The Pop Star Who Saved Us

Four years ago, Harry Styles became my imaginary friend. He saved my marriage. And me.

A decade in, I was struggling to find my place in the world. The cracks in my life and relationship had been showing for years, but I was ignoring them. The free spirit in me never wanted any of it – marriage, kids, an “ordinary life.” And yet falling for this lighthearted man didn’t feel like a choice. It was innate. Teddy was safe and kind, traditional yet open-minded. And he made me believe we could make it all work.

Until we became parents. Under pressure to provide financially, he gave up the freedom of contracting and started a nine to five. Leaning into the blueprint of his own upbringing, he expected a home-cooked meal, a clean house, and kids winding down, all by the time he walked through the door. To top it off, our home had gotten too cramped for three kids under six. So Teddy decided to demolish and rebuild it by hand, and we moved in with his sister, an ICU nurse director. Meanwhile, I clung to what I thought was my dream of building a startup empire, desperate to have something that was mine. But then the pandemic hit, shining a magnifying glass on our relationship. Like tiny ants on the pavement, our marriage was slowly incinerating. And I was drowning.

That’s when Harry appeared. Not as a global pop icon, but as a friend.

It was a routine, auto-pilot-kind-of-day. I had just picked up my eldest from drum lessons when he told me he’d played “Grapejuice” – a song by “some guy named Harry something.” I put it on, and as the breezy tune floated through the speakers, there was an instant shift in the car. We began bobbing our heads and swaying. For once, my thoughts weren’t ping-ponging between dinner prep, schedules, and beta tester questions. I just listened – really listened – to the carefree love song. For three minutes and twelve seconds, I was weightless and free.

It was as if the song gave me permission to breathe, to let go. Instantly, I realized that throughout my marriage, I’d been contorting myself to fit what I thought society, our families, and even I expected. I wanted to do it all and make it look easy. Instead, I became a shell of myself, eyes glossed over in photos like some shiny, fragile, empty doll. I couldn’t do it anymore.

Falling down the rabbit hole, I listened to song after song, captivated by Harry’s fearlessness and joy – a welcome distraction from the heaviness of my day-to-day life. A spark of brightness and hope. His music and mantras of “be yourself, live your truth,” validated my self-discovery journey. I was determined to find me again…whoever that was.

Suddenly, Harry materialized often. First, as a conscience of sorts, helping me make decisions when I was too frazzled to make them on my own. Then, as a confidant, rooting me on, offering unwavering support in the most mundane of tasks. “I’m gonna be honest – you’ve never looked better. It’s a ten out of ten for me,” he’d declare of the same leggings and oversized sweater I’d worn for the zillionth time to drop the kids off. Or when a car cut me off, he’d nudge, “Hey, maybe she has to use the loo.” Then he’d smirk cheekily, “Or maybe she’s rushing home to get tickets to my show.”

I was finding my stride, becoming a version of myself I actually liked – kinder, more confident, and less judgmental. I wore sparkles when I wanted, changed my haircolor when I wanted, and vowed to be unapologetically myself. I felt that if I was free to be me, I could understand and accept others as they were. My kids picked up on the joy, too. We started having dance parties again. My boys even thought it was cool to wear nail polish to express themselves.

It made my husband uncomfortable, especially the nail polish. “Ted, it reminds them of car colors. It’s harmless,” I’d gently reason. Still, I could see it grinding away at him, his conservative upbringing chafing with our newfound sense of selves. “The polish is only for the weekends,” he’d compromise. “But it has to be removed before school on Monday.”

Not that he’d even notice because Ted threw himself into the renovation every day after work. And he wasn’t just absent physically, mentally he was miles away, too. The man I married could make me laugh until I snorted water out of my nostrils. Now, I couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. Or stayed awake long enough for the dinner table to be cleared. I was lonely. And as my reliance on Harry grew, so did Ted’s frustration with me.

“Sade,” he said one night, tossing his keys on the counter, “if you mention his name one more time…I’m serious. It’s getting weird now.”

I wanted to pull Ted into my world of sequins and spontaneity, but he was too far to reach. “You should be thanking Harry. He’s the reason I’m happier these days.” I could feel his eyes roll.

I wouldn’t find the right way to explain it until nearly a year had passed.

Our beautiful home was finally done. Before I even unpacked our dishes, I purchased tickets to see Harry Styles in London. We needed something to look forward to as a family. And now that the renovation was off his shoulders, I figured Ted would be more present again, finally rejoining our bubble. But he continued to pass out on the couch when he wasn’t at work, feeling even further away than before. The talk of separation began.

Then, just days later, the unthinkable happened: Ted was diagnosed with brain cancer. Suddenly, the man who had drifted so far away needed me more than ever.

That night, lying in bed in our hollow room, I caught a livestream performance of “Fine Line.” The powerful song unleashed an emotion in me that was so primal, I struggled to breathe. My Harry appeared. “You couldn’t have known,” he reassured me, reading my thoughts. All those times I nagged Teddy for sleeping, resenting who he’d become, when it was probably the tumor’s influence. This man who built us a home with his bare hands, all while riddled with cancer. Who I nearly separated from. Who might be dying. The guilt swallowed me whole. I broke down. And I asked Harry to leave. His pity felt too real. I didn’t deserve it.

In my new role as a caregiver, I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and generosity from our incredible community. Yet the feeling of needing to repay everyone weighed heavily on me. Harry stayed by my side, an emotional anchor offering unlimited support. With Harry, I could selfishly take whatever I wanted, whenever I needed it, without spending one moment worrying about returning the favor. He became my caregiver.

A few months later, once Ted’s radiation was complete, the doctors encouraged us to take that trip to London. We decided to go just the two of us instead – our first vacation as a couple since having children. It was awkward. We were nearly strangers. I wasn’t sure if this version of me would be appealing to him. I was scared I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t. Ted’s constant negativity had made me bitter, and I no longer wanted to live that way. But at one time, Teddy was my best friend. I missed him. I wanted more than anything to find the version of him I fell in love with, a version that might never exist again with a tumor affecting his brain.

On the day of the concert, as I put on the sparkliest top I painstakingly picked out months before, my stomach did somersaults. I was about to see the real Harry – not just the one I’d created in my own head – and I was nervous Ted wouldn’t understand. That he would cringe as I embraced myself, geeking out over music that got me through one of the most challenging times of my life.

Then Ted emerged from the bedroom wearing a shirt my sister made, with large colorful letters declaring, “Harry is my Homeboy.” It was cheesy and completely out of the norm for him – his version of nail polish. He had let down his guard. For me.

Engulfed in a swarm of feathers and sequins in Wembley Stadium, Ted fit right in. Every inch of my skin pulsed with anticipation. Then the first note shot out, a bolt of lightning in a dark sky, and my body began moving before my mind could catch up. It continued for nearly two hours, shaking out years of stress and sadness. And it only paused when the glow of 80,000 phones lit up the stadium as “Fine Line” began playing.

“Is this it, Sade?’” he asked, leaning in close. For six full minutes, I sobbed unabashedly, with his arm wrapped around my shoulder. As the horns and drums crashed in an uproarious crescendo, Harry’s vocals split through the air. “We’ll be alriiiight.” And for the first time, I believed it. We spent the final moments embracing each other tighter than we had in years.

On the plane ride home, I looked over to Teddy. “You know, about Harry…”

“Sade, seriously?” he said, shaking his head.

“I am serious though.” I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I forgot who I was for a while there. Harry reminded me of all the things I love about life, and me…and you.”

He kissed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “Well, then I’m grateful to him.”

Because it was never really about Harry at all. He was simply a mirror, reflecting parts of myself I’d long forgotten – the part that dances impromptu in supermarkets, dreams big without apology, and believes in love, especially when it’s been tested.

The imaginary Harry still visits sometimes– usually when I’m stuck in traffic or slipping into self-doubt. But now Teddy’s there, too. Not as a burden, but as a partner. A friend. Together we’ve found a new rhythm– imperfect, but ours, nonetheless.

In the end, it wasn’t Harry that saved my marriage. It was us.