From a young age, I found myself enchanted by ghost tales and devoured every Nancy Drew novel in sight. The thrill of being scared while cozily tucked under my dusty rose comforter was an experience like no other. Sure, I may have been a bit too young for such mysteries, but once I discovered R.L. Stine’s Fear Street, there was no going back to the mundane world of Little House on the Prairie. I became engrossed in narratives of betrayal—both emotional and literal. It was astonishing to see how characters could embody such darkness, sparking my curiosity about the human psyche.
There’s a delicate balance between a casual interest in true crime and a full-blown obsession. For instance, my husband might casually catch an episode of Dateline on a Saturday night, provided he stays awake long enough after putting the kids to bed. Meanwhile, I find myself bingeing every show and podcast featuring the words “murder” or “mystery.” It’s no wonder he often hears me exclaim, “I know this one,” which is likely why he struggles to understand my fascination.
This topic, among others, has sparked ongoing disagreements in our home. It’s incredibly frustrating that he can’t see the allure of true crime. Perhaps our differing backgrounds play a role. He grew up as a latchkey kid, while my parents never left me home alone. This contrast might explain our varying levels of concern regarding safety. I tend to be hyper-aware in public spaces, while he walks through life unbothered. He calls it paranoia; I call it being vigilant. But when he uses that term, I feel a surge of anger and defensiveness, insisting that my caution is a means of protecting our family. If he utters “paranoid” one more time, I might just find myself on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries. Just kidding! But when he refers to me as paranoid after I accidentally lock him out of the house, it almost makes me empathize with the women featured on Snapped.
My instinct to lock the front door behind me is second nature, and I refuse to apologize for it. He often reassures me, “But we live in a safe area.” I mentally roll my eyes at the term “safe” since I firmly believe that no place is entirely secure anymore. His retort? “You’re watching too many of those shows.” To which I suggest, “Or maybe you’re not watching enough!”
I wish my husband could understand that my obsession with these gripping stories stems from a desire to keep my family safe—not because I’m some oddball. I simply want to be aware of the bizarre things people do while I’m often wrapped up in the challenges of parenting.
I don’t criticize him for his sports watching habits, which can lead to heightened competitiveness and emotional outbursts. He has his interests, and I have mine; I wouldn’t shame him for not grasping the reason I’m drawn to these real-life narratives. True crime is essentially classic storytelling. It features characters, a traumatic event, unexpected plot twists, climactic moments, and resolutions—unless, of course, we’re discussing cold cases, which can keep me awake at night. I recognize that these “characters” are real people with actual lives, and that’s precisely what captivates me. Both my mother and grandmother shared this love for true crime, so it seems likely that my daughters will inherit this trait, leaving my husband completely outnumbered. Perhaps one day, he’ll come to understand.
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In summary, while my husband may never fully grasp my passion for true crime, it’s a part of who I am that I embrace. From the thrilling narratives to the lessons they impart on vigilance, it’s all woven into the fabric of my life.