Three Things, One Ending

They say that in the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.

Normally, I'd roll my eyes at something like that — probably scroll past it on social media while muttering something cynical under my breath about inspirational fonts. But this time, it landed differently. Maybe because I’m sitting in the aftermath of another love story that didn't end with a bang, but with the soft unraveling of two people who genuinely tried.

We did love each other. That part, at least, is still true. Somewhere along the way, we carved out a space for each other — one that felt safe and light-filled, even if the world outside was chaotic. There were real moments of joy, partnership, laughter, and a quiet sense of “we’re in this together.” And I believed in it — in her, in us.

But somewhere in the middle of making space, we forgot to keep communicating.

I let the pressure get to me. Work was wild, unpredictable — the kind of stress that shows up in your jaw and your blood pressure and your dreams. And with her between jobs, I felt like I needed to carry it all — to be strong, to figure out a way to financially support both of us without adding to her burden.

So I stayed quiet.

I thought strength meant silence. That not telling her how hard it was would somehow protect her. I see now that it didn’t protect either of us. Instead, it just widened the distance. Turned connection into assumption, love into guesswork.

And she was carrying her own weight — heavy and invisible. Her frustration built like steam behind a closed door. The more stressed she got, the more it seemed like everything set her off: the kids, the dogs, the state of the world, and sometimes me. Instead of talking to me, she started talking at me. Or past me. Or not at all.

When things were hard, she began to compare me to her ex — expecting that I would let her down in the same ways, bracing for betrayals I hadn’t committed. And I couldn’t convince her otherwise. I didn’t always know how to show up in those moments. Sometimes I got defensive. Sometimes I just shut down. Sometimes I honestly didn’t know what I’d done wrong — only that I’d disappointed her, again.

So no, we didn’t end because we stopped loving each other.

We ended because we stopped talking.

And that brings me back to that third thing: letting go.

I’m not good at it. I hold on to words said in anger and texts left unanswered. I replay conversations looking for the moment I could’ve done it differently. But I’m trying to be better. To forgive her. To forgive me.

Letting go, I’m learning, doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t matter. It means accepting that it did — and still choosing to release the version of the future I once held so tightly.

So yes, I loved her. And yes, I tried to live gently beside her. And now, I’m trying to let go — not because the love wasn’t real, but because grace demands it. Because if only three things really do matter in the end, then I want to get this one right.

Even if it takes me a little while.

The Sandberg Game and the '84 Cubs: Thirty Years of Hope, Heartbreak, and Hanging On

Thirty years. Where does the time go? It feels like just yesterday I was a wide-eyed college kid, perched in front of the TV, watching what would become one of the most iconic games in Cubs history – The Sandberg Game. June 23, 1984. Even the date sounds magical.

That whole summer, I was hooked. Every game, every inning on WGN, felt like it was leading somewhere special. The Cubs were good—actually good—and for the first time in my memory, "This Year" didn’t feel like desperate hope. It felt like destiny knocking.

Now, I know what you're thinking: Another Cubs fan reliving the past? Haven’t they learned anything? And you wouldn't be wrong. Being a Cubs fan requires a deep, almost irrational obsession with the ghosts of seasons past. It’s passed down, generation to generation, right alongside the eternal mantra: “Wait ‘til next year.” We're optimists, dammit. Even when we know better.

But this game… this game was different. This wasn’t heartbreak in disguise. This was magic. And Sandberg’s heroics only fueled the fire of belief in every Cubs fan’s chest.

The Cardinals were in town that sweltering Saturday afternoon—June heat thick as molasses, the kind that makes Wrigley’s ivy wilt. NBC’s Game of the Week. National audience. The Cubs trailed 9–8 in the bottom of the ninth. They had clawed back into the game after Cubs starter Steve Trout had an uncharacteristically short outing (1⅓ innings, 7 earned runs). But down by one in the bottom of the 9th inning, with former Cub Bruce Sutter—the Bruce Sutter, "Engine 42," armed with that devastating split-finger fastball—on the mound for St. Louis—everything about it screamed “typical Cubs loss.”

Then Ryne Sandberg stepped into the box.

CRACK!

That sound—you know the one. The sound that makes 36,000 fans rise as one. The ball sailing high over the left-center-field ivy. Game tied. 9–9. Pandemonium at Clark and Addison.

But we weren’t done.

Tenth inning. Cubs down 11–9. Sutter is still on the mound. And there’s Sandberg again—cool as a lake-effect breeze—digging in.

CRACK!

Lightning struck twice. Another bomb to left-center. Another eruption from the Bleacher Bums. Bob Costas’s voice cracking with disbelief: “Do you believe it! It's gone!” Even the Cardinals looked stunned—frozen in place as the impossible unfolded before them.

It wasn’t just that he tied the game. It was how he did it. Against Sutter. In a clutch moment. This was the Cubs flipping the script, writing themselves as heroes instead of goats. Sandberg single-handedly (with help from a Dave Owen RBI single in the bottom of the eleventh) inoculated an entire fanbase with an unwavering (and, yes, probably irrational) belief in the impossible.

And that belief carried us through the summer.

September 24, 1984 – Wrigley Field. Cubs vs. Pirates. Rick Sutcliffe on the mound, that magnificent beard flowing in the breeze. When he struck out Joe Orsulak to clinch the NL East, the roar in Chicago could be heard for blocks. Grown men wept. Strangers hugged. For the first time since 1945, the Cubs were heading to the playoffs.

"This Year" had finally arrived.

Then came October.

That fall, I had started school at San Diego State. When the Cubs and Padres met in the NLCS, and the Cubs took Games 1 and 2 at Wrigley Field, that Sandberg-forged optimism morphed into full-blown euphoria. Dreams of a rematch of the 1945 World Series vs. Detroit had to wait—we had destiny to finish.

A college buddy—a lifelong Padres fan who had already thrown in the towel—sold me his tickets at a markup that would make a Ticketmaster exec blush. I didn’t care. I was going to see the Cubs punch their ticket to the World Series.

Games 3 and 4? Not quite the fairy tale. The Cubs lost both at Jack Murphy Stadium. The familiar knot returned—that sinking feeling every Cubs fan knows too well. But still, I believed. This team is different, I told myself. One more game. One more chance.

Then came Game 5.

Cubs up 3–2 in the bottom of the seventh. A routine ground ball rolled to first base. And then… Leon Durham. The ball went right through his legs.

Right. Through. His. Legs.

A little piece of my soul died right there in Jack Murphy Stadium. I watched our World Series dreams trickle between Durham’s glove like sand through fingers.

Then, the Padres took the lead on Tony Gwynn's double. Of course, they always do when you’re a Cubs fan. I lingered in disbelief after the game. I’d gone from watching history to watching heartbreak—live and in person.

And yet… even as the Padres danced on our dreams, even as I sat in stunned silence in that stadium, a little voice whispered: Just wait ‘til next year.
Thanks, Ryno. Thanks, Leon. (Well… maybe not you, Leon.)

Of course, 1984 ended in heartbreak. (Spoiler alert: so did a lot of years after that.) But for one afternoon—for those few hours watching Sandberg rise above it all—I dared to dream. I believed that maybe, just maybe, we weren’t cursed after all.

The Sandberg Game wasn’t just about two clutch home runs. It was about something bigger: the power of hope. The unshakable loyalty of Cubs fans. The ability of baseball to create moments that transcend the game.

It reminded me that even in the midst of decades-long droughts, there can be moments of joy so pure that they stay with you forever. Moments I can relive again and again, and feel that same surge of hope—even 30 years later (even as we are fifth in the NL Central and 12 games under .500...).

So thank you, Ryne Sandberg. Thank you for the memory of a game that still makes me smile. Still makes me believe. Still makes me say: Hey, maybe this year…

A Different Kind of Love Story

There’s a particular kind of silence that follows heartbreak—not the cinematic kind with sad piano music and rain on the windowpane. I’m talking about the awkward, echoey quiet of love that never quite landed, or maybe just wasn’t ready to stay. The kind where you find yourself in the grocery store wondering why the salad dressing aisle is making you emotional. Just me?

After my divorce, I was sure I’d done the work. I’d journaled. I’d processed. I’d read things with italicized subtitles like Falling in Love for All the Right Reasons. So when I opened my heart again—tentatively, hopefully—it was to someone who, like me, had her own battle scars. It felt like the grown-up thing to do. Mature. Evolved. And yet… turns out, being ready to be loved is not the same thing as being ready to love yourself. That was a lesson I got to learn the fun way. More than once.

And then, as it loves to do, Valentine’s Day showed up. You know, that gentle, low-key holiday that celebrates love with $9 greeting cards and heart-shaped pizza specials. It’s great if you’re part of a couple. It’s... less great when you're trying to rebuild your sense of self from the rubble of a relationship that looked promising until it didn’t.

So this year? I’m not writing a card to anyone else. I’m writing one to me.

The last person I loved, I really believed she might be “the one who proved I’d healed.” (Spoiler: she wasn’t.) It was the first serious relationship after the divorce, and for a while, it had all the ingredients—laughter, late-night talks, the occasional shared meme that actually said something meaningful. But in the end, it fell apart in the most familiar way possible: two people, both still carrying pieces they hadn’t figured out how to fit together.

What hurt most wasn’t just the breakup. It was bumping—again—into that hard little truth: you can’t fix someone else’s inability to love themselves by offering up all your best emotional tools. I tried. Believe me. I brought a metaphorical emotional toolkit and everything. But no amount of my own healing was ever going to do the work for her.

I’d like to say I came to that conclusion quickly. But no. Like most life lessons worth learning, this one dragged itself out over several months and way too many long walks. Eventually, I remembered something I once read (probably while procrastinating other life decisions): the Greeks had three words for love. Eros (passionate romance), Philia (loyal friendship), and Agape (selfless, unconditional love). Most of us start off chasing Eros with the energy of a teenager at a Taylor Swift concert, hoping it’ll mature into Philia and maybe—if the stars align—Agape.

But here’s what nobody tells you: all of those require self-love first. And self-love? Not nearly as glamorous as it sounds.

Because after every heartbreak, I’d wind up back in that familiar mental cul-de-sac. You know the one: “Maybe I was too much. Or not enough. Or maybe I said something weird during that third dinner?” (You did, but that’s not the point.)

Eventually, beneath the self-doubt and rewinding of awkward conversations, I found something else: courage. Not the superhero kind. More like the “get out of bed and face the dog-hair-covered chaos of your life” kind.

Courage is what’s left when the fantasy fades and you’re just sitting there with your own reflection—and deciding that maybe you’re still okay. It’s saying, “Alright, maybe we’re not fine-fine, but we’re at least 'functional enough to make pancakes' fine.” Which, let’s be honest, is a win.

Self-love, it turns out, is less bubble baths and more boundary-setting. It’s forgiving yourself for staying too long. For ignoring red flags. For convincing yourself that if you just loved hard enough, it would all work out like a Nicholas Sparks novel (minus the tragic boating accident).

My road back to myself didn’t involve epiphanies atop mountaintops. It looked more like solo hikes, long talks with patient friends, and dogs who showed up every single time I needed a reminder that love doesn’t have to be complicated. It came in the form of family who showed up when I didn’t ask, and in the quiet realization that maybe the version of me who believed love could fix people wasn’t naïve—just hopeful.

But here’s the part I really didn’t want to admit: I kept choosing people who didn’t know how to love themselves, because some part of me still thought I had to earn love. If I was kind enough, funny enough, forgiving enough, it would finally stick. But love—real love—isn’t a reward. It’s not a punch card that gets you a free latte after the tenth heartbreak. It’s a mirror. And until I could look into it and say, “Yeah, I like that person,” I was always going to keep choosing reflections of my own uncertainty.

Valentine’s Day wants to be about couples. But what if we took it back? What if we celebrated all the kinds of love that don’t show up on a Hallmark card? Like the steady presence of family who remind you you’re still lovable. Or the unspoken comfort of dogs who curl up beside you like they’re guarding your soul. Or the quiet joy of realizing you don’t need a relationship to feel whole—just a decent night’s sleep and a good breakfast.

I stopped chasing. I stopped over-explaining. I stopped bleeding for people who knew how to take—but not how to hold.

And I started rebuilding. Not dramatically. Not with a grand Instagram reveal. Just steadily, and honestly, and on my own terms.

And along the way, I found pieces of myself I’d shelved—old joys, old jokes, old weird quirks that were always mine to begin with. I realized I wasn’t a half waiting to be completed. I was a whole, slightly bruised, fully functioning person with a Costco-sized supply of emotional resilience.

We talk about love like it’s a destination. But maybe the best kind of love starts quietly. Maybe it starts the moment you stop auditioning for someone else’s approval and start showing up for your own.

This isn’t a traditional love story. No meet-cute. No orchestral music. No dramatic declarations in the rain.

This is the story of how I started to rescue myself. Awkwardly. Imperfectly. With snacks.

And if love finds me again someday—which I believe it will—it’ll find someone who’s not waiting to be rescued. Not performing. Not shrinking.

It’ll find someone living a life that’s honest, open-hearted, and entirely my own.

So this Valentine’s Day, I’m not mourning what I lost. I’m raising a coffee mug to what I’ve built. A life that is mine. A heart that’s still open. A spirit that’s no longer waiting for permission to feel worthy.

That, I think, is a pretty good kind of love story.