The Problem With Finally Meeting A Nice Guy

I used to say I “just want a nice guy”. Someone kind, someone steady. Someone who replied to texts within a reasonable time frame and didn’t make me feel like I was trying to win an Olympic medal in emotional gymnastics just to earn their affection.

But let’s be honest: I didn’t actually know what a real nice guy looked like.

I’d dated men who claimed to be ‘one of the good ones’; the soft boys in linen shirts who would cook you their mum’s Shepherd’s Pie and use just enough therapy vocabulary to be dangerous. In short, they were wolves in golden retriever clothing. I believed them when they told me they were different, that their last relationship ended because, in their words, ‘they wanted different things’ or ‘she didn’t understand me the way you do’. (She probably did, and she probably just wanted commitment.)

So, when I finally met my partner Ned, an actual nice guy — one who doesn’t say he’s kind, but instead, shows it in everything he does — I didn’t fall into his arms. Actually, I flinched.

It was like looking into a bright light after years in the dark and it forced me to take a good, long look at myself.

It seems, I’d spent so long surviving mediocre men that I didn’t notice how much armour I’d started wearing. My default setting was ‘guarded but charming’, while my love language was ‘proving I don’t need you’. I had all the receipts for every emotional injustice ever served to me, and I carried them like merit badges: Exhibit A, the narcissist. Exhibit B, the liar. Exhibit C, the chronic avoidant who told me he didn’t believe in labels (three weeks after introducing me to his parents).

I played the role of the martyr well. The girl who always tried, always gave more, always walked away with nothing but a sad playlist and enough ammunition for a two-part podcast episode. And while, yes, most of those men were trash adjacent — Ned made me realise that I wasn’t exactly a dream to date anymore, either.

Image: Courtesy of Tully Smyth

The damage was subtle, but it was there. In the way I braced for disappointment. In how I’d test him, unconsciously dropping little emotional landmines just to see if he’d step on them. In the voice in my head that whispered, don’t get too comfortable, sweetheart.

But he stayed steady. He showed up.

Ned remembered the little things I said in passing and brought them up weeks later — not to impress me, but because he genuinely listened. He laughed at my jokes, but called me out when I was being mean (usually to myself). He didn’t try to fix me, but he made space for me to fix myself.

And somewhere along the line, I realised Ned wasn’t just this (sadly) rare unicorn of a partner. He was also a mirror, and one showed me a version of myself that I didn’t always love.

Because when someone treats you well, you start to notice all the ways you don’t quite know how to receive it. All the ways you’ve learned to anticipate hurt. All the habits you’ve developed to protect yourself and all the ones that start to look suspiciously like self-sabotage.

So I went to work.

Not the kind of work that’s cute and shareable. Not the bath bomb and rose quartz crystal kind… I mean the hard, confronting work. Therapy sessions where I had to unlearn some of my best defences. Late-night reflections that made me cringe. Real conversations with Ned where I had to admit that sometimes, I was the problem.

I had to unpack why I felt so uncomfortable with stability, so suspicious of kindness. I had to ask myself why I put my porcupine spines up when he tried to care for me. I had to relearn what love looks like when it’s not earned through struggle or chaos, but rather, just given freely and without expectation.

Because that’s the thing no one tells you: when you finally meet the right person, it doesn’t magically erase all the wrong ones. If anything, it shines a light on just how deeply they’ve shaped you. Damaged you. The bruises may have faded, but the scars? They run deeper than you realised.

But here’s the beauty in that, too. Being with someone good doesn’t just reveal your broken bits; it gives you the space to heal them. With Ned, I don’t feel like I’m auditioning or like I have to shrink myself or mould my personality into something more palatable. I’m not chasing crumbs or decoding cryptic text messages, and I’m definitely not begging the universe for a sign he cares. Because he just does. And that’s wildly disarming —but also wildly liberating.

We talk about what we want. We dream about our future, considering together how many kids and golden retrievers we think we can handle. We laugh about the weird things we both do (him: making up love songs to sing to the dog, me: walking around with a hot wheat bag down my pants 24/7).

He makes me feel safe, and in that safety, I’ve found the courage to finally set down some of the emotional luggage I was convinced I’d be hauling around forever. The kind that’s been weighing me down for years, costing me a fortune in metaphorical excess baggage fees.

Image: Courtesy of Tully Smyth

That’s not to say it’s all perfect. Growth is messy. Sometimes I still get defensive over the smallest things because even a gentle question can feel like an attack when you’re used to bracing for battle. I still fall into old habits, like insisting on doing everything myself or spiralling over something that doesn’t really matter.

But I catch myself faster now. I apologise more. I explain where I’m coming from instead of expecting him to read my mind.

Because that’s what you do when you’re finally dating someone who’s not just nice, but good. Someone who has a pure soul, ginormous heart, patience of a saint and the best of intentions.

You grow.

And you try, every day, to be as good to them as they are to you.

So, to the women still sifting through the wastemen, still wondering if they’re asking for too much: you’re not. But when you do meet him — the real one — be ready to meet yourself, too.