I’ve hesitated to write this because “spoiled” is such a loaded word. It conjures images of entitlement, diamonds tossed aside, and someone complaining because their coffee wasn’t hot enough the third time. That’s not me.
But if we’re being honest—and this is a confessions post—I am spoiled.
Not in the flashy, reality-TV sense. I don’t live a life of excess or luxury for the sake of it. I’m spoiled in the quiet, everyday ways that don’t make for Instagram reels but absolutely shape how safe, supported, and loved I feel.
I’m spoiled because my husband notices things.
He notices when I’m overwhelmed before I say it out loud. He notices when my patience is thin, when my shoulders are tense, when I’m carrying more than I should. And instead of telling me to “relax,” he steps in. Sometimes that looks like attacking the never ending to do list we share between us. Sometimes it’s ordering dinner. Sometimes it’s just letting me be cranky without fixing me.
I’m spoiled because he encourages me to rest—even when I’m not very good at it.
I’m wired to keep going, to push through, to feel like there’s always one more thing that needs to be done. Rest doesn’t come naturally to me, and slowing down often feels uncomfortable. He sees that. And instead of rushing me or getting frustrated, he gently nudges me toward pause.
Sometimes that looks like reminding me it’s okay to sit down. Sometimes it’s handling things so I don’t feel the pressure to keep moving. And sometimes it’s just being patient while I learn how to stop without feeling guilty.
That kind of steady encouragement—the kind that doesn’t demand or expect anything in return—is its own kind of care.
I’m spoiled because my opinions matter.
I’ve always prided myself on being independent. I didn’t need help. I didn’t rely on anyone. I handled things myself, carried my own weight, and wore self-sufficiency like a badge of honor. Depending on someone felt risky—like giving up control.
And then there’s my husband.
He never asked me to be smaller or less capable. He just made it safe to lean. Little by little, he made dependence feel less like weakness and more like trust. Being able to say “I’ve got this” and “I need you” without shame has been unexpectedly freeing. He makes room for both versions of me—the strong one and the tired one—and somehow makes both feel equally valued.
Not just on the big stuff, but on the boring, everyday decisions. The tone of our life together isn’t dictated—it’s a compromise we work on all the time. I’m heard. I’m considered. I’m respected even when we disagree. Especially then.
And yes, sometimes I’m spoiled in the more obvious ways too.
Thoughtful surprises that say, I was thinking about you when you weren’t in the room. Surprise Stanleys (when we all know I don’t need any more). Over the top thoughtful gifts on the gifting occasions. Not only putting up with but encouraging my hobbies. Those things add up. They soften the edges of hard days.
But here’s the part that matters most: being spoiled doesn’t mean I don’t give back.
This isn’t a one-way street where I take and take and call it love. I show up. I carry weight. I contribute. I fight for us. I love loudly and protect fiercely. Being spoiled isn’t about imbalance—it’s about care being mutual and intentional.
I’m spoiled because my marriage is safe.
Safe to be honest. Safe to be imperfect. Safe to grow and change without fear of being punished for it.
If calling myself a spoiled wife makes someone uncomfortable, I’m okay with that. I didn’t stumble into this life by accident. I chose a partner who treats me well, and I choose him back every day.
So yes – I confess.
I’m spoiled.
And I’m incredibly grateful.
Blessings y’all – Amy
