When my husband and I first started dating back in 2016, we were politically aligned as Democrats. I even drove him to the polls to vote for Hillary Clinton. But after weathering business storms exacerbated by the pandemic, his voting interests have shifted, and he now identifies as a Republican, which puts us among the four percent of married or cohabiting couples in the United States who are in mixed-political relationships, according to the Institute For Family Studies.

This would be easier for me to stomach if it were, say, the Mitt Romney era of the Republican party. But I recently learned he voted for Donald Trump in the 2020 election — something he wasn’t forthcoming about at the time.

“So you didn’t vote?” I asked the day after the election.
“Yeah, no,” he murmured ambiguously.
“Well, at least you didn’t vote for that asshole,” I said, relieved.

I was already aware he donated to “that asshole’s” campaign. I cringed when campaign mailers came to our townhouse. To me, Trump is a toxic scourge on our political system. So, politics can get tense in our household. But for the longevity of our relationship, I’m trying to be a bipartisan lover.

A gendered partisan divide is becoming a common problem. My husband is Gen X, and I’m a millennial, but I recognized our political differences in a recent Wall Street Journal study of voters under 30, which found women voters aged 18 to 29 were much more likely to be Democrats, and male voters in that range were more likely to be Republicans. Per the article, “The forces of American culture and politics are pushing men and women under age 30 into opposing camps, creating a new fault line in the electorate” — not to mention creating a new fault line in heterosexual relationships.

If you can’t imagine dating, or worse, marrying someone with different political beliefs, trust me, I get it. Honestly, if this divergence had been present at the beginning of our relationship, I wouldn’t have swiped right on Tinder. I wasn’t swiping right on any guys with Trump in their bio at the time. I thought I would never date a Republican, much less marry one.

My family and friends love my husband, but many of them don’t know how I do it. They can’t imagine sleeping with the enemy. There’s a uniquely modern instinct and ability to live in a bubble — insulating one’s self from differing political opinions and portraying them as evil — and I think it’s made our democracy ineffective . . . and our relationships stale.

Maybe I’m a masochist, but I’ve come to genuinely appreciate having “one of them” in my household. I can typically understand his point of view, even when I don’t agree with him, and I don’t think it’s essential that we agree on everything. If James Carville and Mary Matalin can make it work, we can, too.

It helps that our overall values are aligned. Though my husband’s a Republican, he doesn’t have an egregious ideology, in my estimation. He’s fiscally conservative but socially liberal: accepting of the LGBTQ+ community, pro-gay marriage, and pro-choice, all critically important issues to me. The Dobbs decision and overturning of Roe v. Wade is of personal concern. We’re considering having a kid, and we split our time between California and Texas. (No surprise that he spends more time in Texas and I in California.) Because of the abortion ban, I will not be pregnant in Texas. Not for one single day. Nor will I do IVF in Texas because of the judicial proceedings anti-choice groups have pushed in some red states. He agrees with me on all of this.

We’re both staunch believers in free speech, another critical point of agreement for both of us and likely why this whole thing works so well.

Yes, occasionally, I have to tolerate a political opinion through gritted teeth (and vice versa). For example, we’ve sparred over trans women in women’s sports, and I have to remind him, “No one is transitioning to win at sports! Why is it that the only time men seem to care about women’s sports is when they are debating about trans women?!”

But the blow-ups are few and far between. Usually, when something comes up, we have a short, passionate, respectful conversation and then move on. These discussions force me to think about the issue with an open mind. I can’t just reduce my husband to a one-dimensional meme and mentally sort him into a box marked “BAD.” This has forced me to find more empathy for the wider swath of people I disagree with, and I think that’s a good thing.

My main issue with my husband’s party affiliation is this year’s presidential ticket. I find Trump, and his running mate JD Vance, to be among the worst the Republican party has to offer. So I’m hoping they lose big during this election cycle, and the whole MAGA movement dies off before Kamala Harris reaches the end of her term in the White House. I hope my side wins and governs with consideration for the other side. I’m very vocal about my desire for a Harris-Walz win. My husband rolled his eyes at the seriousness with which I was glued to the DNC livestream.

The biggest downfall of our mixed political relationship is that neither of us gets the pleasure of talking shit without a rebuttal — and venting about politics with someone you are perfectly aligned with is a delightful pastime! On the upside, however, our political debates force me to clarify my own perspectives and find sufficient evidence to support my beliefs. I used to have way bigger blindspots in my stances.

No, I probably won’t drive my Republican husband to the polls this November, but I’m happy we can coexist despite our political differences. I don’t like to get overconfident about the future, but for now, our dynamic isn’t a recipe for misery. I think of it as an opportunity for expansion.

The rest of the country could learn a thing or two from our marriage: how we struggle through this political divide instead of spurning it completely and thus are forced to think through and articulate our ideas in a way that makes sense for both parties. Allowing people into your life who don’t believe exactly what you do isn’t a bad thing; it’s a gift. Finding ways to work through these differences within our closest relationships could be the key to stabilizing the country’s contentious marriage.

Courtney Kocak is a writer and podcaster based in Los Angeles. She wrote for Amazon’s Emmy-winning animated series “Danger & Eggs” and Netflix’s “Know It All.” Her bylines include a story in The New York Times and a viral essay for Cosmopolitan. She’s the host of the “Private Parts Unknown” podcast, and she’s currently working on a coming-of-age memoir.