Confessions of a Housewife

The idol I didn't see coming.

For the one who saw it first.

They’re finally asleep. I quietly get up from the bed. My son was in bed by 8:30 pm. My husband was usually rolled over and asleep by 9 or 9:30 pm. The earlier the better. That meant more viewer time for me.

I tiptoe. Grab my robe. Phone flashlight to guide me. I close the door. I sneak down the hall to my grail. The couch. I’d been waiting all day to get to it. I had to stay on top of the recordings so I could keep up with the culture. I couldn’t open Instagram yet. I had to watch first. No spoilers. Friends knew not to text until we confirmed all were caught up.

I grab the remote. I cozy up with my blanket. I hit play. I lean back. Deep sigh.

The moment I’d waited all day for was finally here.

My Housewives. My Bravo content. If it was on Bravo, I watched it. I called it my light-hearted guilty pleasure. A soft framing of a pop culture phenomenon that wasn’t just watching.

It was religion.

The toxic shade. The adrenaline rush. The pupil dilation. The interwoven storylines that continued through multiple seasons.

It was loyalty.

Confrontation I didn’t have in real life. Taking sides. The scene I couldn’t wait to bring to dinner. BravoCon plans. Podcast drops, to see if my takeaways aligned with the professionals.

It was an exclusive club.

If you know, you know. When the gold line dropped in pop culture, it was a connection.

“Who gon’ check me boo?”

The same way you see a stranger wearing your favorite team’s hat and feel an instant kinship. Yeah. That was real for me too.

These are my people. I knew them. I defended them. I had their back. It was real. It was more than just casual watching.

This was worship.

It was the guilty pleasure I’d speak of, but most didn’t know how deep it went.

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My husband hated it. I’d remind him that this is the soap opera of my generation. His mom watched Dynasty. I watched Housewives.

He called it my wrestling.

I couldn’t have it on around him because I couldn’t stand the snicker and snide remarks he’d make about my housewives. I had to defend them.

Frustration.

I finally gave up. I had to watch alone.

He called the show Beep Beep.

He couldn’t stand every other word being beeped out due to profanity. It was like nails on a chalkboard to him. For me, I had never noticed until he pointed it out. It still didn’t bother me. That’s what subtitles were for.

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At this point you might be rolling your eyes. You may be jumping ship. Housewives may not land for you. This piece may not be for everyone.

Fill in the blank. Whatever it is that gives you that fix you’re eagerly seeking. Maybe in secret. Maybe hiding in plain sight. We all have it. Or had it at one time. Do you skip church on Sunday to watch football?

This was my religion. This was my sports. My play-by-play. My BravoCon. My late night by myself. My Andy Cohen. The person I watched every night. The people I looked up to. The people I wanted to meet.

My fix. My companion. My idol. My replacement.

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Summer. 2025.

Until one day it didn’t hit quite right. The normal in-scene of screaming across the dinner table was no longer giving me the thrill I so eagerly sought after.

The very thing that rewarded me after a long day of work, homework, packed lunches, and cleaning was my Bravo.

What is this? I don’t normally feel this way when I’m watching the very thing I live for.

So I pushed through. Maybe it’s just a down week. A slump in the show.

It wasn’t.

The more I chased the feeling, the worse and more disappointed I became. The fighting began to repel me. My facial expression went from satisfaction to disgust. It was no longer my escape.

Nothing. No fix. No adrenaline rush. No feeling. No content.

Ugh no.

Not my house.

So I decided to see if I could give it up for a week. I knew my husband would be happy. But what would I tell my friends next time I saw them and they couldn’t wait to catch up with me on all the storylines? Would they judge me? Get mad? Or worse, would they be disappointed?

In the back of my mind it was a real possibility. But I couldn’t ignore that this was no longer sitting right in my spirit.

Am I ready to let this go? This was a 20-year commitment.

I decided to see if I could go a week. Still recorded. But no watching.

I never went back.

I stopped the recordings. I unfollowed the podcasts and Instagram accounts. I told my friends. They loved me anyways.

I didn’t replace it with other late night TV.

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I had heard of conviction for sin. I only ever considered it to be the obvious ones. Like my addictions. Recovery carried me for many years. When the Higher Power from those rooms finally had a name, I thought that was it. I didn’t know more change was coming. I had certainly never looked at my reality TV as anything but entertainment.

At the time I didn’t understand.

In the spring, I’d watched a movie trailer with my son and felt the true weight of grace. What Jesus had died for. To save an undeserving person like me. I didn’t realize that was the start of something I wouldn’t have a name for until months later.

Sanctification.

A term I didn’t know.

The four years prior, I’d stepped into the church for the first time. I was baptized. I went to church on Sunday. I showed up to weekly Bible study. I was doing everything I thought I was supposed to and doing it well. Nothing within me had really begun to change until that moment of grace.

A few months later, the slow stripping of interests began to fall away.

This was a turn in my walk I didn’t see coming. I didn’t ask for it. It just happened.

This was the first.

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I’m still slipping away when the house goes quiet. But now it’s to be with Him.

From living room couch to prayer room on the floor.

Now when my husband walks past my office and the door’s closed, he asks me about it the next day. What are you doing in there with the door closed?

Praying. Duh.

The craving never left. The object changed.

From drugs to Bravo, it was Him the whole time.

- No one is too lost to be saved