They’d Accept Me If I Were a Convict Too

“They’d Accept Me More If I Were a Convict Too”

There’s something tragic about loving someone society says you shouldn’t.

We all remember the story of Romeo and Juliet—two young lovers caught in a world that refused to let them be. Their love was real, but the world around them didn’t care. It wasn’t about what they felt; it was about where they came from. And in the end, their love couldn’t survive the hatred and judgment of others.

I used to think that kind of story only belonged in old plays or dramatic films. But now, I realize how closely it mirrors my own life. The only difference is that in my story, I’m not from a feuding family—I’m just a woman. A college graduate. A mother. A professional with licenses, credentials, and no criminal record to my name. And him? He’s a convict.

Not a monster. Not the villain people want to believe he is. Just a man who made mistakes and paid for them. Who’s now trying to build something real—something honest.

And I fell in love with him.

Not because of a rebellion or some dramatic romanticism, but because of who he is beneath the label. His loyalty. His strength. His heart. His soul. But those qualities don’t matter to the world. Because once someone is stamped with the title “convict,” they become unlovable, unworthy, unacceptable—especially to someone like me.

I’ve learned that society can’t comprehend a clean-cut woman loving a man with a record. It doesn’t fit the narrative. It must mean I’m hiding something, I’m broken, I’m reckless, or I’m being manipulated. Because God forbid a woman who’s built a respectable life chooses someone society has written off. That would mean questioning their assumptions—and most people don’t want to do that.

They’d rather make me a convict too. That way, it all makes sense. Then I become easier to swallow. Because how dare a woman with no criminal background, who raised children, wrote legal documents, served the courts, and built a life of independence—how dare she choose love over optics?

If I were a felon too, it would all be more “understandable.” The whispers would stop. The judgment would soften. Because then I’d be what they expect me to be. A match that “fits.”

But I’m not a convict. I’m not society’s version of a broken woman. I’m just someone who refuses to let labels define love.

And I won’t lie—it’s hard. The weight of being judged. The isolation. The way people dismiss your entire character because of who you love. The way they try to silence your voice, erase your intentions, twist your truth into a story that suits their comfort.

You find yourself in battles you didn’t sign up for—fighting not just for your relationship, but for your right to feel, to choose, to believe in someone others have given up on.

Sometimes I think maybe I was naive. Thinking love could be enough. Thinking character, growth, and redemption were things people still believed in. But the world doesn’t care about those things if you don’t come with the “right” background. And when you stand alone without a support system, no matter how right you are, no matter how truthful your story is, no matter how good your heart is—it’s like going to war without an army.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking: “That’s foolish.” You’re right. It is.

But love has always been foolish, hasn’t it? Just ask Romeo and Juliet.

Maybe that’s the most tragic part of it all—when love is real, but the world won’t accept it unless it comes in a package they can approve of.

Still, I won’t apologize for who I love. I won’t abandon someone I believe in just because society thinks I should. I won’t trade in truth for palatability.

They can try to villainize me. They can try to fit me into a mold that makes their discomfort easier to process. But I know who I am. And I know who he is.

And if this makes me the outsider—so be it. I’d rather live in truth and face the fire than shrink myself to make the world comfortable with my love story.

Some of us weren’t made to be understood. We were made to be real.

With love.

Izzy