As I sat sipping my coffee one morning, a random thought struck me: why are there so few stores dedicated to selling beads? It’s baffling that in a city overflowing with shops selling e-cigarettes and artisanal coffee, finding a quality polymer-coated glass bead is like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Now, let me clarify—I’ve never actually dabbled in beading. Crafting isn’t really my thing. Yet, before I knew it, I found myself fixated on the idea of starting an artisanal bead shop. Yes, a bead shop became my low point, my silent cry for help.
I’m a writer, husband, and father of three, but during those surreal weeks when I was plotting my imaginary bead empire, I felt lost. My career has included stints as a journalist, author, speechwriter, web developer, and music supervisor. Like many men in their 40s, I had taken my mother’s feminist advice to heart, following my passions but often drifting from one unfulfilling creative endeavor to the next.
In stark contrast, my partner, Sarah, has been a powerhouse in the television industry since graduating college. She’s consistently crafted scripts and built a robust career. After several short-lived jobs and failed projects, she hit it big with a popular show on a major network. As her career skyrocketed, my financial contribution became negligible.
Like many partners of successful women, I took a step back. I became the domestic engineer—managing carpools, home repairs, and travel plans. I became involved at the kids’ school and committed to our family’s health and fitness. I spent countless mornings at a café with a small group of men whose wives outshone them in income and public recognition. I dubbed us the “Supportive Spouses,” a nod to the fine print on invitations addressed to our partners.
While I enjoyed my time at home with the kids, I couldn’t escape my insecurities. Filling out insurance forms marked “primary cardholder” made me uneasy. I experienced odd bursts of aggression—like the time I sped off in the minivan or leapt off a rooftop into a pool.
That’s when my sudden fascination with beading emerged.
Fortunately, I snapped out of it. I’m not sure what triggered this change—a conversation with my more rational partner, perhaps? I can picture her raising an eyebrow, using just the right tone. Whatever the catalyst, I realized that my imagined bead shop would likely become the saddest little store ever. Eventually, I would come to understand that I didn’t really care for beads or beading. My idea had been a misguided attempt to create a more exciting narrative for myself at social gatherings.
Instead, I returned to writing—not from desperation but from the exhilarating feeling of uncovering a story that needed to be told. I began exploring themes of male caretakers and female breadwinners, delving into the experiences of men who embrace domestic roles while their partners bring home the bacon.
For the first time, I wrote without any assigned task or editorial oversight. It was both terrifying and liberating. I started with real-life events but soon ventured beyond my own narrative, exploring the tumultuous emotions that accompany being a stay-at-home dad. My fictional protagonist mirrored my struggles but acted out on all his worst instincts—betraying his wife, neglecting his children, and engaging in behavior best left unmentioned.
In essence, I confronted my midlife crisis through writing, steering clear of the typical paths of self-destruction. As I navigated my way through this creative process, I found myself feeling more fulfilled.
Now that my novel is published, I’ve returned to my supportive role at home, allowing my partner to excel in her career. I wish I could say I’ve resolved all my insecurities, but the truth is, I still experience bouts of masculine anxiety. There are moments when I feel embarrassed that my partner carries the financial burden. While I understand that my contributions at home matter, I sometimes feel a knot in my stomach when my daily achievements include managing carpools and meal planning.
Nora Ephron aptly described this struggle decades ago, noting that despite societal progress, men and women still carry “dreadfully unliberated” fantasies. She illustrated how these lingering societal norms can lead to frustration when expectations aren’t met.
However, I’ve found a newfound sense of happiness and security in my role as a caregiver. I’ve realized that no one should feel diminished for looking after their family; support spouses often feel overlooked, especially men in this position.
I could spiral into frustration over my unfulfilled expectations of masculinity, but I remind myself of my three wonderful children and an incredible partner. I find myself riding shotgun in a fast-paced life led by a remarkable woman.
In moments of clarity, I recognize that I shouldn’t measure my worth against my partner’s success. It’s not just about her status as a breadwinner; she is my soulmate, the person I’m destined to share my life with. Holding her purse can be challenging, but when we enjoy Vietnamese pho on weekends, I embrace the way our lives intertwine. Although I may identify as a supportive spouse, there’s genuinely no one I’d rather be alongside.
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In summary, embracing my role as a supportive partner has been a journey of self-discovery, filled with ups and downs but ultimately rewarding.
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