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.

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.

Dedication

To Kailey, Ted, and Faith—

You are the reason I write.

These pages hold stories of where we’ve been, what I’ve learned, and the laughter, heartbreak, and hope we’ve shared along the way. They are a small record of the moments that shaped us as a family, and me as a person—some big, some quiet, all meaningful.

If there’s one thread running through every post, it’s this: I believe in you. In your kindness, your courage, your curiosity. In your ability to carry forward the best of what came before, and to build something even better.

May you always remember that love is a legacy, that effort matters, and that showing up—for each other, for your values, for the work that needs doing—is its own kind of triumph.

This is for you. And because of you.

Love always,

Dad