The Kind of Love That Doesn’t Make Noise

Growing up, we’re taught to believe love should be loud.

We hear it in fairy tales, see it in movies, and feel it in the advice that gets passed down like sacred tradition:
“Wait for the man who brings you flowers.”
“Wait for the man who can spoil you.”
“Wait for the man who showers you in gifts.”

And for a while, I believed that.

I believed that love came wrapped in red roses and fancy dinners. That its proof lay in Instagram-worthy gestures — diamond necklaces, surprise getaways, handwritten notes, and big declarations.

But life, as it often does, taught me a different kind of love.

A quieter love.

The kind that doesn’t show up with fanfare. The kind that doesn’t need an audience. The kind that moves gently — like a whisper, like a hand quietly reaching for yours when no one else is looking.

I didn’t marry the man who brings me flowers on random Tuesdays.
I didn’t marry the man who showers me with diamonds and luxury cars.
I didn’t marry the man who posts long paragraphs about me online.

I married the man who holds my hand in silence while I fight battles in my own mind.

This morning, I had an anxiety attack.

It came out of nowhere, though truthfully, anxiety rarely sends a warning. It just shows up — uninvited and unrelenting. The familiar tightness in my chest. The shallow breaths. The racing thoughts. The sense that the world is suddenly closing in.

Thankfully, my husband was home.

As we were driving, the spiral began. My breathing grew rapid. My stomach churned. My hands began to sweat. My mind blurred, desperately trying to anchor to something solid.

He noticed — like he always does.

Without a word, he reached across the console and gently took my hand. No questions. No panic. Just presence.

I focused on what I could. The feel of the wind brushing past the windows. The smell of freshly cut grass in the air. The texture of the leather seat under my palm.

“Just breathe, babe,” he whispered, keeping his voice calm, grounded. Like a lighthouse in the fog.

When we pulled into the driveway, I felt a bit of that storm subside — not fully, but enough to know I was okay. Still, I wasn’t ready to move. I didn’t want to go inside. I needed a moment. A pause. A breath that wasn’t rushed or forced.

He didn’t ask why.

He didn’t say, “Let’s go, come on.”

Instead, he opened his phone, pulled up a calming video on YouTube, and sat there — holding my hand — in the heat of the car, with the engine off and the world quiet around us.

We stayed like that for nearly twenty minutes. Just sitting. Just breathing. Just being.

Then, he softly asked, “Are you ready to go inside now?”

And I nodded. Because he gave me the one thing anxiety never does: space to feel without pressure.

That moment may not seem romantic to some. It wasn’t dramatic or glamorous. It wasn’t a scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie. But to me, it was everything.

Because that’s love.

Love isn’t always about flowers and jewelry and sweet texts at lunch.

Sometimes, love is about staying in the car with someone while they try to find their way back to themselves.

Sometimes, love is being the calm when the other person is chaos.

It’s holding their hand through the noise, and still choosing not to say a word.

Growing up, no one told me to wait for that kind of man.

They told me to wait for the one who could provide.
The one who looked good on paper.
The one with the big career and the even bigger gestures.

But I’m so grateful I waited for someone different.

I waited for the man who helps me wash my hair when my mental health won’t let me do it on my own.

I waited for the man who stays up with me in the middle of the night, listening to my rambling, anxious thoughts, without ever telling me I’m too much.

I waited for the man who sees all the parts of me — the shining, the shadowed, the soft, the scared — and still chooses me, every single time.

He doesn’t try to fix me. He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t shame me for what I feel.

He simply stays.

And in a world that tells us to seek out extravagance, to look for the loudest version of love, I’m here to tell you something different:

Sometimes the loudest love is the one that never raises its voice.

It’s the one that sits beside you in a parked car.
The one that waits for your breath to return.
The one that doesn’t ask for attention or applause.

It’s the love that exists in the quiet.

I didn’t wait for the man who made a fortune — I waited for the man who wanted to build a future with me.

I didn’t wait for the man who bragged about his devotion — I waited for the man who quietly proved it, day after day, moment after moment.

He may not bring home bouquets, but he brings peace.
He may not buy expensive rings, but he offers unwavering presence.
He may not post long captions, but he shows up — every single time I need him most.

So no, I didn’t marry the man who always buys me flowers.

I married the man who sits beside me in a hot car, without a single word, and holds my hand while I find my way back to peace.

And to me, that’s the kind of love worth waiting for.

❤️