By Ross Hendrickson
Let me set the scene. A gorgeous island. Crystal blue water. Happy hour on the beach. And four couples were roped into what they thought would be a fun, tropical getaway, only to realize they accidentally signed up for group therapy in paradise.
If you’ve seen Couples Retreat, you know exactly what I’m talking about. If not, you’ve probably lived some version of it. You go on a trip thinking you’ll relax and reconnect, and suddenly you’re having deep emotional conversations in swimwear while trying to ignore the weird guy with the conch shell.
There’s a moment in the movie that hits harder than it has any right to. One of the couples, mid-session, tries to downplay their issues by saying, “We just make it work.”
The therapist, stone-faced and gently brutal, replies:
“Do you? I don’t think you do. One thing I know we can all agree on is we should be doing much better than ‘just works.’”
Cue nervous laughter. Both on screen and likely in the living room of any couple watching it. You know the laugh. The “ha ha wow that’s too real” kind of laugh that trails off into uncomfortable silence.
As a marriage therapist and a guy who’s been married for over two decades, I have to hand it to Couples Retreat. They accidentally nailed some truths. Yes, the yoga scene is absurd. Yes, the therapy is a little too dramatic for real life, although I have seen a few sessions get surprisingly close. But that line — “we should be doing better than ‘just works’” — that one lingers like a forgotten swimsuit in your luggage that starts to mildew.
Because how many couples sit on that couch, week after week, side by side but miles apart? Raising kids, going to work, running errands, paying bills, surviving Tuesday. And they tell themselves it works.
But is it thriving? Is it joyful? Is it sacred? Or is it a truce cleverly disguised as a routine?
I’ve had couples come in who haven’t fought in years. They’re polite. Functional. Respectful. But they’re also disconnected. One spouse handles logistics like a personal assistant on autopilot. The other floats through the calendar like a distracted intern. They say things like, “We don’t really argue. We just keep busy. We’re fine.”
The word fine is the marital equivalent of beige. Technically a color, yes. But nobody’s out here painting their dream home beige on purpose.
And to be fair, some seasons of life demand survival mode. Newborns. Job losses. Health scares. Extended visits from in-laws. But survival is supposed to be a phase, not the blueprint. You were meant for more than coexisting in sweatpants and scheduling intimacy like a dentist appointment.
The problem with “just works” is that it slowly trains your heart to expect less. Fewer connections. Less laughter. Less presence. Less hope. And before you know it, you’ve got a marriage that functions like a printer on its last leg. It still spits something out every now and then, but it groans, jams, and smells a little off.
One of my favorite running jokes in Couples Retreat is how every meaningful moment gets interrupted by something ridiculous. Sharks. Paddleboard challenges. Coconut drinks. That guy who seems suspiciously too flexible. The couples bounce between half-hearted therapy sessions and half-clothed island distractions.
It’s not far off from how some couples treat emotional disconnection. “Let’s just take a vacation.” “Maybe once the kids are older, things will get better.” “Let’s just not talk about it tonight because it’s pizza night and I’m fragile.”
Avoidance is easier in the short term. It’s also cheaper than therapy. But healing doesn’t usually happen in paradise. It happens in eye contact. In truth-telling. In humility. In choosing to stay in the room when everything in you wants to walk away, or at least scroll TikTok until the conflict magically resolves itself.
I won’t lie to you. Real therapy has its awkward moments. There’s that pause after a hard question. There’s that look you give your spouse when you know they’re about to say something way too honest. There’s that tension of being seen and of seeing someone you thought you fully knew in a new light, sometimes under fluorescent office lighting.
But there’s also laughter. Relief. Reconnection. The surprising grace of realizing you’re not crazy. You’re just hurt. Or misunderstood. Or tired. Or all of the above, plus hungry.
I sometimes joke with clients that therapy is like a tropical retreat without the airfare or swimwear. Instead of jet skis, we explore resentment. Instead of snorkeling, we dive into unmet needs. Instead of margaritas, there’s maybe a cup of coffee and a box of tissues.
Fun, right?
But seriously, if you’re brave enough to face your story, even the messy parts, there’s a kind of freedom on the other side that no island can compete with. Because while paradise might give you a temporary escape, vulnerability gives you a permanent shift.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “But our marriage isn’t that bad,” I want to challenge you with this:
God didn’t design marriage to be beige. He didn’t call it a covenant so you could coast. This isn’t a gym membership where you just try not to get charged. This is your person. Your teammate. Your covenant companion.
Marriage is ministry. It sharpens, challenges, humbles, and blesses. It’s not always passionate or poetic. Sometimes it’s two people staring at each other over a pile of unfolded laundry, wondering whose turn it is to microwave dinner. But it should always be honest. Intentional. Alive.
If you’ve been saying, “We just make it work,” maybe it’s time to ask, “Is that all we want?”
What if you could laugh more freely? Fight less destructively? Touch more tenderly? Pray more openly? Forgive more quickly? What if “works” became “thrives”?
In the movie, the retreat is on an island called Eden. Sounds spiritual, right? But real Eden isn’t a location. It’s a posture. A return to vulnerability. A choosing-in. A shared life that reflects the self-giving love of Christ. Not performative. Not plastic. But something sacred, imperfect, and rooted in grace.
You don’t need to fly to paradise. You need to pause. To notice. To ask the deeper questions. To sit with someone who can help hold the weight of your words and turn them toward something holy. Someone who won’t make you do couples yoga. Or if they do, will at least let you opt out of downward dog.
I won’t promise it’ll be as entertaining as a Vince Vaughn movie. You won’t get a complimentary piña colada or a sunset cruise. But I do believe it can be redemptive.
If you haven’t checked in lately, consider this your invitation. Ask your spouse tonight, with gentleness and curiosity:
“Do you think we’re thriving, or just working?”
You don’t need a therapist on a beach to start the conversation. You just need to be willing. Willing to ask. Willing to listen. Willing to grow. And maybe willing to laugh at how serious it all feels when you both know you’re still wearing mismatched socks and arguing over who left the milk out.
Marriage isn’t about perfection. It’s about pursuit. Pursuit of connection. Pursuit of grace. Pursuit of each other.
And if you ever do find yourself on an island like Eden, I hope your only therapy is foot massages and long walks on the beach. But if you’re not quite there yet, I know a guy who’s got a couch, a box of tissues, and absolutely no plans to make you do partner yoga.
Promise.
Leave a Reply