by Erika Matic – on kindness, emotional availability, and a man who keeps raising the bar without being asked
Tomorrow, my husband turns 41.
This feels important to mention, because if you’ve met him, you might assume he’s either 35 or 72, depending entirely on the context.
Physically? Offensively well-preserved.
Energetically? Up at 4:30 a.m., like a man who has signed a personal blood pact with productivity.
Emotionally? Disturbingly mature.
Meanwhile, I wake up at 6:30, immediately feed the cats (who believe I am their employee), and start my day in a state best described as awake but unconvinced.
He asks how I slept. This is not a rhetorical question.
And then he goes on being exactly who he has always been: inconveniently kind, deeply decent, and emotionally available in a way that still feels like a scam.
Because nobody warned me men like this existed.
The Man I Was Not Prepared For
When we met, I had realistic expectations of men. Low, but realistic.
I was prepared for emotional minimalism. Selective listening. Communication that required subtitles. I assumed “talking things through” meant eventually admitting something after three days of silence.
Instead, I got Vedran.
A man who wanted to talk.
- About feelings.
- About experiences.
- About why things mattered.
Consistently.
Without being cornered.
I remember thinking: This must be temporary. He’ll relax eventually. He’ll stop asking follow-up questions.
He did not.
The Early Red Flags (That Were Actually Just Flags)
There were signs, of course, that this man was not standard issue. Three months into dating, he put a dandelion in my mouth.
Not metaphorically.
Not symbolically.
A real dandelion.
From the ground.
This should have been my exit cue.
Instead, I stayed – because apparently my survival instincts shut down around men who are handsome, gentle, and deeply unserious at exactly the wrong moments.
And yes, he was (and still is) waaaay too good-looking for someone this emotionally evolved. It feels excessive. Like the universe could have corrected for balance.
A little emotional unavailability.
Some commitment issues.
A fear of vulnerability.
But no.
The Long Con: Being a Good Man
What I didn’t realise back then was that Vedran was playing the long game.
Not the flashy kind.
The quiet kind.
The kind where you show up.
Every day.
Without applause.
He was there when things were easy, and somehow more there when they weren’t. He listened without fixing. Supported without keeping score. Believed in me – long before I fully believed in myself.
Almost ten years later, he is even better.
Which feels suspicious.
He puts me and our daughter first without announcements, sacrifices without drama, and love without conditions. He is the kind of father who kneels to listen, who explains instead of commands, who treats our child like a person instead of a responsibility.
(Yes, the cats occasionally share the throne. I feed them. They adore him. Naturally.)
Conflict, or: Why He’s Annoyingly Good at Marriage
We fight. Obviously.
We’re married.
We’re tired.
We have opinions.
The difference is this: he is always the first one to come knocking.
Not to win.
Not to dominate.
Not to rehearse his closing argument.
But to reconnect.
He is better at conflict than I am, which is deeply unfair because I am very articulate and emotionally expressive and enjoy a well-structured point.
Still, he chooses repair over pride. Relationship over ego. Love over silence.
It’s infuriating.
And rare.
A Man of Great Intelligence (With Strategic Blind Spots)
Vedran is one of the smartest people I know.
He solves problems intuitively. Thinks clearly. Reads people effortlessly.
- He does not know who the president of Croatia is.
- He does not know what is happening in the world.
- He could not identify a global crisis unless it asked him directly for help.
And yet – he knows exactly what matters.
- Family.
- Friends.
- Living well.
- Being decent.
He doesn’t perform awareness. He practices presence.
While others argue loudly about everything, he quietly takes care of the people he loves.
Board Games, Aging, and Radical Joy
Vedran loves board games.
Openly.
Earnestly.
At 41.
While life narrows, friendships thin out, and adulthood insists we should become less enthusiastic – he remains the first to try something new.
A new game.
A new idea.
A new version of life.
He doesn’t shrink as the world tightens. He stays curious.
And when my day gets heavy, when I spiral, overthink, or quietly fall apart – he does everything in his power to make it lighter.
Not because he has to.
But because he wants to.
The Part Where I Stop Joking
Here’s the truth underneath the satire:
Vedran is one of a kind.
- Not because he’s perfect.
- Not because we agree on everything.
- Not because we share all interests, worldviews, or board game enthusiasm.
But because he chooses us.
Every single day.
He is the first person I want to see when I wake up.
The last one I see when I go to bed.
He is my calm in a loud world.
My proof that love can be gentle without being dull.
Deep without being dramatic.
Strong without being hard.
Tomorrow, he turns 41.
And I would choose him again – at 31, at 41, at 81 – even though he is eight years older than me and will absolutely use that fact to justify being “wiser” in arguments.
Because a life with him isn’t loud, flashy, or perfect.
It’s better.
It’s safe.
It’s honest.
It’s full of laughter, effort, repair, and the quiet miracle of being loved well.
So happy birthday, my love.
Thank you for being yourself.
For being ours.
For proving that the best men aren’t the loudest, the most impressive, or the most informed – but the ones who stay, care, and keep choosing love when no one is watching.
The world may not fully notice you.
But we do.
And we always will.
Erika Matic writes about love, partnership, and the deeply underrated art of choosing kindness every day. She believes emotional availability should be standard, not exceptional – and that board games are, regrettably, forever.
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