It Took Me 30 Years to Learn That Love Isn't Supposed to Hurt.

Yesterday, I wasn't feeling well.

And when I say I wasn't feeling well, I mean I was actually willing to admit that something was wrong, which, if you know me, is basically a medical emergency in itself.

I'm the woman who could be missing a limb and still say, "I'm fine, I just need to finish the laundry."

Resting? Absolutely not. There are things to do, people to feed, a house to maintain, and approximately 47 imaginary emergencies I've created in my head.

But yesterday, I needed help.

And something happened that probably wouldn't seem extraordinary to someone who's always been loved properly.

My boyfriend came home and took care of me.

That's it.

That's the story.

Except it's not. Not even close.

Because for a woman who spent the better part of 30 years being everybody else's caregiver, problem solver, financial safety net, emotional support animal, personal chauffeur, and unpaid life coach, having someone simply show up for me without being asked was almost overwhelming.

Jet came home as soon as he could.

I didn't have to call him 16 times. I didn't have to convince him I was sick enough. I didn't have to apologize for inconveniencing him.

He just came home.

He drove me to urgent care. He sat with me. He listened to everything I told the doctors and even chimed in to make sure we weren't forgetting anything.

Then he took me to lunch.

Then he took me to get my prescription.

No complaining. No looking at his watch. No sighing like he'd just been sentenced to six hours of community service.

Just genuine concern for the woman he loves.

And when we got home?

This man had the AUDACITY to tell me to REST.

Sir...Do you understand who you're dealing with?

I have been operating on caffeine, anxiety, stubbornness, and the belief that everything will fall apart if I sit down for 20 minutes since approximately 1997.

But he wasn't having it.

He made sure I was comfortable. Made sure I wasn't pushing myself. Made sure I actually took care of ME for once.

And wouldn't you know it?

Today my back is starting to feel a little better.

Apparently, being loved properly has some pretty decent side effects.

My Picker Was Apparently Purchased From the Clearance Rack

Here's where things get a little less funny.

For most of my adult life, I had a type.

And that type was apparently MEN WHO NEEDED A COMPLETE RESTORATION PROJECT.

Not a little fixer-upper, either.

I'm talking condemned properties. No foundation. Electrical issues. Plumbing questionable. Several outstanding violations and absolutely no intention of bringing anything up to code.

And there I was, standing in the middle of the emotional rubble with a tool belt, a checkbook, and a can-do attitude.

"He doesn't work?"

That's okay! I have a great job!

"He doesn't want to drive?"

No problem! I'll drive!

"He doesn't want to pay?"

Don't worry, I've got it!

"He makes fun of your weight, your appearance, the things you say, and the way you act in front of other people?"

Oh, that's okay. I'll laugh along so he can be the funny guy in the room.

Except it wasn't funny.

Not even a little.

Somewhere along the way, I became so comfortable being uncomfortable that I genuinely believed this was what relationships were supposed to look like.

I thought loving someone meant sacrificing enough of myself that eventually they'd appreciate me.

That if I gave enough, paid enough, forgave enough, and made myself small enough, they'd finally look at me and think, Wow, she's really worth loving.

Spoiler alert.

You cannot love someone into becoming a better person when they have absolutely no interest in doing the work themselves.

And God knows I tried.

I could have opened a rehabilitation center for emotionally unavailable men and probably qualified for government funding.

But here's what took me far too long to understand.

We are ALL a little broken.

Every single one of us has baggage, scars, insecurities, and things we're still figuring out.

But there is a tremendous difference between someone who recognizes their wounds and wants to heal them, and someone who uses those wounds as an excuse to keep hurting everybody around them.

You can support someone while they heal.

You cannot do their healing for them.

And you certainly shouldn't have to destroy yourself trying.

Some Scars Don't Show Up in Pictures

I've experienced physical abuse in a relationship.

I've had my hair pulled. I've been kicked in the back so hard that I fell off a bed, hit a wall, and split my forehead open. I've been slapped across the face.

Things that nobody should ever experience at the hands of someone who claims to love them.

And while I would never minimize the seriousness of physical violence, there's another kind of abuse that doesn't always leave a visible mark.

Emotional abuse.

Mental abuse.

Financial abuse.

The slow, calculated destruction of someone's confidence until they barely recognize the person staring back at them.

I can tell you exactly what some of those words sounded like.

I was once told that my naked body looked like "a melted candle."

A MELTED FUCKING CANDLE!

Imagine standing naked and vulnerable in front of someone you love, someone whose opinion matters to you, and hearing those words.

Imagine what that does to a woman.

I don't have to imagine it.

I live with it.

To this day, I struggle to look at myself naked in a full-length mirror.

And that makes me incredibly sad.

Because I know, intellectually, that my body is nothing to be ashamed of.

This body has carried children. It's endured illness, stress, heartbreak, and more than its fair share of life's bullshit.

It has kept me alive through things I once wondered if I'd survive.

And yet, sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I still hear the voice of someone who wanted me to feel small.

That's what emotional abuse can do. It can make someone else's cruelty sound like your own inner voice.

The physical injuries healed.

But some of the words are still sitting there, years later, waiting for the exact moment

I'm feeling vulnerable to remind me of them.

And I'm still working on that.

Healing isn't a straight line. Some days I feel like the strongest woman on the planet.

Other days, I'm still that woman standing in front of the mirror wondering why she wasn't enough.

But here's something I wish someone had told me years ago.

I was always enough. I was just asking the wrong people to recognize it.

And Then There Was Jet.

Oh, this man.

This sweet, thoughtful, snoring-like-a-broken-tractor, deer-hunting, amazing cook of a man.

Jet came into my life and completely disrupted everything I thought I knew about relationships.

Not with extravagant gifts.

Not with grand declarations.

Not by promising me the moon and stars and a lifetime of bullshit he had no intention of delivering.

He did it by being consistent.

By being kind.

By showing up.

By doing what he says he's going to do.

By caring about the things that matter to me, even when they might not be particularly interesting to him.

And by making me feel beautiful.

Not just when my hair is done, my makeup is on, and I'm wearing something that doesn't have an elastic waistband.

This man could walk into the living room and find me wearing a moo-moo, looking like an escaped patient from a tuberculosis ward, and tell me I'm the sexiest woman he's ever seen.

AND HE MEANS IT.

I'm convinced growing up around six sisters had something to do with this.

Six women helping shape a man who understands that women are human beings, not household appliances with emotional support features.

He respects me.

He's proud of me.

He's proud to be WITH me.

He celebrates my accomplishments instead of trying to diminish them.

He doesn't need to embarrass me in front of other people to make himself feel important.

He doesn't compete with me.

He stands beside me.

And he genuinely loves that I share my life, my stories, my ridiculous thoughts, and sometimes my most painful experiences in the hope that somebody else might read them and feel a little less alone.

Now, was he entirely sure he wanted to become a recurring character in my bullshit and shenanigans?

Absolutely not.

But look at him now.

A leading man.

A fan favorite.

Occasionally the victim of a public snoring investigation.

He's doing beautifully.

And the most remarkable thing about him?

He doesn't make me earn his love.

I don't have to buy it.

I don't have to beg for it.

I don't have to make myself smaller to keep it.

I don't have to prove my worth by exhausting myself.

I can simply exist.

As Kelly.

Loud, emotional, stubborn, occasionally unhinged, fiercely loving, Kelly.

And he loves every ridiculous piece of me.

The Hardest Thing I've Ever Had to Learn Is How to Be Taken Care Of

When you've spent decades being the strong one, receiving care can feel strangely uncomfortable.

You almost feel guilty.

Like you should be doing something to earn it.

Yesterday, a part of me wanted to apologize to Jet for having to leave work, drive me around, and spend his afternoon taking care of me.

But I didn't need to apologize.

Because he didn't see me as a burden.

He saw me as his person.

Someone he loves who wasn't feeling well.

And he wanted to help.

That was it.

No hidden invoice.

No future guilt trip.

No emotional debt to repay.

Just love.

And for someone who spent so many years believing love was transactional, that kind of care is almost impossible to describe.

Jet isn't perfect. Neither am I. We have our quirks, our stubborn moments, and our own histories.

But he's emotionally present. He's accountable. He's thoughtful. And he makes an effort every single day.

I don't need a perfect man.

I need a good man who keeps choosing to be good to me.

And I found him.

To Anyone Who's Still Trying to Fix Someone Who Keeps Breaking Them

Please hear me.

You cannot save someone who refuses to save themselves.

You cannot finance someone into responsibility.

You cannot love someone into respecting you.

You cannot make yourself beautiful enough, thin enough, quiet enough, successful enough, or accommodating enough to stop someone who has chosen to mistreat you.

And you do not have to wait until someone physically hurts you to decide that the relationship is hurting you.

Emotional abuse is real.

Financial abuse is real.

The damage is real.

And leaving isn't always simple. Sometimes there are children, financial circumstances, fear, threats, or years of being convinced that you couldn't possibly survive on your own.

I understand that more than I wish I did.

But I also know there is life on the other side.

There is peace.

There is laughter.

There is the possibility of being loved without being humiliated.

And there are good people out there.

They might not live next door.

Hell, mine lived an hour and a half away.

And I almost managed to sabotage the whole thing because a man treating me well felt so unfamiliar that I didn't know what to do with it.

But I'm so grateful I didn't let my past make the final decision about my future.

Because now?

We're building this crazy, beautiful life together.

One dinner, one hunting season, one Sugar Bear ride in the Jeep, one ridiculous blog post, and apparently one urgent care visit at a time.