The 3rd Time is the Charm.
Today’s newsletter is about Hubs3 — yes, my husband, Gregory, is number three — the man who taught me poker, patience, and how to age out loud without backing down.
It’s part love story, part war story, and all-in truth.
Let’s get to it.
“I’m an 80-year-old pussy, and proud of it.”
From across the room, that’s what Hubs3 said, stone-faced.
He paused just long enough for me to brace myself, then added:
“It takes balls to say that out loud.”
And just like that. Humor, truth, and courage all showed up at once.
Softness as Strength
Caregiving is exhausting for family, but Hubs3 is my soul mate. He's always put me first, and now he feels guilty needing care… sometimes 24/7.
He's 5’3” to my 6’5”, my mini-me. My Jack Russell to his Great Dane. We're different but deeply aligned.
He’s been my coach’s coach for decades. My writing muse. He still shows up quietly to my Zoom trainings, with the camera off and notebook in hand.
And he never gives up. Never! It must be in his DNA.
In the 1970s, he applied to Xerox, again and again, even without a college degree, which they required. After weeks of “No. No. And NO!” they finally hired him on a trial basis.
Within a year, he was Xerox’s #1 national salesman.
Now at 80, he embodies something entirely different: vulnerability as strength. He’s not pretending, hiding, or trying to make aging more palatable. He’s announcing exactly who he is… with humor and honesty.
To call yourself a pussy — something society wrongly equates with weakness — takes guts.
He’s redefining what bravery looks like, reclaiming tenderness, and daring to be fully, unapologetically himself.
From Brick House to Bold Wisdom
He even chose the song “Brick House” by The Commodores as my personal anthem, insisting it perfectly captures my energy.
It’s much different than the romantic love ballad you’d expect, but that’s the point. It’s bold, playful, and uniquely ours.
“She's a brick house…” I’ll buy into that!
Now, he’s out of his physical comfort zone, but his emotional and spiritual strength still packs a punch.
As I grow older with him, I'm reminded to stop resisting change. Embrace change fiercely and with joy.
Depth in the Slower Moments
These days, conversations with Hubs3 come slower. Our outgoing voicemail message says it best: “Please speak slowly because we listen slowly.”
He worries that he’s losing his sharpness, but I’ve found that the pauses hold deeper wisdom.
A comment on Substack about Hubs3 makes the point, “He may not be as quick, but he has more depth.”
When I read that to him, he nodded, smiled, paused for what seemed like forever, and whispered, “Hmm… this is true.”
That moment reminded me that aging gracefully isn’t about speed; it’s about the depth we gain in life’s quieter moments. It taught me to be still, wait for his response, and let his truths surface.
Oh, okay, I’ll admit it. I told myself, “Just shut up, Donna, give him time to speak!”😜
Maybe it’s my age that pushed me to become Unmuffled.
Embracing the Duality: Warrior and Pussy
Underneath his current softness lies a history that most people can hardly imagine.
In 1965, President Johnson decided to escalate our involvement in Vietnam and initiated the largest draft since Korea.
Gregory is a Vietnam combat veteran and was one of the first Tunnel Rats. He said, “There was no handbook to follow, and we made this shit up as we went along.”
He was one of the smallest American soldiers during his two tours in 1966 and 1967 — barely 5’3” and under 120 pounds.
That was the perfect size for being “volunteered” and sent down into enemy tunnels. It was not his choice of duties.
I thought he had recovered from trauma until his PTSD was triggered in 2016. It flared on the 50th anniversary of his arrival in Saigon on Valentine's Day, February 14th, just after completing his basic and advanced infantry training.
During our life together, he's spoken very little of his time as a Tunnel Rat and has sidestepped having conversations with anyone expressing an interest.
I had wondered why he always ignored Valentine's Day until he helped me write this piece. Now, I know.
When Gregory first stepped foot on Vietnamese soil, he was assigned to the 25th Infantry Division in Cu Chi. The night before, the advanced party was overrun by the Viet Cong, losing an entire company of men.
This date will always be remembered as the St Valentine’s Day Massacre by the members of the 25th Infantry.
They were in desperate need of replacements. He, along with every other replacement that set foot in Vietnam that night, were redeployed and sent to Cu Chi.
Unbeknown to Americans, Cu Chi was the largest concentration of Viet Cong tunnels and underground cities.
During the night, the enemy Viet Cong would pop out of camouflaged tunnels inside the parameters of the Cu Chi camp. After sniping and killing American soldiers, who were hunkering down in makeshift foxholes and bunkers, the enemy disappeared back down the tunnels.
When he first shared this story with me, he was detached. I jokingly said, “That sounds like a wack-a-mole game.”
He looked straight at me, tears welling up in his eyes. After a long pause to collect himself, he said, “That’s exactly what they were.”
The memories he shared with me were terrifying.
Imagine crawling through pitch-black spaces, booby-trapped and overrun with jungle nightmares: Scorpions, huge rats, and poisonous snakes secured in place by hooks piercing their tails, then anchored to the tunnel wall with cord.
Sometimes he was greeted with broken glass or dangling three-barbed fish hooks.
He went down into the tunnels carrying only a flashlight, a knife, and a Colt Model 1911 .45 semi-automatic with one in the chamber.
In the confined space of the tunnels, gunshots were deafening. With no earplugs available, Gregory made do with cigarette filters jammed in his ears.
When I asked him why that detail mattered so much, he said, “I’m a pussy now, but then? I was someone to be reckoned with.”
The Scars of War Never Ended
His concentrated exposure to Agent Orange, the chemical that was sprayed to remove leaves from trees the enemy hid behind, surfaced in 2008 when his lung cancer was discovered.
Considered safe when it saturated the Vietnam jungles, the complications from Agent Orange exposure became life-threatening and caused many deaths.
In 2023, the Cleveland Clinic reported that “over 300,000 U.S. veterans and over 400,000 Vietnamese people died from exposure to Agent Orange.”
Since the severity of the effects depends on how much of the toxic chemical entered your body during exposure, Tunnel Rats were the most exposed to Agent Orange and other toxins.
Once a tunnel was discovered, occasionally a poison grenade was dropped down the hole. I was disturbed when Gregory shared that and said the delay to enter was never defined.
The long-term consequences of his exposure to toxins were far from over.
I Was the Big Bitch on a Mission
Before his lung biopsy, I argued with the surgeon: “Don’t cut into the lobe — remove it completely, then biopsy.”
Once you cut into the middle of a lung, it’s like puncturing a balloon. It won’t reinflate properly and becomes compromised.
The surgeon pushed back. I pushed harder.
After surgery, he came out shaking his head: “I’m glad you insisted. There were three types of virulent cancer in that lobe that we’ve never seen together before. If we’d sliced into it, cancer would have spread like rats jumping off a burning ship.”
They also removed 14 lymph nodes.
His next step?
Emaciated and under 110 pounds, he didn’t think he could survive chemo and radiation. He adamantly refused and said, “NO!”
Since then, we’ve tried every holistic and alternative approach imaginable. It is 2025 now, and he is still cancer-free!
I suspect he’s one of the few Tunnel Rats left alive.
He may scoff at metaphysics, but even Hubs3 now admits the mind and body are connected. And that belief, from him, says a great deal.
It’s also what makes his Tunnel Rat story even more staggering in hindsight.
His survival wasn’t just physical; it was mental, emotional, and deeply human. What he endured underground echoes through every choice he’s made since.
The tunnels were more than just war zones; they were underground cities, with narrow walls and no room for error.
Going in once took courage. Going back in again and again took something even greater: bravery. It was resilience at its core.
Maybe that’s why he’s the poster boy for courage under fire — not just in war, but at the poker table.
Embarrassed, he chuckled as we wrote this post saying, “I was one of the first Tunnel Rats diving into a tunnel, and I was scared shitless.”
That’s the paradox. The warrior, who once went headfirst into tunnels, now leads with softness and sensitivity, but change didn’t happen overnight.
He’s the Little Shit Who Softened Over Time
When we ran our real estate firm in the 1980s and 1990s, Gregory was the sales manager, full of pent-up fire and fury.
He reprimanded underperforming agents like a drill sergeant with a stopwatch. Sensitivity? That was not in his toolkit then.
After his closed-door “motivational meetings,” I quietly stepped in and consoled our agents mentally and emotionally using my MindShifting™ tools, long before I’d given them a name.
Because of our height difference, one of our favorite clients gave us vanity plates for our cars: BB & LS REALTY standing for Big Bitch and Little Shit Realty.
Now? He tears up at commercials and scribbles encouragement in the margins of my Zoom talks.
That transformation didn’t happen overnight.
But writing about it reminds me that evolution is layered. And with him, it only deepens with age.
The Game We Still Play Together
Since I’ve been competing in online poker tournaments, he gives me space and still shows up as my coach’s coach.
Afterward, we walk through a casual After-Action Review.
What worked? What didn’t? How can I be more effective next time?
His feedback still hits home.
After almost a year off, I’m playing again. Not to escape, but to reconnect.
With myself. With my mind. With the player he’s always believed in.
In my mind, poker is the “Great Universal Equalizer.” In tournaments, everyone starts with the same number of chips.
It doesn’t matter what color of skin you have, your gender preference, how tall, short, fat, or thin you are.
It doesn’t matter what kind of day you’ve had; it only matters how you play the cards you’re dealt.
And lately? I’ve been playing better than ever. Maybe this is my version of aging out loud.
He doesn’t play poker anymore; not with his hands, anyway.
But every morning, he tells me I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. He says he’s the lucky one.
That’s not a bluff. That’s love — long-game, all-in, no-matter-what love.
And that? That’s the richest pot he’s ever won.
Aging Loudly
The greatest lesson from Hubs3 is clear: Aging isn’t a quiet retreat.
It’s a bold declaration… laughing so hard you pee your pants while learning something profound. It’s owning every part of your identity, loudly and proudly.
And maybe, just maybe, it’s your turn.
To laugh louder.
To show up softer.
To stop apologizing for how old you are… and what it takes to keep going.
So, here's to aging out loud — embracing our complexities, boldly declaring our truths, and understanding that vulnerability is the bravest act of all.
If that made you laugh, nod, or see aging in a new way, stick around.
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