This Body is Bullshit

---

Matt met me when my life was already in full swing—messy, busy, loud, and packed with baggage. I was a single mom raising a daughter. I had trauma I hadn’t unpacked. Chaos was the default setting. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t try to fix me or make me easier to love. He just stepped in and stood beside me, quietly, patiently, without needing to be the hero.

He still does.

Matt does the laundry. He takes care of the yard. He vacuums the floors. He does more than his share, and he does it without complaint or needing to be noticed. That kind of consistency? That’s love in action. Not grand gestures—just the steady stuff that makes life easier and feels like safety.

He’s more emotional and sensitive than I am, which balances me in ways I didn’t know I needed. He doesn’t always say things out loud—words aren’t his default—but just by being who he is, he’s helped me unlearn the habit of pretending I’m fine when I’m clearly not. He makes me laugh constantly. He’s kind, steady, and, annoyingly, unfairly good-looking. And yeah, I’ve (reluctantly) learned to enjoy the Grateful Dead and watch golf. That’s true commitment.

He goes to bed early, wakes up early, and has somehow turned into the guy who doesn’t need much—just a good cup of coffee, a dog nearby, and me, ideally not losing my shit over nothing. He tells dad jokes that I pretend to groan at but secretly love. He’s calm when I’m spinning out. He shows up for the hard parts, even when I don’t know how to let him in.

But here’s the honest part I don’t say out loud enough: everything I’ve been through—cancer, sepsis, surgeries, scars, chronic illness, exhaustion—it’s changed me. And it’s changed us, especially in the quiet, intimate ways. I miss how easy it all used to feel. I miss the spontaneity. I miss feeling confident and carefree.

I don’t pull away when he touches me—I want to be close—but I worry. I worry that he doesn’t look at me the same. That he sees the pain and fatigue and all the ways my body isn’t what it used to be. That maybe he misses the old me, too.

He’s never made me feel broken. But I feel broken sometimes. And I hate that he’s had to carry so much of the weight while I figure out how to feel whole again.

I want to give him everything. The spark. The ease. The version of me that didn’t second-guess everything or feel like her body was betraying her. I’m working on it. We’re working on it.

I don’t know if I believe in fate. But I believe in timing. And Matt showed up exactly when I needed someone steady. Someone soft. Someone who wouldn’t run when things got messy.

He is home. He’s always been home.

And I hope he knows—every day—how much I love him, how lucky I feel, and how deeply I see everything he does… even when I forget to say it out loud.