Honest, Slightly Chaotic, Completely Unexpected Story of How I Met My Hubby

Tina's Blossom Life
Jun 30
6 min read

As you already suspect from reading between the trauma lines of my past posts, my childhood was less "Care Teddy Bears" and more "Survivor: Dysfunctional Family Edition."

While most eleven-year-olds were boys learning how to pull a girl's hair to let her know I like her or trade Pokémon cards, I was navigating emotional landmines and making life decisions like I was the CEO of a collapsing startup called My Family. My older brother decided at 16 that it was time to f**k off from home together, because even a rehab center probably had more structure than our home.

But don't worry, this story isn’t about my childhood today, but why I needed this introduction to show you what impact it had on the following years. Today, friends, we're diving into something way spicier: how I met my husband—aka, the man who said, “Yeah, let’s sign up for this rollercoaster without checking the height requirements.”

Starting from The First "Love" (Or Whatever 11-Year-Old Me Thought Love Was)

Before we officially go out of the emotional escape room I called home, I met a boy. Ah yes, the boy. Dramatic music and puberty.

To me, it was love. The kind of all-consuming, sparkly-eyed, overdramatic love that only tweens and soap opera writers truly understand. Because when love happens (doesn't matter how many times), it’s always the real thing. Until it isn’t.

We were together for around seven years. Young people pretending to be adults. That’s half a mortgage. We had breakups, makeups, and the kind of melodrama that would make Shakespeare roll his eyes and say, “Okay, chill.” But when we finally moved in together, the fairy dust wore off faster than a knockoff eyelash in a heatwave.

Three months in, I realized that this wasn’t love. This was shared Wi-Fi. So we broke up—and everyone went their own way.

The Daddy Hunt

After that, I bounced around in what I now fondly call my “Emotional Stability” phase. I wasn’t really looking for love—I was looking for a daddy figure who wouldn’t yell at me over spilled tea. Literally. Someone who wouldn’t tell me what to do.

That wasn't it.

So I packed my bags, moved abroad, and embraced my inner immigrant hustle. I didn’t speak the language, but guess what? I managed. I worked like a caffeinated squirrel on energy drink. I didn’t need anyone—I was a one-woman band: working three jobs, paying rent, emotionally supporting my friends, and still somehow finding time to be the mother of my mother, whom I thought I would save from alcoholism.

But even in all that chaos, something was missing. A partner. A teammate. A person who wouldn’t look at my sarcasm and say, “Are you okay?” but instead say, “You’re insane—and I like it.”

The Era Of Online Dating and Red Flags in Full HD

I uploaded a profile, my best photo, wrote something charming like “I wish someone would stop time for me. Funny, normal girl, emotionally stable-ish,” and prayed no one noticed I had the energy of a raccoon on espresso and a mouth that wouldn't shut up, even when I sleep.

There were a few dates. Oh, and by “dates” I mean live auditions for men who wanted to be my therapist, sugar daddy, or spiritual guide. Some of them deserve their own blog posts. The best and quickest way to get a date to end when I wasn’t interested was to tell them I wanted at least 3 kids, preferably 6, ASAP, before I turned 30.

Then... HE appeared.

His profile photo looked exactly like my type: a little too handsome, suspiciously normal, probably fake. It has to be fake. So when he messaged me, I was like, “Sir, you must’ve clicked the wrong crazy girl.”

But then I felt it. A shiver... Not the "I-have-food-poisoning" shiver, but the kind that hits you when you accidentally start catching feels.

Until—BAM!—I saw his social media. There he was. Arms wrapped around another girl, kissing, smiling. Love is in the air!

So I shut that almost-story down fast. “Thanks for the chat, buddy. I’m allergic to being the third wheel.”

The Update That Changed Everything

He texted for next few days—those pictures were ancient history. She was the ex. Classic “forgot to delete the past before starting the future” moment. Still, I wasn’t falling for it.

I got an apology, this time with updated socials, clearer intentions, and a cabrio Suzuki Vitara that looked like it rolled straight out of a 90s music video or Beverly Hills 90210. I mean, who pulls up in a green convertible? What is this, Grease: Eastern Europe Edition?

Long-distance wasn’t our thing. After just a few weeks, it was like: “Move in or move on.”

So, obviously, I lied and said I bought him a train ticket (I did not), just to speed things up, but he drove his car without a roof 150 miles just to see me (If you have driven even 20 miles on the highway without a roof, you know what a sacrifice it is). Which is either really sweet... or a setup for a Netflix crime documentary.

But there he was, parked in front of me like some budget James Bond, and within hours he said, “You’re going to be my wife.”

Me: laughs in trauma.

Him: “No, I’m serious. We could get married today.”

Me, inside: “Coolcoolcool. So this is either my soulmate or a charming serial killer who will gut me. Let’s find out!”

Time To Move In Together—Or Not At All

As I said, a long distance relationship was out of the question.

Listen, love makes you do weird things. Specially when you're 20 y.o. Like scam your future husband into visiting you faster. Totally normal.

Two months later, I closed my life chapter, packed up my questionable life choices, and moved in with him. And his sister. And her partner. It was basically a reality show with zero privacy and too many opinions.

Even though at the beginning the relationship is crazy and you consume it everywhere and at all hours of the day, we argued, we adjusted, we tried not to break off. Eventually, we got our own place, and just when things got stable—plot twist! He fell for someone else.

Cue emotional collapse. Open-heart surgery without anesthesia. Actually it's not really an operation, it's just tearing the heart out with bare hand.

But here’s the weird part: we didn’t break up. We couldn’t. We were stuck living together, like The Sims with commitment issues. And somehow, in that awkward, painful, brutal space—we fixed it.

We rebuilt. He owned up. I slowed down my 400-hour work month. We became each other’s best friends again. Our new motto?

“Don’t be jealous of other couples. Build a relationship that makes others jealous.”

And damn, we’re doing it.

15 Years, 4 Moves, 4 BMW Later...

This year marks 15 years together, 10 years married, 4 moves, 1 emotional apocalypse, and a love that grows even when we have quiet days (which we apparently haven't had many in our life together).

Do I have a perfect relationship? HELL no. But I have our relationship. Raw, weird, passionate, hilarious, and filled with sarcasm, snacks, and the occasional silent treatment.

As one of my favorite songs says: "A relationship is a fire that requires a lot of work. Love will burn everything, if it is not nurtured, it turns to ashes."

So yeah. We keep the fire burning.

And when it flickers? We pour a little prosecco, crack a joke, kiss each other goodnight and good morning, and keep the damn branch lit.

Moral of the Story: Sometimes love looks like a green convertible, a breakup, an awkward reunion, a lot of sarcasm, and someone who sees all your mess and says, “Yep, still worth it.”

Now excuse me while I go roll my eyes at him lovingly because he can't find something and I know where it is. I have to get up to prove to him that it's there where I said.