A few years ago, Ross and I used to have one particular fight over and over. It would take place after we’d just spent some time with other folks, usually folks who were my friends first and therefore people Ross didn’t necessarily know very well. The fight would be about how when we were out he didn’t seem to be having a good (or good enough) time, and how it showed because he’d go all quiet and his eyes would drift upwards and to the side. I’d tell him how I didn’t want to have to worry about his well-being and sociability while I was trying to enjoy the company of my friends, and how it made me feel bad that he either was, or seemed, uninterested in them. I’d also talk about my fear that he came off as uninteresting to them. And Ross would usually say that he’d felt fine, if perhaps a little on the periphery of the conversation, but that my shooting him looks of concern and asking him how he was made him totally self-conscious and even less inclined to participate in what was going on.

I’d retort that I loved the smart, silly, storytelling person he was with me, and that it drove me nuts when my friends couldn’t see that side of him. Once I talked to Michael about this fight, and he used a phrase I’d never heard before and haven’t forgotten since: Ross, Michael said, was “hiding his light under a bushel.”

It was not a fun fight to have. It was as much about my insecurity over (not) being naturally sparkling and shiny in front of others as it was about Ross. I wanted everyone else to see the light I saw, because I wanted them to know how lucky and special I was for having that light in my life. The fight always ended with both of us feeling frustrated and sad, with that bitter dark feeling you get in your chest when there’s no good way to resolve a problem because the way you’ve got it framed is all wrong in the first place.

Ross and I haven’t had that particular fight in a long time. I thought about that fact this weekend, when as you know I had my friend Steph visiting for four days, and as you may or may not know, we had some new friends over for dinner on Saturday. Ross hadn’t met any of these people before. And it is not easy for anybody to handle that many unfamiliar social situations in a short span of time, especially when their somewhat highly-strung wife is herself worrying about being a good host and making a good impression on people who have traveled many miles to come and see her. So Ross was, understandably, on the quiet side of things. He wasn’t antisocial by any means; he was just a more subdued version of himself. He didn’t make too many funny faces or speak in too many fake accents or crack too many nerdy jokes. He didn’t tell too many stories. But he was calm, sweet, and thoughtful, just like he always is.

And I wasn’t worried.

Okay, part of me knew, of course, that he had a million faces, accents, and jokes hidden behind a bushel, so to speak, and that other people weren’t going to see those things right away. But by now I’ve come to realize that whether or not anyone else knows about that light Ross has tucked away inside him, it’s still there. And I know about it. And it’s going to come shining right out the moment he feels like showing it. That may be the next time he meets these folks, it may be months down the road (I’m very happy to say that Ross is just about as comfortable—and therefore funny and smart and storytelly—with my family, for instance, as he is with me) or it may be never.

It doesn’t really matter. I know who he is. And I also know how lucky and special I am to have his light in my life.