I try to be the best husband I can be, and if people respect

On the Imperfect Perfection of Love and the Noble Struggle of Devotion

When Nick Lachey said, “I try to be the best husband I can be, and if people respect that, that’s cool. But there’s no ‘perfect husband.’ We just all try to do the best we can, you know what I mean?” he spoke words of quiet humility — words that, though simple, are born of a wisdom as old as the human heart itself. For in every age, men and women have sought to master the art of love, and in every age they have discovered the same truth: that love is not a state of perfection, but a practice of persistence.

To “try to be the best husband” is not to achieve flawlessness, but to enter into a lifelong vow of effort — a sacred labor. The ancients knew this, though they spoke not of marriage in the modern sense, but of harmony between souls. They taught that every bond, whether between friends, lovers, or kin, must be tended as a flame: sometimes bright, sometimes dim, yet always alive through care and humility. Lachey’s words echo that timeless teaching — that no one is perfect in love, but all can be sincere. To love truly is not to never fail, but to rise again each day with the will to try once more.

There is a quiet nobility in that striving. The man who seeks to be a “perfect husband” chases a mirage, for perfection belongs only to the gods. But the man who seeks to be present, to listen, to forgive, and to grow, becomes something far greater — he becomes real. Love, after all, is not built upon grand gestures alone, but upon daily acts of patience, kindness, and endurance. The Greeks had a word for this steady devotion: philia — love as friendship, love as work, love as the slow and enduring cultivation of the soul.

Consider the story of Odysseus and Penelope, whose tale endures not because of passion’s fire, but because of loyalty’s flame. For twenty years, Odysseus wandered across storm and sea, tempted by sirens and goddesses, yet always striving to return home. Penelope, in turn, waited not in idleness, but in strength, holding her household together through faith and wisdom. Their union was not perfect — it was tested, flawed, human — yet in that very imperfection lay its immortality. They represent what Lachey’s words suggest: that in love, doing one’s best is the greatest perfection one can achieve.

When Nick Lachey speaks of being “respected” for trying, he reveals another truth — that love is not a performance for the eyes of others, but a private covenant between hearts. The world admires appearances, but love lives in the unseen — in the quiet apology, the hand held after an argument, the courage to stay when walking away would be easier. Respect that comes from the outside means little compared to the respect earned within the bond itself. For the true victory in love is not public praise, but private peace.

And yet, even as we strive, we stumble. There are days when pride overshadows patience, when words wound, when tempers flare. But here lies the heart of Lachey’s wisdom: that love is not measured by our failures, but by our return. The one who admits fault, who forgives, who keeps trying, proves a courage greater than perfection. For to love imperfectly but earnestly is to live truthfully — and truth, not flawlessness, is the foundation of lasting union.

Let this be the lesson: seek not to be perfect, but to be faithful — faithful in effort, in compassion, in growth. Remember that love is not a finish line, but a journey of many steps. Each act of kindness, each moment of humility, each honest attempt to understand is a victory. When you fall short, rise gently. When your partner falters, offer grace. For in the mutual striving of two imperfect souls lies a beauty that even perfection cannot match.

Thus, in the simple confession of Nick Lachey — “we just all try to do the best we can” — lies an ancient truth for every generation: that love endures not because it is flawless, but because it is forgiving. The gods may dwell in perfection, but humanity dwells in devotion — and it is through that devotion, flawed yet steadfast, that we find the divine hidden in our own hearts.