Messy Minded Momma

Although January lasted approximately four months, Valentine’s Day is finally here—and I love love. Twenty-eight monster truck valentines signed by a four-year-old (who confidently flips the “d” in his name into a “b”), mini Goldfish snack bags for classmates, roses for teachers, homemade heart-shaped beeswax candles, chocolates (so many chocolates) and Love Is Blind season 10 queued up on Netflix. Love is very much in the air.

So… is love blind?

I’ve gone back and forth on this for years, landing somewhere in the middle. I confidently proclaim love is semi-blind. Not completely blind. Not foolish. Not oblivious. But softened.

Like losing sight in one eye.

You don’t see the exact same way you once did, but you still have depth perception. You can still see what matters: commitment, values, the future. The things that last.

Blind love ignores red flags.

Clear-eyed love hyper-fixates on flaws.

Semi-blind love? It allows grace without sacrificing standards.

My adolescence is a highlight reel of emotionally unavailable “projects.” I turned a blind eye to red flags the size of stadium banners—emotional immaturity, verbal jabs disguised as jokes, break-up mind games, suspected infidelity. I wore rose-coloured glasses like they were prescription. I stayed for who they could be, not who they actually were. I romanticized potential.

Then I met my husband.

By 28, I no longer wanted intensity. I wanted steadiness. I didn’t need butterflies; I needed consistency. We met at a Poison concert (yes, the hair-metal band) and I was busy cat-calling men who looked like they time-traveled from 1989 because that was “my type.” And somehow, I fell for a 6’6”, bearded, blue-collar man with a dad bod and steel-toe boots.

He wasn’t what I thought I wanted. But he was exactly what I needed.

My husband is steady. He’s hardworking. He loves his family fiercely. He will stop at nothing to provide and protect us. And yes—he has flaws. We both do. He leaves cupboard doors open. I leave emotional essays open. He processes externally. I spiral internally. We annoy each other. We misunderstand each other. We are human.

And maybe that’s where love stops being blind and starts being intentional.

Love isn’t ignoring flaws. It isn’t pretending someone is perfect. It isn’t clinging to potential. It’s seeing someone fully—their edges, their history, their baggage, their quirks—and choosing them anyway. Not because they look good on your arm or fit your old “type,” but because they show up. Because they grow. Because you grow together.

The older I get, the less impressed I am by aesthetics and the more drawn I am to character. Attraction shifts. Bodies change. Hair greys (and falls out). Dad bods dad harder. But kindness? Loyalty? Effort? Those age beautifully.

So is love blind?

Maybe at first. Maybe it has to be, just a little, to get us through the awkward beginnings. But lasting love isn’t blind—it’s clear-eyed. It’s mature. It’s choosing to see someone exactly as they are and deciding they’re still your person.

And that kind of vision? That’s clearer than any rose-coloured glasses I ever wore.