This year, I ran an experiment.

Not a vision board.

Not a cleanse.

An experiment.

I stopped managing my husband.

Before anyone calls the authorities this wasn’t punishment. This was growth. He genuinely wants to help. He’s eager. He volunteers. He asks what he can do.

So I handed over tasks.

And then I did something radical.

I shut up and watched.

That’s when I learned something important.

Men don’t need less instruction.

They need more context than they think they do, and less confidence than they currently have.

Let me explain.

He assembled furniture.

Bunk beds, specifically.

Parts laid out. Instructions unfolded. Confidence activated.

I stood silently while he installed multiple pieces backwards. I saw it. I clocked it. I said nothing. I told myself this was growth. This was restraint. This was me not being that wife.

Step three was skipped because it “looked fine.”

It was not fine.

By the time the ladder leaned like it had trust issues and the guardrail felt emotionally optional, there were leftover bolts that definitely belonged somewhere important.

The beds technically stood.

Then he gave me that look and well…

I spent the next two hours undoing things, quietly reversing planks, flipping boards, tightening bolts, all while honoring my commitment to silence and questioning every new years resolution that led me here.

The bunk beds are now solid. Safe. Correct.

The furniture worked.

The experiment did not.

The silence cost me time, sanity, and a small fragment of my soul.

Next task: putting away Christmas décor. Three rooms. I asked if I could help.

“No, I’ve got it.”

A week later, I checked.

There were still Christmas items in those rooms.

Not hidden.

Not forgotten deeply.

Just… existing. Casually. Like seasonal squatters.

Here’s the thing: this isn’t laziness. It’s not weaponized incompetence. It’s not malicious.

It’s absence of repetition.

He doesn’t do these things all the time. I do.

Which means while he’s completing a task, I’m running a live mental spreadsheet that includes:

• kids

• homeschool

• business calls

• animals

• dinner

• appointments

• and an author career I’m launching in the cracks of my sanity

So yes, I need the cups exactly where they belong.

Not because I’m controlling.

But because when I’m grading worksheets, holding my phone on my shoulder, listening to job details, and my three-year-old is screaming that she needs milk right now because her legs are broken and she’s going to die (her words), I do not have time to:

• look for the cup

• climb a ladder

• or mentally recalibrate my day

Sometimes you teach patience.

Sometimes you survive.

If you’re not the default parent, things can be done good enough.

When you are the default parent, “good enough” is how days derail, nights stretch longer, and women end up crying in pantries.

Delegating is hard when the person you’re delegating to is standing on his shoes asking where his shoes are.

Or insisting we’re out of hamburger meat while six pounds sit quietly behind a frozen pizza.

And before anyone says, “Just let it go” I’ve tried.

I let go.

I watched.

What I learned is this:

What looks like nagging is often systems maintenance.

What looks like control is efficiency built from exhaustion.

What looks like micromanaging is a woman protecting future her.

So no, I’m not controlling.

I’m preventing a series of avoidable breakdowns that begin with:

“Where did you put…”

and end with:

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Is this a man thing? Probably.

Is it part of our punishment from Eden?

Maybe.

But for the record, I don’t even like apples.

I wouldn’t have taken one.

Just saying.

A Love Letter to the Husbands Who Are Actually Trying

And before this turns into a comment section battlefield, let me be clear:

This isn’t a hit piece.

This is written because I married a good man.

A man who shows up.

A man who wants to help.

A man who will absolutely move mountains…

and then forget where he set them down.

The effort matters. It really does.

The willingness to ask, to learn, to take things on, even imperfectly, matters more than perfection ever could. The fact that he tries is the reason I can laugh instead of scream. The fact that he cares is why this is funny and not bitter.

And honestly? The world told men for a very long time that this stuff wasn’t theirs to carry. They weren’t trained for it. They weren’t socialized into it. Most of them didn’t grow up watching systems run quietly in the background the way women did.

So when a husband steps in and says, “I’ve got this,” even if “this” ends with pink carpet, questionable bunk beds  or leftover Christmas décor, it still counts.

We don’t need perfection.

We don’t need mind-reading.

We don’t even need it done our way every time.

What we need is partnership.

Grace.

And maybe a little less confidence and a little more asking, “Is there a reason you do it that way?”

Because there usually is.

And if we sometimes come off controlling, intense, or deeply unchill it’s  not because we don’t trust you.

It’s because we’ve been holding the whole damn map for a long time.

We love you.

We appreciate you.

And we promise when the cup is where it belongs we’re actually pretty fun.

If loving my husband means I still label shelves, rebuild beds , and know exactly where the cups live then fine. I’ll be ‘controlling.’ But at least nobody’s crying in the pantry over a missing sippy cup