You and your partner can, as it turns out, prioritize your careers—and stay together for the long run.
Relationships in which both people prioritize their own ambitions are rare. But, asks HANNAH BETTS, can they even last?
My FATHER WAS A DOCTOR, my mother a nurse. They were both brilliantly talented—he was a medal winner, and she was an assistant matron by her mid-20s. Then they had me. He went on to be a world leader in his field: saved lives, published books, won prizes. She went on to be a mother of five: frustrated, resentful, with a sphere so small it felt sour to her, always telling me not to make her mistake. She was less the power behind the throne than an insurgent forever threatening rebellion: She would divorce him, she would abort the next baby and one morning we would wake up to find her gone.
I’m crying as I write this from my home in the United Kingdom because these are hard truths. I loved my mother, I felt for her and I feared what she might do. I identified with her rage, but I decided to be like my father, so work has always been how I define myself. Unsurprisingly, I have found myself attracted to men who feel the same—driven, with interesting jobs, putting their ambition above all else. At times, this has led to uncomfortable questions: How much ambition can one relationship take? And, more specifically, which one of us is going to yield and handle the domestic stuff and the emotional stuff and be what used to be called “The Wife”?
Relationships in which both members of a couple are considered “alphas” are rare. There are the bankers I talk to who take turns prioritizing their careers: One takes a job somewhere in the world and the other follows, and then in three years they switch. However, the reason this feels remarkable is because it is. (Being as rich as Croesus helps, of course.) A friend tells me that she and her husband—both famous in their respective spheres—are “like rivals, not partners.” “It feels like an exercise in world domination, with us on opposing sides,” she says. “Our ambition was exhilarating at 28. Now, it feels like a war.”
The stereotype used to be that men left an “equal” partner for an “easier,” less career-minded “trophy wife.” (Cue eye-rolling all around.) And one does not have to look far to find examples: I give you the friend who left a fellow lawyer for a succession of student girlfriends. However, I also know a good many women who are sick of high-flying husbands and slinging their respective hooks. “I’d been doing it on my own for years,” says one thirtysomething divorcee. “Why not formalize the situation? Then, one day, I might meet someone [who is] at least prepared to have dinner with me occasionally.”
The most successful executive of my acquaintances has “a happy loafer” of a husband. He walks the dog, picks up the dry cleaning and has “a job so part-time it’s virtually non-existent.” She refers to him as her “sanity saviour,” in the way that former U.K. and Australian prime ministers Theresa May and Julia Gillard are said to think of their “civilian” spouses. Film star Julia Roberts found happiness when she ditched fellow celebrities in favour of a camera operator happy to let her take the limelight.
In my own case, if my parents’ relationship taught me to be wary of love as a vocation vanquisher, then so did my romantic forays. Throughout my life, I have adored men—as friends, as lovers, as what I optimistically referred to as “partners”—but, in myriad ways, said partners have stood in the way of my ambition. However alluring my drive was to men, the moment we became romantically entangled, they put their objectives first and mine very much second.
My Oxford University boyfriend paid lip service to respecting my goals, yet there was definitely a sense that his career was more pressing. I remember explaining to his mother that academia could take me anywhere—Dundee, say, or Chicago. “But you’ll have to follow his work,” she exclaimed, mystified that I could interpret matters any other way, despite my better degree and prospects that, at the time, seemed rosier.
Worse was to come, when I was a young newspaper writer, in the form of a financial guy who began by declaring himself in love with my intellect, only to become threatened by it later. Our relationship quickly became a power struggle. “You’re so clever,” he would say adoringly. But then another time, embittered, “You think you’re so clever.” Our romance ended not long after he demanded: “Why wouldn’t you want to give up your job to bring up my children? What makes you think you’re too good for that role?” Afterwards, he called to inform me that I needed to help him forge a political career. Even once things were over, I was expected to play cheerleader.
And yet, when I had a boyfriend who declared himself unambitious, people told us we didn’t match. He told me we didn’t match. And so I embarked on a course in which my erotic and professional lives were kept as separate as Church and State. I was interested in my lovers’ professions, just as they were interested in mine, but at arm’s length. They were lovers, not partners. Partnership didn’t work.
When I was 43, I met Terence, a 40-year-old management consultant with whom I was compatible in all things. A partner, at last. My lone life became a shared life. And while this brought many positives, it also meant that I was entering the danger zone. Could our mutual aspirations coexist, a balance be achieved? Ten months in, he took a sabbatical in Cambridge. People shocked me by asking whether I would be moving too. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. My job was in London. My job was what mattered.
A year ago, we moved in together, my time eaten into by an endless round of chores he didn’t see the need for. Sociologists have identified the “mental load” that women take on in heterosexual relationships: the planning, the organizing, the emotional labour. I felt quashed by all this and more. And we didn’t even have children. I was self-employed, while Terence balanced several jobs plus studying on the side. Our schedules were frequently
incompatible—he woke up at 6 a.m. to work; I slogged into the night—meaning we often failed to cross paths. During weekends, one of us would be working while the other was left to do things on their own. At times we felt like mere roommates; at others, actual impediments to each other’s progress.
Enter Dr. Jennifer Petriglieri, associate professor at the renowned business school INSEAD, near Paris, and the author of
Couples That Work, a book designed to change the conversation around the aligning of personal and professional ambitions. As someone who grew up convinced that the personal must never be allowed the same status as the professional, I can say without exaggeration that Petriglieri changed my life.
Inspired by Facebook executive Sheryl Sandberg’s declaration “The most important career choice you’ll make is who you marry,” Petriglieri spent five years interviewing more than 100 couples to find out what makes their work work. This was a revolutionary approach. “The tendency has been to treat careers as if we’re all flying solo, no strings attached,” she says. “It’s been all about you as an individual, as if you don’t have a partner. Or it’s been about work-life balance—nothing about how careers can interact. The emotional component doesn’t seem to have existed.”
“Couples tend to start out mutually supportive of each other’s ambitions,” she continues. “But then something happens (for example, sharing a home or having children) to tip the balance in favour of one of them (often, but not always, the man). It’s important to recognize that ambition is not a zero-sum game: There’s no inevitable winner and loser. You can have a lot of ambition in a couple.”
Petriglieri found that the key is full and frank discussion, enabling the building of what she calls a “couple contract.” “Oh, God!” I wail. “I’m too English to acknowledge my ambitions, let alone have a conversation about them.” “Okay,” replies Petriglieri. “Let’s reframe it as desire. What do you want out of life? What is meaningful to you? What would make this a good life? Don’t think ‘This is my career versus your career.’ Instead, think ‘This is our life.’”
“Isn’t that codependence?” I ask worriedly. “No, it’s interdependence, and the two are very different,” argues Petriglieri. “Making us fear interdependence is the biggest mistake feminism made. We’re not designed to survive independently. Interdependent is what human society is. You’ve probably got a circle of close friends—I bet you’re interdependent with them. We’ve started to see our partners as adversaries, which becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Tit-for-tat is the path to hell. Couples who are willing to build interdependence do really well.”
As simple as it may sound, this advice has had a radical effect on my life—and by this, finally, I mean both of our lives: mine and Terence’s. The impact was as instant as it was seismic. Both of us became massively happier after merely acknowledging that this was something that needed to be addressed. Each of us has been repeating the phrase “I’ve done X because we’re a team”—not satirically but meaning it. I am supporting his aspirations, and he’s supporting mine. Now, it feels as if we’re becoming not rivals but allies. So, how much ambition can one relationship take? The answer—brilliantly—feels like a fuck of a lot.
“The tendency has been to treat careers as if we’re all flying solo, no strings attached.”