The passing of Charlie Kirk hit me harder than I expected. I didn’t know the man, never met him, barely followed his work, but I caught those fiery debates of his online. I didn’t agree with everything he said, but I respected his conviction. The man could stand in a storm of opinions and not flinch.
That’s rare.
One thing Charlie said stuck with me: a man should always protect and provide. He’d argue that a man should always pay for dinner, always. No 50/50, no split checks. It sounded almost romantic… until I asked myself why I disagreed.
Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone just take care of it once in a while? Sure. But the truth is, every time a man “took care of me,” the invisible receipt showed up later—in control, in attitude, in the quiet sense that I owed him.
Maybe that’s why independence became my oxygen.
I’m not your average “lady.”
I’m an alpha-male trapped in stilettos.
I’m the one loading the van, fixing the lights, pulling the trailer, signing the checks, and making sure the circus rolls on. Not because I crave control, but because someone has to. If others slack, I step in. I’m not waiting for permission.
Still, I wonder. What would it feel like to have someone cover your blind side, just once?
Driving home from our St. Louis show, that thought lingered like road dust. The boys peeled off to other gigs while I stayed back, knee-deep in cables and chaos. They’d already helped more than they should have, but this ball was mine to spike. You can’t live your life expecting rescue. Sometimes you are the rescue.
Then life gave me a few “husbands” in disguise.
At the DMV, nine hours of bureaucratic hell, a team member leaned in and said, “Read between the lines.” Translation: There’s a back door, sweetheart. His quiet mercy got me my complicated tags to my trailer.
My elderly, handicapped father drove nine hours to Kansas City just to help me haul gear. He did more than most men half his age. Another husband in disguise.
After the long drive, he didn’t rest. He stayed up for hours hanging drapes and setting up the pipe and drape system that framed our entire show. He blew up beach balls for props, laminated VIP passes until his hands hurt, and helped hang chandeliers that threw gold light across the velvet. He rolled out rugs and carpets to make the space look like something out of a dream.
Every detail he touched carried his quiet strength. He wasn’t just helping, he was building the magic with me.
And then there was Keenan.
A security guard who saw me struggling and didn’t leave my side for his entire shift. I asked for garbage bags; he showed up with ten. I asked for an extra box, and he brought five. I kept asking if he’d get in trouble for helping me while I was having what I’ll generously call an ugly-girl meltdown in the vacant ballroom we’d played the night before. Mascara rivers. Snot. The works. He handed me a napkin, no judgment. Then he helped me roll up massive carpets I couldn’t budge alone, stacked gear on carts, and even lifted my father back to his feet after he fell trying to catch a wobbling case. Later, Keenan guided me as I backed up the bus to hitch the trailer, kneeling in the dark, his phone light steady like a lighthouse beam. Dust and rust blasted my face, but together we got it done.
He told me he had six kids and a wife at home. The man was tired, humble, and still out there showing up for strangers. Quiet. Steady. Present. The kind of energy that says, I’ve got you, without needing a medal for it.
That’s what a protector looks like.
Later, I missed a turn and ended up on a nine-mile gravel road in the middle of nowhere. My nerves cracked. I called my best friend from college, just to hear a familiar voice. We laughed until he wheezed. Then he sent me a Venmo with a note: Get a hotel. Rest.
Another “husband.”
Cheers to the real ones. The men who show up quietly. Who carry, fix, protect, and never need credit. You’re seen.
But this is also for the women who don’t have one of those. The widows. The divorced. The single warriors with too many cats and too much grit. Because at the end of the day, I’m my own husband.
I can tow it, tag it, build it, or burn it down. I can cry, then chuckle, then climb back behind the wheel. I can be soft, and I can be steel.
And so can you.
To every man doing his job, thank you.
To every woman doing it all, cheers.
Because being alone isn’t a tragedy. It’s a superpower.
And I’ll keep using mine until the wheels fall off.
#GoldyKnows
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