complete.
Transactional Type
What flows in the relationship isn’t emotion, but needs. He needs her to solve his problems; she needs to feel needed. There’s a connection between the two, but the bond is based on “tasks,” not “people.”
Parallel Type
No overlap, no dependence, and no break. You live your life, I live mine; we just happen to be on the same track.
None of these three patterns is a deliberate choice. You wouldn’t say on your wedding day, “I’ve decided to be a ‘Sharing-Type’ wife” or “Let’s just be ‘Parallel-Type’ from now on.” It’s a shape that gradually takes form through day-to-day interactions. Then one day, while traveling, you happen to look up and realize—oh, so this is what we’ve become.
Many people think there’s a standard answer to a good marriage—soulmates, shared values, complementary partners… It seems that as long as you find the right formula, happiness will follow naturally. But if you take a closer look at the marriages around you, you’ll see a wide variety of patterns. Some couples who seem “mismatched” are living life to the fullest, while some “soulmates” are the first to drift apart. The formula isn’t the answer. What truly distinguishes a good marriage from a bad one isn’t which “formula” you fit into, but something else entirely.
Later, when I read the story of Su Dongpo, I suddenly felt that the observations I’d made during that trip had been drawn into a much longer river. Su Dongpo had three marital relationships in his lifetime; each of his wives was virtuous and tactful, but each played a supporting role.
His first wife, Wang Fu, married him at sixteen and passed away at twenty-seven. Well-read in poetry and literature, she was mature, quick-witted, and perceptive of human nature. Su Dongpo was outspoken and frank; she would listen to his conversations with visitors from behind a screen and later remind him—that this person’s words could not be trusted, or that he should be cautious in his dealings with that person. She was his behind-the-scenes advisor, shielding him from many hidden dangers he could not see. When Su Dongpo was escorted back to the capital, his wife wept in fear, but he smiled and comforted her: “Why don’t you write me a poem, just like Yang Pu’s wife did?” His wife’s tears turned to laughter. This was Su Dongpo’s magnanimity, but if you think about it carefully, in this exchange, she was afraid, and he was soothing her—she needed reassurance, and he was precisely the one who could provide it.
His second wife, Wang Runzhi—Wang Fu’s cousin—stayed by Su Dongpo’s side the longest, for a full twenty-five years. She accompanied him as he moved from Hangzhou to Mizhou, Xuzhou, and Huzhou, experiencing with him the greatest share of both hardships and prosperity. She shouldered all the mundane, trivial, and unromantic aspects of daily life. Su Zhe spoke very highly of her in his eulogy, but if you look through Su Dongpo’s poetry and prose, the references to her are pitifully few. She was like a silent wall, holding up the entire household, yet rarely seen by others.
His third wife, Wang Chaoyun, was about twenty-five years younger than Su Dongpo. When he was exiled to Huizhou in Lingnan, all his former court associates and friends had scattered, and she was the only one who accompanied him. This was the period that came closest to “spiritual resonance,” but even so, her value was only revealed when Su Dongpo needed her most—he fell on hard times, and she came to his side.
Three relationships, three different women, yet the underlying theme is the same: they all revolved around Su Dongpo, and their value was defined by “what use they were to him.” Su Dongpo was deeply affectionate—“Ten years of life and death, both vague and distant; though I do not dwell on it, it remains unforgettable”—who can say this is not true love? But deep affection does not equal equality. By today’s standards, in his world, he was the sun, and they were the planets. Each planet has its own orbit, but they all revolve around the sun.
Now let’s turn to Zhao Mengfu and Guan Daosheng—a completely different story.
Guan Daosheng married Zhao Mengfu at the age of twenty-eight, which was considered a late marriage at the time. Even before her marriage, she had shown a natural talent for calligraphy and painting; historical records describe her as “mastering calligraphy, painting, and poetry without formal instruction,” but this was still the talent of a young girl, not yet fully blossomed into its full potential. Zhao Mengfu, on the other hand, was precisely the leading master of calligraphy and painting of his time. After their marriage, Guan Daosheng flourished. She would often sit by her husband’s side while he painted, laying out paper and grinding ink as she observed his brushwork. Over time, her skills in calligraphy and painting reached new heights.
Note this detail—it was not that Zhao Mengfu taught her step by step, but rather that his presence allowed her innate talent to find a path to flourish. She already had a seed within her heart; it was only through this relationship that the seed found the soil and sunlight it needed to grow into its own unique form. Later, Guan Daosheng’s running-regular script bore a striking resemblance to Zhao Mengfu’s, and she was hailed alongside Wei Shuo, a female calligrapher of the Eastern Jin Dynasty, as one of the “Two Ladies of the Calligraphy World.” She was renowned for her “sunlit bamboo and fresh shoots” painting style, and her masterpiece, *Ink Bamboo*, is still housed in the Palace Museum in Beijing—and what’s even more remarkable is that this painting is mounted in a single scroll alongside ink bamboo works by Zhao Mengfu and their son, Zhao Yong, collectively known as *The Zhao Family’s Three Bamboo Paintings*. The three members of the family—each painting ink bamboo—combined into a single scroll: this in itself serves as the finest illustration of “mutual inspiration.”
This relationship was not without its storms. A legend passed down through the ages tells that as Gu Daosheng grew older in middle age, Zhao Mengfu began to entertain the idea of taking a concubine, even composing a lyric to hint at it—It would not be out of line for me to marry a few women from Wu or Yue; you are already past forty, so just go ahead and claim “Yutangchun.” Gu Daosheng neither raised her voice in anger nor meekly accepted the situation. Instead, she wrote a poem titled “My Beloved’s Song”:
“You and I, so deeply in love; where our love runs deep, it burns like fire. Take a lump of clay, pinch out a you, mold out a me. Break us both apart, mix us with water; then pinch out another you, mold out another me. You are in my clay, I am in yours: in life, we share the same quilt; in death, the same coffin.”
After reading it, Zhao Mengfu burst into laughter and dropped the matter, never again mentioning the idea of taking a concubine.
This story comes from Jiang Yikui’s *Yao Shantang Wai Ji* (Miscellaneous Records of the Yao Mountain Hall) from the Ming Dynasty, more than two hundred years after the Yuan Dynasty. With no contemporary documents to corroborate it, many scholars believe it may simply be a later fabrication. But regardless of whether this story actually happened, the power of *“My Love”* itself is real. Every time I read it, I am deeply moved—not by the beauty of the ci itself, but by the attitude with which Dao Guansheng wrote it. She was neither pleading nor accusing; she was telling Zhao Mengfu: “We are a single lump of clay; you cannot shatter me, nor can you shatter us.” This is an equal and powerful response that only someone with a whole heart could write.
Three years after Dao Guansheng’s death, Zhao Mengfu also passed away. The two were buried together in Deqing, Zhejiang.
Going back to that trip: three women, three ways of connecting with their partners. Looking back another thousand years, Su Dongpo and Zhao Mengfu present two more starkly different visions of companionship. Between past and present lie the succession of dynasties and the evolution of Confucian ethics, but if you measure them with the same yardstick—in this relationship, do the two people need each other, or do they inspire each other?—the readings are surprisingly consistent.
The “sharing” type involves both mutual need and mutual inspiration. When I see something wonderful, I want to tell you about it; when you receive it, you’ll reply, “That’s wonderful”—and in that back-and-forth, both of our worlds expand just a little.
The “Task-Oriented” type involves mutual need but not mutual inspiration. He needs her to solve problems; she needs to feel needed. There is a connection between them, but the bond is tied to “tasks,” not to “people.” Once the task is completed, the connection breaks, and they must wait for the next task to reconnect.
The parallel type doesn’t even qualify as mutual need. Two tracks run parallel—they don’t intersect, and they don’t depend on each other. It’s not that it’s bad; it’s just that in this relationship, there’s no such thing as “inspiration.”
Su Dongpo’s three wives all represented a relationship of mutual need—he needed their care, stability, and companionship, while they needed his prestige and support. But mutual need does not equal mutual inspiration. In his relationships, she was the behind-the-scenes advisor, the silent guardian, and the companion in times of adversity; her value was defined by “how useful she was to him.” By today’s standards, deep affection does not equate to equality.
Zhao Mengfu was different from Guan Daosheng. She already had a sapling within her; his presence wasn’t to water it for her, but to help her discover that she could grow so tall. Nor was he her pillar of support; the two grew into separate trees, their roots intertwined underground, their branches and leaves touching in the air. This is mutual inspiration—you already possess this energy, but the other person’s presence allows it to be unleashed. When flint strikes flint, it isn’t one igniting the other; it is the collision itself that sparks the fire.
So, what does a marriage worth living look like?
It doesn’t have to be a “sharing” type, it doesn’t have to be a “partnership” type, and it doesn’t mean you have to call each other every time the sunset approaches. There’s no hierarchy among these models—those in “parallel” relationships don’t need to envy the liveliness of “sharing” couples, and those focused on practical matters don’t need to feel inferior.
But there is one bottom line you can ask yourself: In this relationship, have I grown, or have I shrunk?
A marriage worth living is one where you grow into something new through the relationship. Perhaps it’s a new hobby, newfound courage, or a fresh way of seeing the world. It’s not something your partner bestows upon you, but rather something that was already within you and has been brought to life by the very existence of this relationship. You can ask yourself this question: Have you done something in this relationship that you wouldn’t have done on your own? — If you can answer “yes,” it means that spark is still there.
A marriage not worth pursuing is one in which you’ve withered away. It’s not about getting older or busier; it’s about gradually losing your curiosity, ceasing to express yourself, and no longer feeling that your feelings are worth being heard. You’re still going through the motions, but only out of inertia. Ask yourself the same question: Can you even remember the last time you felt you’d grown because of this relationship?
Today’s young people have little desire for marriage; the marriage rate has been falling year after year, while the divorce rate remains stubbornly high. Statistics show that more than 70 percent of divorces are initiated by women—it’s not that young people are too picky, but that those who have withered within their relationships have finally decided to walk away. Before you meet the right person, not getting married isn’t avoidance—it’s honesty. After you meet them, getting married isn’t a compromise—it’s a choice.
As for those already in marriage, it’s equally worth asking yourself this question right now: When was the last time you felt like you’d grown as a person?
Perhaps it was during a recent trip, when you picked up your phone and then put it down again.