Unfiltered, Unapologetic, and Somehow Still His Favorite

It hasn’t always been this way—him letting me be exactly who I am without criticism or eye rolls.

I’m a lot of a personality. Loud. Blunt. Unfiltered. He claims I have the biggest resting bitch face in New York. And I’m 100% transparent—people either love that or label it “bitchy.”

In the beginning, when we were young, broke, and figuring each other out, he cared way more about what people thought of him than I ever cared if people liked me. I’ve never played by anyone else’s rules. I say what I think, feel how I feel, and don’t put on a show to make anyone more comfortable. Some call that refreshing. But when you’re 22 and married? That shit can come off as reckless.

See, my husband? He values relationships—connections with everyone. All of them. He’ll shake the hand of a stranger at Home Depot like they’re lifelong friends. Buy breakfast for someone just because they shared a story. He’s the guy who will always give people the benefit of the doubt.

Me? I trust no one until they earn it. I’m friendly, sure—but behind the scenes, I’m running your name through a mental background check and body language decoder. If you pass my invisible test? I’ll do anything for you. But you’ve got to earn it.

My husband would do anything for everyone—and sometimes that leaves him open to getting taken advantage of. That’s always been a thing in our marriage: I’m too much. He’s too forgiving. We’ve fought about it. Resented it.

Picked each other apart over it.

But one day, something shifted.

He just… let me be me.

The woman who has one too many drinks and ends up on the dance floor like it’s a 2004 rap video (hello, Gina 👋). The mom who screams like a lunatic from the bleachers when our kid scores a basket—or when some punk tries to push him around. The woman who will absolutely burn down a building if a company tries to screw us over. He doesn’t just tolerate that version of me anymore—he calls me in when he needs that version. When it’s time to handle shit.

And I think—no, I know—he’s proud of me now. Where he might’ve once been embarrassed, I can see it in his eyes. He’s proud to stand next to the woman who says what others won’t, who’s not afraid to be loud, messy, bold, and real.

And I’m proud of him too—for being the man who softened me without silencing me. For letting me be the whole damn hurricane, while somehow staying calm in the center of it.