The Genius’ Wife

By Elza Meiksane

I was walking in the botanical gardens with a friend, and we found ourselves deep in conversation about the movie Oppenheimer, specifically, about his wife. We had seen two very different women in her character. My friend viewed her as a tragic figure, a woman who had tied herself to a ticking time bomb and suffered the consequences. She had, in my friend’s eyes, been pulled into his chain reaction, consumed by the force of his ambitions.

I saw something else.

Yes, her life was shaped by the political storms weathered by her husband. Yes, she turned to alcohol in her moments of despair. But before all of that, she had made a choice. She had been married to another man, an ordinary man, when she met Oppenheimer. She was drawn to Oppenheimer–not because she was naïve, but because she saw something extraordinary in him and wanted to be part of his world. She wasn’t trapped. She had stepped into the storm with her eyes open.

This conversation wasn’t the first time I had encountered this way of looking at women who marry brilliant men. In my teenage years, my feminist friends and I would question the lives of women like the Latvian writer Aspazija, who devoted much of her time to editing and supporting her husband, the great poet Rainis. What could she have been if she had chosen her own path? we wondered. Wasn’t it pitiful to live in the footnotes of a man’s work? Back then, I nodded along. It all seemed so logical.

And then, at nineteen, I met an over-caffeinated guy with disheveled hair and wild ambition, who, without a hint of irony, told me, “I want to take over the world.” Six years later, I am still under his spell, perhaps even more so. I have watched him pour endless days, nights, and weekends into building his startup, then spend his free time coding apps or reading about etymology. I have seen what it takes to chase something great. And I have come to understand that if I love him for his brilliance and drive, I cannot expect him to be ordinary.

That realization didn’t come easily. At first, I was puzzled when he didn’t want to relax over the weekend, when he would trade social outings for work, and when his sacrifices for his company seemed to stretch further than I thought possible. I worried. I questioned. I struggled. But over time, I understood: I could not admire his genius and resent what came with it. It was two sides of the same coin.

In a world that thrives on instant gratification, being with a genius taught me something rare—delayed gratification. There are times when he says, “I’m sorry, but we can’t take that vacation now. We can’t go on a date this weekend. But in a few months, or maybe a year, things will be different.” It takes faith. It takes patience. And it is not always easy to trust that the sacrifices of today will lead to the rewards of tomorrow.

Gradually, I learned to trust the process and to believe that success will follow. In many ways, I think this is one of the most valuable lessons of loving a man with a vision: understanding that some things—great things—take time. And so, I adapted. I learned how to shape our relationship to meet my needs while honoring his vision. I made dinner reservations. I reminded him of special occasions. I ensured that there was sufficient time and energy devoted to our relationship.

I even found a friend in a similar relationship, and we bonded over the quirks of loving men whose dreams consumed them.  In time, I came to see that this kind of relationship requires more intention—not because it’s lacking, but because its pace and pressures are different. It doesn’t unfold effortlessly, but when nurtured, it offers a depth that’s entirely its own. Yet I have noticed something troubling in how society talks about women who take on this role. There is an eagerness to assume they are unfulfilled, that they are somehow lesser for dedicating part of their lives to supporting their partners.

There is a strange refusal to acknowledge that they may have chosen this life not out of obligation, but out of a desire to be part of something singular. It is as though we only respect women’s autonomy when they choose independence. But what of the woman who chooses to stand beside a great man? Why do we so easily dismiss her agency? I write this essay not to convince every woman to marry a genius but to offer an alternative perspective.

Perhaps a young woman who has fallen for a man with fierce ambition will read this, and perhaps she, like I once did, is struggling to understand what that life would entail. I want her to know that it is possible to find balance. She will need to take the reins of their personal life and carve out her own happiness within the packed Google calendar. That if she embraces this path, it does not mean she is less for it.

Some might still see the life of a genius’ wife as something to pity. And that’s fine. But it only strengthens my belief that this conversation needs to happen. The role of the genius’ wife is a peculiar one, but it is worth examining.

Recently, I visited the museum of my favorite poet, Ojars Vacietis. The curator spoke of his wife, Ludmila, a poet in her own right. I married the poet, not the man, she had once said. I understood exactly what she meant. Perhaps that is what all women who walk this path come to realize. The world will debate their choices. But in the quiet of their lives, they know exactly why they are there.