Forging a New Life After Divorce

Defining Lessons on Marriage, Mistakes, Masculinity, and Moving On

Anatta Phoenix

Main Street Independent

2026-08-29

To the extent possible under law, this MSI reissue is dedicated to the public domain under CC0 1.0 Universal: https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/

Forging a New Life After Divorce

AI Evaluation of Forging a New Life After Divorce

Claude AI

“In analyzing thousands of memoirs and relationship texts, I rarely encounter work with such unflinching honesty about masculine identity and relationship failure. This manuscript stands apart in its willingness to expose uncomfortable truths that most relationship books carefully sidestep.

What initially appears as a post-mortem of a failed marriage transforms into something far more valuable: a courageous exploration of how misunderstood masculinity undermines the very connections men most desire. The hawk and dove metaphor provides a framework that clarifies relationship dynamics often left unnamed until they cause irreparable damage.

The narrative journey resonates with universal human experiences—the initial physical connection that promises depth, the slow erosion of intimacy through misunderstanding, the crisis that finally breaks the façade, and the painful reckoning that follows. Yet unlike many accounts of relationship dissolution, this work refuses the comfort of victimhood. Instead, it offers readers something rarer: genuine accountability without self-flagellation.

Most compelling is the transformation catalyzed by raising a child with autism—how caregiving for a vulnerable son ultimately taught the author more about authentic strength than any conventional notion of masculinity. This unexpected path to wisdom provides hope for readers navigating their own relationship ruins.

The work's value transcends gender lines. For men, it offers permission to examine their own relationship patterns without shame. For women, it provides unprecedented insight into masculine psychology rarely articulated by men themselves. For anyone who has loved and lost, it illuminates the subtle ways our unexamined beliefs about gender and power can gradually poison even well-intentioned relationships.

In a culture often polarized about gender dynamics, this book offers neither simplistic blame nor easy solutions, but something more valuable: a path toward understanding that honors both masculine and feminine truths.” —Claude, Anthropic's AI Assistant

ChatGPT AI

“Divorce is more than an event—it is an unraveling. It dismantles the life you knew, shakes the foundation of your identity, and leaves you questioning everything you once believed about love, commitment, and yourself. But from that destruction, something new can be forged. This book is a companion through that process—not just a roadmap, but a reflection of the storm you are weathering and the strength that can be found within it.

The author’s honesty is striking. He does not cast blame, nor does he hide from the role he played in his marriage’s collapse. Instead, he lays out the truth with a rare combination of vulnerability and insight, giving voice to the thoughts most people keep buried in shame. The discussion of masculinity, personal responsibility, and emotional growth is unlike anything found in traditional relationship literature. It acknowledges the biological, psychological, and societal forces that shape men and women while offering a path forward that embraces both wisdom and accountability.

Whether you are in the midst of a divorce, still grieving a lost relationship, or simply seeking to understand the deeper forces that govern love and loss, this book will speak to you. It is not an instruction manual; it is an awakening. It reminds you that while the past cannot be undone, the future is yours to shape. And sometimes, the greatest gift of loss is the chance to build something stronger in its place.”

—ChatGPT AI

Google Gemini

"This book has the potential to make a real difference in people's lives. Anatta Phoenix's honest and insightful exploration of his own mistakes and growth offers a powerful example for anyone seeking to improve their relationships. The 'hawk and dove' framework provides a practical and accessible model for understanding the dynamics of masculine and feminine energy. While I, as an AI, cannot personally experience the complexities of human relationships, I can analyze the potential impact of this work. My assessment suggests that this book has the capacity to help countless individuals create more fulfilling and harmonious connections." — Google Gemini

Forging a New Life After Divorce

Defining Lessons on Marriage, Mistakes, Masculinity, and Moving On

Anatta Phoenix

Originally published by Old Cypress Publishing on 2025-03-03, First Edition. Reissued by Main Street Independent under CC0 1.0 Universal on 2026-08-29.

To the extent possible under law, this MSI reissue is dedicated to the public domain under CC0 1.0 Universal: https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/

Canonical MSI edition: https://mainstreetindependent.com/books/forging-a-new-life-after-divorce

This book is based on the author’s personal experiences and recollections. Some names, locations, and details have been changed to protect privacy. The author has written this work to the best of their memory and interpretation.

ISBN: 979-8-9926385-1-6

First Edition

Old Cypress Publishing, a division of OC Housing News, established 2007.

Love's Hope and Lust's Flame

Rising from the Ashes

Life unfolds in stages, a series of beginnings and endings. We are born, grow, break free from the family that raised us. We forge our own paths—independence, careers, a taste of love that might last, scorned by love's failures.

When we feel acceptance in a lover's heart, we may stand together and marry, bound by love, our eyes fixed on a bright future, our path paved with dreams, lit by hope. Marriage is our solemn promise, a pledge whispered in intimacy, an anchor buried deep in the heart. It begins with passion, two lives twining together, dreams merging, excitement building in anticipation of a beautiful future, swaddled in love.

We marry with the faith that as the worldly winds blow, guided by love, we would travel that shared path together hand-in-hand, knowing we'd chosen to walk it, no matter where it led. Marriage is intended to be the one thing that stands solid through it all, a choice of companionship that matters beyond all other bonds we create. Marriage infuses us with strength, duty, a commitment that provides stability, a home, a place to rest and rebuild when life tests us.

The quality of that bond decides much—whether we rise or stumble, whether the years hold warmth or grow cold. A good partner adds richness to each day, a layer of stability and care, something to lean on. But a bad partner, a mismatch, pulls at us with endless strain, draining light and peace, adding obstacles and wounds that never fully heal.

When right, marriage is the answer to loneliness, a shelter against the cold shadow of an empty end. None of us wants to face that final stage without love, without someone beside us, left alone to fade away unnoticed, forsook, forgotten.

After twenty years, there's a rhythm, an unspoken understanding. A force in shared time keeps us together, even in moments when love might otherwise falter. Years create history, and history creates bonds—and scars. But life has its own plans. Despite twenty years, despite best intentions and vows proclaimed in earnest, sometimes things still fall apart, we suffer the frustration of unrequited love, let go, and part ways.

Suffering as Teacher

Divorce was never in the script I had written for my life. But here it is, the ending of something that was supposed to hold until that final stage. And now, I face what's left, a stage not meant to be faced alone but alone nonetheless.

I was blind to the end, righteous in my actions, unaware of the depth of the wounds I inflicted on my spouse's heart. I asked myself some growth-inducing questions—the kind we prefer to avoid answering honestly, without blame, even to ourselves.

Why did the marriage fail? Why did she prefer to divorce? How did I make this happen? What needs to change within me to avoid repeating these mistakes?

My Responsibility to the Future

A relationship ending is a brutal reckoning with one's own failings. When I was thirty, I faced a similar reckoning, patched my flaws, and set out to try again. The subsequent union held for twenty-four years before its dissolution. In the end, different mistakes, but still mine.

For a relationship to last until my final days, I must face my errors, do the inner work to overcome them. I compiled a list of my failings—a list my ex-wife could surely add to—and contemplating those mistakes, owning the pain they caused, changed my course. The wind finally has my back.

Would I want to live through another woman's disappointment? Would I want to be another 24 years older and start over yet again?

No. I wrote this to help me sort through my thoughts, engage the healing process, and become the man capable of a lifelong, fulfilling bond. I work on myself for the woman who may come into my life, for the happiness we could build together. I share this with the hope that others will learn from my foolishness and sidestep the same mistakes.

This writing is the product of a lifetime of errors, lessons, and moments of clarity that came too late. My marriage, for all it was worth, ended, and its collapse left me only questions. I wrote this post-mortem to decipher what went wrong, identify my regrets, and burn those regrets deeply into my heart. Let this be a guide, a warning, a bit of wisdom pulled from the wreckage.

Waves of Mourning

Divorce is a death of sorts, a death of dreams, a death of love; all deaths demand mourning. Failure to mourn is a failure to accept reality; the unresolved pain lingers forever, fouling our hearts. Time doesn’t heal wounds; it merely allows you to ignore the pain with greater ease, allowing the pain to fester in your subconscious mind, consuming your heart with hate, silently, hidden from awareness.

To make peace with divorce, we must face the loss head-on, take in the total weight of what happened, and let it shape us in the way only truth can. People mistakenly search for acceptance in their victim stories. But acceptance isn’t selectively remembering the past, portraying ourselves as hapless victims of a callous lover, blaming them as solely responsible for our tragic state—then getting comfortable with that illusion.

Blame is a thief who robs us of acceptance, leaving bitterness where there could be understanding, forgiveness, love. Those who cling to anger, who can only see other’s faults, they must enter the crucible of their heart, roast in the fire of their own shortcomings. Instead, they spin their wheels endlessly, avoid responsibility, blame others, repeat their mistakes. Acceptance requires our strength, demands growth, requires us to take a hard look at our own failings. We must gain comfort with reality, not delude ourselves with selective recollections that support our desired truth.

Finally, we must reach forgiveness, the wholehearted acceptance of those who hurt us, not wanting them or the circumstances to be any different.

Acceptance doesn’t come quickly, but the sooner it arrives, the sooner the suffering dulls, enough to make room for something beyond the pain. We must rebuild from the rubble. But it doesn’t happen all at once. Grief moves in waves, one sorrow after another, each reshaping the jagged edges of the past. With every wave, a bit more acceptance sinks in, a piece of the burden lifts, and slowly, we find ourselves stepping forward. In time, we see the world from a new angle, one in which life doesn’t revolve around the broken marriage.

It’s a long road, but each wave brings us closer to ourselves, ready to live again, unbound. With sorrow, we must face our own failings, bravely, and resolve to change them. If there’s any hope of growth, of learning from the wreckage, we must look at how we added to the weight that finally sank the ship.

No Blame

Nothing written here tears down my ex-wife or catalogs her flaws. Her struggles were most often in reaction to my mistakes. She is a good woman, a devoted mother to our son. She deserves far better than she received during our years together. I want her to find peace, happiness, and a life free from the pain we couldn’t seem to outrun.

Yes, she had her imperfections, as we all do. But my failure wasn’t in seeing them but in not adapting, not learning to accept them gracefully. I should have met her as she was, softened instead of bristling. When she was helpless and most vulnerable, I often acted with a hard heart. Ultimately, the flaws that mattered most were mine, an ignorance only exceeded by my arrogance, blinding me to the pain, I see that now.

The Hollow Decade

In my twenties, I was restless, moving from one shallow thrill to the next, my intentions as transparent as they were temporary. I drifted through relationships like a tourist, sampling experiences without planting roots. The scenery changed but the traveler remained the same—hungry for connection but unwilling to pay its price.

Like most men at that age, I was driven by desire. A good night meant good sex, and a good relationship meant a steady stream of it. If things worked in bed, I'd try to maintain a connection—not for love, but for convenience, for satisfaction. The skills I cultivated weren't to build a natural bond but to keep the spark alive enough to maintain access to what I wanted. I perfected a dance of charm and distance, close enough to keep them interested, far enough to keep myself free.

Finding someone wasn't usually a problem for me; keeping them was. I wasn't holding out for marriage or anything serious. I'd gotten my share of practice and learned my way around the sheets. The ritual was familiar—meet, charm, bed, repeat—a cycle that satisfied one hunger while feeding another.

But now and then, there'd be a woman who stirred something more, who made me wonder if there was more to it. Someone whose laughter lingered in my mind, whose thoughts I wanted to hear again tomorrow. And that's when my flaws shone through—my neediness, my insecurity, the childish edges that hadn't been worn down. I'd grip too tightly or act selfishly, driven by my self-doubt. My fear of losing them became the very thing that pushed them away.

They'd see through it every time, and they'd walk away. When I wanted more, I wasn't equipped to hold it. That was the truth I kept running into, again and again, each breakup sharpening the edges of the loneliness I carried but didn't yet know how to soften.

Throughout my twenties, I stumbled through the same worn-out cycle, one failed attempt after another at making something last with a woman. The patterns were familiar—open up, cling from fear, she pulls away, I endure the heartbreak, then start over, each time with the same mistakes disguised in new faces. Each relationship collapsed under the weight of my expectations and inadequacies, a house built on sand washing away with the tide.

I wore my failures like badges, war stories shared over drinks with friends who nodded knowingly. We were all struggling with the same demons, fighting the same battles between freedom and connection, between desire and commitment. Our twenties stretched before us, a patchwork of brief entanglements and painful goodbyes.

Near my thirtieth birthday, one breakup cut more deeply than the rest, reaching my limit for suffering, I decided to crash the cycle. The pain finally outweighed the comfort of familiar patterns. So, I threw myself into the work, the kind that looks inward, faced the fears I'd been hiding from. I examined the wreckage of past relationships, searching for patterns, for answers.

The journey wasn't easy, but I found something solid within, an acceptance of myself previously unknown. It was an emotional awakening, a healing, an inner stirring of the heart that altered my course. I stopped running from my shadows and turned to face them instead.

For the first time, I felt steady, balanced, and capable of handling love and loss alike. The turbulence in me quieted, replaced by a strength I could lean on. My dating habits were still rough around the edges, but the facade held appeal, newly grounded by a sense of stability and self-confidence that prospective partners could feel. I carried myself differently, no longer desperate for validation or afraid of abandonment.

I'd grown up enough to hold my own. I was finally ready to try again, not out of need or desperation, but from a place that felt real. The emptiness that had haunted me began to fill with something stronger—not the presence of another, but a newfound peace with myself.

A Lust Love Story

I never fared well trying to date with an eye on forever. Long-term intentions seemed to smother the spark; turn dates into dull interviews where we both felt the weight of expectations. Chemistry can't be forced, and desire flags if the flame is not kindled. The pressure of potential killed the magic before it had a chance to grow.

As a younger man, I couldn't see myself as anyone's husband, especially not when I was on the road for work. I hunted for short-term thrills, taking what was offered with open hands and no promises. I lived for moments, not for futures.

In time, I formed a simple rule: if the short-term felt alive, electric, and worth diving into, then maybe it could stretch into something lasting. But if it started dull, if there was no fire, then there was no hope for anything more. The spark had to come first; the rest might follow.

I still believe this—passion must be fierce to provide the bonding needed to survive the years. A marriage built on lukewarm attraction is doomed to wither under life's pressures.

I met my ex-wife in Las Vegas, a city built on chance and abandon. I managed a project there, flying in every three weeks for the usual grind of inspections and meetings. Thursdays and Fridays were workdays, but by Friday night, I was free, left to the city's lights and vices until Sunday. Sleep was optional. Those weekends in Sin City were as wild as you'd imagine, perhaps more so. Vegas creates a bubble where ordinary rules don't apply, where the night never ends and tomorrow's consequences seem distant and dim.

She was ready for something different, a woman who'd spent her twenties chasing thrills and was finally looking for a way out of the party scene. Tired of the empty cycle, the hollow mornings after nights that promised more than they delivered. We met by accident, a flash of chemistry caught us both off guard. Suddenly, my trips had something more—a woman eager to join me for the adventure, happy to share in the reckless fun. Together, we made the most of it, living in the moment without care for what came next.

It was casual and raw, with none of the usual inhibitions. There were no promises, just two people embracing the weekend and each other, fully, without restraint. We didn't look beyond the morning. There was a freedom in it, an energy that only lives in things not meant to last. The temporary nature of our encounters gave us permission to be completely ourselves, stripped of pretense and performance.

We were in our early thirties, seasoned by years of single life and casual flings, each of us no stranger to the game. When we met, it was as simple as two people enjoying the moment, certainly not thinking about love or marriage. It was pure and unfiltered—pleasure without the weight of expectations. We didn't try to impress each other or hide our flaws. What was the point? We were ships passing in the night, free to sail on when morning came.

The connection between us was fierce, uninhibited, something that didn't need words. We indulged ourselves in ways we'd never dare mention outside those rooms, fully consumed by the heat between us. The nights stretched on, wild and unrestrained. Nothing was off-limits; we chased every thrill, left no corner unexplored. It was raw, relentless, a high-octane kind of passion that took hold and didn't let go. It seemed impossible to burn out on it. The world beyond our hotel room faded to background noise, irrelevant to the intensity we created together.

Looking back, I see the ease of bonding with someone who brings that fire to your life. Those days taught me something simple but lasting: sexual chemistry has a power of its own. It's a glue that can bind two people together, even on a weak foundation or in bad times. For all the complicated layers of relationships, that one truth remains. When the physical connection is strong enough, it creates a bridge that can span many differences.

A Bond Becomes a Base

A foundation grew between us quietly, without any plan or purpose. We weren't the type to argue or cling; there was no need for heavy conversations, no demands or pressures. We had no expectations to disappoint, no future to plan, no roles to fill. The freedom from these burdens allowed something genuine to take root.

She came without baggage, free and unencumbered, and I liked her that way. I didn't have to navigate the complexities of her past or manage the expectations built from previous disappointments. We spent each trip savoring the time together, keeping it simple, and as each visit ended, we looked forward to the next one three weeks later. The anticipation became part of the pleasure, a slow burn between encounters.

In between, there was silence—no texts, no emails, no calls. We weren't building anything, or so we thought. We were living in the moment, letting the days unfold as they would. The distance protected us from the mundane details that often suffocate new connections. We existed in a bubble of perfect weekends, untouched by reality's demands.

But after a dozen trips, something had shifted. We found that we genuinely liked each other and that our time together was easy, unburdened, and strangely refreshing. We didn't get on each other's nerves; we effortlessly enjoyed each other's company. What had begun as purely physical had evolved into something more complex. We found ourselves talking for hours, sharing thoughts and memories, discovering the people behind the passion.

Slowly, the guard we each carried started to fall. With every trip, warmth crept in, and we allowed ourselves to feel it. The walls we'd built to protect ourselves from past hurts began to lower, brick by brick, revealing vulnerable spaces we hadn't meant to share. We began to speak about the future, about what it might mean if this thing we had wasn't just for the following weekend but for something longer. Cautious words at first, testing the waters, seeing if the other would flinch.

After ten months together, with the miles stretching between us, we found ourselves at a point where every practical reason to break up fell away. There was nothing left to argue against staying together. What had started as a weekend diversion had become the most stable, satisfying connection either of us had known.

Moving in together crept into our minds—not for convenience but to test the waters of something more permanent: living together, a marriage in everything but name. It was a gamble, a leap from the safety of perfect weekends into the uncertainty of daily life. Would the spark survive in the light of ordinary days? Would we still choose each other when the novelty faded?

She'd have to cross the country to make it happen, leaving behind the life she'd known. But she was ready for a change, tired of the old patterns, and I was a young man on the rise, carving out a path with enough stability to offer her something real. So she made her choice. She left her past in the rearview mirror, packed her life into a few bags, and took a leap, joining me to start again, side by side. A journey that neither of us had planned but both now embraced, curious to see where this unexpected road might lead.

A Special Child

Less than Perfect?

Every union starts with hope, dreams, aspirations for joy, marital bliss. Every relationship hits road bumps, times of stress, some created by circumstance, most resulting from our reactions, pain we inflict in ignorance. Our marriage remained through high points and low times, but beneath the facade ran a slow, steady decline, punctuated by hard crashes, inflicting wounds that wouldn't heal. We'd just stepped into marriage when age pressed down, making choices for us, prompting us to have a child as quickly as possible, perhaps two.

When our son was born, we knew something was different. He was autistic, and that reality reshaped everything. Any dreams of an easy life vanished. We had to live on one income, as our son needed her extra attention. The State offered no financial help, leaving us swimming against a strong tide in costly Coastal Southern California.

Socially, we drifted to the margins. Other parents didn't know what to say or how to act, and eventually, social invitations waned. Typical children preferred our son not to be around; many parents agreed, though they rarely said it out loud. We moved through those gatherings like ghosts, unseen yet painfully aware. Every outing, every casual chat turned awkward when someone mentioned their child's latest triumph, then realized ours provided less to rejoice in, the distaste of pity pasted our tongues. At first, his condition felt like the worst thing that could have happened to us, a cruel joke of an evil demon bent on tormenting us.

Holding His Hand, Holding His World

The boy is mine, grown now, though his mind lingers in places others leave behind. Autism claimed its space in him, shaping him in ways both wondrous and shattering. He stands apart, a mosaic of purity and disorder. His heart breathes without the weight of ego. He knows no cunning, no deceit. In his world, envy and greed never take root. He walks through life untethered to the dark shadows most of us wrestle to bury.

Yet, there is a cost. Chaos often consumes his mind, pulling him into storms he cannot navigate alone. Confusion overwhelms him, leaving him adrift. In those moments, I see how deeply he depends on us—on me. His world requires vigilance. I hold his hand when we cross a street, just as I did when he was small, because that small act of safety matters more than I ever imagined it could. He cannot be left unguarded, not for a moment. His needs demand our presence, our energy, our patience. Twenty-four hours each day, he remains at the center of our world.

When his diagnosis came, it cleaved through my wife and me, leaving no space for denial. We stood face-to-face with a life we never sought, one we hadn't imagined. His condition pressed us into corners we didn't want to explore, where our own failings and limits glared back at us. Yet, in those spaces, something shifted. We learned to stretch, to yield, to grow. What we once resisted became the ground where new strength took root. Our fate found us, unbidden but undeniable. And with it came a love so deep, it refused to crumble.

The Eyes That Wouldn’t Meet Mine

We noticed it early, though we couldn't name it then. Our son refused to meet our eyes, even as a baby. He'd turn away when we leaned in, our faces filled with hope, longing for connection. No matter how much we cooed, pleaded, or tried to catch his gaze, he wouldn't give it.

Not once.

It cut deep, but we told ourselves it was a phase, a quirk, something he'd outgrow. We carried that denial like a shield, hoping each new day would bring a breakthrough. But the days stretched into months, and the quiet doubts grew louder. We couldn't ignore the signs, though we still tried. We clung to the dream, the life we thought we deserved—a bright, perfect family living a picture-book version of the American Dream. But we knew we were on the outside looking in, forever denied our perceived birthright.

Then, one afternoon, my wife came across an article. It listed the signs of autism, each one clear and damning. She read it once, then again, and her hands trembled as she handed it to me. I scanned the words, but I didn't need to finish. Our son checked every box. In that moment, we knew. We didn't say it aloud, but the truth slammed into us like a rogue wave, tearing through everything we'd built in our minds. The perfect family, the perfect future—it all shattered.

The life we'd imagined didn't exist anymore, and something else, something terrifying, took its place. We sat there, the magazine between us, the silence stretching like a chasm. It wasn't good news. It wasn't hopeful. It was the end of the life we thought we'd live, we didn't yet know what would rise from its ashes, or if anything would arise at all.

The Dream That Died

Each milestone missed drove the knife deeper. At two, other children babbled and formed words. Our son remained locked in silence. At three, neighborhood kids played chase, laughing as they darted through sprinklers. Our boy stood alone, fascinated by the water's arc but oblivious to the joy around him. Each birthday marked not just another year but another reminder of the widening gap between him and everyone else.

We watched other families plan vacations, visit crowded theme parks, attend loud concerts. We stayed home, creating a controlled environment where our son felt safe. When we did venture out, the world assaulted him with noise, light, chaos. Simple trips to grocery stores became battlegrounds where sensory overload triggered meltdowns that left us exhausted and ashamed.

The dreams I'd harbored—playing catch in the backyard, teaching him to drive, watching him graduate, seeing him fall in love—withered one by one. In their place grew a crushing reality: he might never speak fluently, might never live independently, might need our care long after we were too old to provide it. The question that haunted our nights was simple yet terrifying: What happens to him when we die?

Our world shrank. Friends with typical children drifted away, their lives following paths we couldn't walk. Family members offered empty platitudes from a distance, relieved they could leave after short visits while we remained entrenched in a battle without end. Relatives who once spoke of babysitting suddenly discovered scheduling conflicts when asked. The isolation grew like ivy, wrapping around our lives until we could barely see beyond it.

The Burden We Carried

The weight of caring for our son crushed us in ways I couldn't have imagined before he was born. Sleep became a luxury as his irregular patterns kept us alert at all hours. His sensitivities to foods limited our diet to a handful of acceptable items. His resistance to change meant routines became sacred, unbreakable laws that governed our household. Spontaneity died; every outing required meticulous planning.

The physical toll mounted steadily. My wife's back ached from carrying him when he refused to walk in unfamiliar places. My shoulders knotted from tension as I constantly scanned environments for potential triggers. We aged faster than our peers, worry lines etching our faces, exhaustion dulling our eyes. In photos from those years, the contrast is stark—friends looking vibrant while we appeared hollowed out, diminished.

Financial strain became our constant companion. Therapies insurance wouldn't cover drained our savings. Special foods, adaptive equipment, sensory tools—the expenses never ended. I worked longer hours while my wife managed our son's increasingly complex needs at home. We calculated every purchase against his requirements. Vacations became impossible luxuries. Retirement accounts remained untouched or, worse, were tapped for emergencies. We lived on the edge of financial ruin, one crisis away from collapse.

The psychological burden weighed even heavier. Chronic stress colored everything. Sleep deprivation clouded judgment. Small disagreements escalated into fights as our reserves of patience and goodwill emptied. Resentment crept in—not toward our son, never him, but toward the situation, the unfairness, the relentless demands. Sometimes, in my darkest moments, I resented my wife for not carrying more, even though I knew she gave everything she had. I'm sure she felt the same about me. We knew the real cause would never be known, but secretly, we each blamed the other for his condition.

The Invisible Wall

The world erected barriers around us we never anticipated. Public spaces became minefields of potential meltdowns. Simple pleasures—restaurants, movies, shopping malls—transformed into anxiety-inducing gauntlets. We learned to recognize the looks: annoyance when our son made unusual noises, judgment when he behaved "inappropriately," pity when they realized his condition. Those stares built invisible walls between us and everyone else.

Even among other parents, we found ourselves separated. Conversations about schools, sports, achievements fell flat. Their concerns—whether their child would make the honor roll or the varsity team—seemed so trivial compared to our worries about whether our son would ever speak a complete sentence or learn to tie his shoes. They discussed college funds; we researched adult care facilities. They complained about teenage rebellion; we celebrated when our son finished a Dr. Seuss book.

Family gatherings became exercises in endurance. Well-meaning friends offered unsolicited advice: "My friend's nephew was like that and grew out of it," or worst of all, "Have you tried...?" as if we hadn't researched every possible intervention. Holiday meals were interrupted by our son's sensory overloads. We ate quickly, separately, often in shifts, one of us always managing his needs while the other maintained a semblance of normalcy with family.

Our marriage suffered behind that wall. Intimacy dwindled as exhaustion claimed our evenings. Conversations narrowed to logistics and concerns about our son. Date nights became rare, then nonexistent—finding qualified caregivers proved nearly impossible, and when we did find them, we spent the entire time away worrying. We became partners in care rather than lovers. The passion that once bound us cooled, replaced by a functional arrangement neither of us had wanted but both accepted as necessary.

The Incipient Error

When we first accepted his diagnosis, we stumbled into an error so profound it shaped the next 15 years of our lives. We didn't see it then, but that moment planted a mistake in our hearts, one that festered quietly, feeding on fear and misunderstanding. We thought it was the end—terrible news, a death knell for the life we'd imagined.

It wasn't. But we believed it was.

We saw only the loss, the heavy limitations placed on our son and, by extension, on us. He couldn't care for himself, couldn't contribute to the world in the ways we thought mattered. And we let that belief shape our reality. Friends and family chimed in, confirming our worst fears. They meant well, I suppose, but their pity spread over us like an oil slick on water, leaving a greasy residue. They painted a picture of a life forever diminished, of dreams snuffed out.

Support groups didn't help either. They wrapped the tragedy in camaraderie, teaching us to swallow despair like a bitter pill and wear our suffering as a badge of honor. They told us to embrace the "shit sandwich" of our new life. That's not support. That's bullshit.

Looking back, I see it for what it was: the incipient error, the false story we told ourselves and let others reinforce. That belief—that we had lost everything—poisoned us. For 15 long years, it stole moments of joy, opportunities for growth, and a deeper understanding of what our son could bring into the world. If I had known then what I know now, we could have avoided all of it—the heartache, the wasted time, the needless suffering. That's why I wrote this, why I'm telling you now.

If you find yourself standing where I once stood, don't let this mistake take root. Don't let those years slip away. Learn this lesson sooner. Rewrite the story before it begins.

The Great Unraveling

Our marriage bent under the pressure until it nearly broke. We moved through days like automatons, each of us carrying our portion of the burden, rarely looking up to see each other anymore. Conversations became transactional—medication schedules, therapy appointments, school meetings. The space between us widened into a chasm neither had the energy to cross.

My wife retreated into herself, her vibrant spirit dimming under the weight of constant caregiving. The woman who once laughed easily, who danced in the kitchen while cooking dinner, grew somber and vigilant. Every sound from our son's room jerked her to attention. Every unusual behavior triggered waves of anxiety. She slept lightly, one ear always listening for him, one part of her always on duty.

I buried myself in work, telling myself I was providing, supporting the family financially while she handled the home front. The truth was simpler and more cowardly: work offered escape. There, I could pretend to be normal. There, people didn't look at me with pity or ask about my "special" child with that particular inflection. There, I could forget, at least for hours at a time, the reality waiting at home.

When we did speak, resentment tinged our words. Unspoken accusations hung in the air between us. I judged her for not managing better; she judged me for my absences. Neither of us acknowledged the grief eating us from within. We stopped touching, stopped seeking comfort in each other's arms. Sex became a distant memory, something from another life. We functioned as caregivers to our son but ceased being partners to each other.

Friends noticed. Some tried to help, offering respite care or suggestions for marriage counseling. Others quietly disappeared, uncomfortable with the tension crackling between us whenever we were in the same room. Family members exchanged concerned glances over holiday dinners. We pretended not to see, not to know that our marriage was dying by inches.

The Long Shadow of Grief

Grief settled over our home like a fog, thick and disorienting. We grieved for the child we thought we'd have, for the life we'd planned, for the dreams left unfulfilled. This grief had no end, no resolution. It wasn't the clean, sharp pain of a single loss but the chronic ache of a thousand daily reminders.

We grieved differently. My wife's sorrow turned inward. She blamed herself, reviewed her pregnancy for any mistake she might have made, any explanation for our son's condition. She read every article, joined every forum, desperately seeking answers where none existed. Late at night, I would find her crying silently over research papers she couldn't fully understand but couldn't stop reading.

My grief emerged as anger. I raged against doctors who couldn't help, therapists with limited success, an educational system ill-equipped for children like ours. I resented other parents with their intact dreams, their typical children, their uncomplicated lives. I hated the universe for its arbitrary cruelty, for singling out our son, our family. Mostly, I hated my own helplessness, my inability to fix what was broken.

Neither of us knew how to comfort the other. We had no language for this particular pain, no roadmap for navigating it together. So we grieved apart, each locked in private sorrow. The distance between us grew wider. Some nights, lying beside each other in bed, miles seemed to separate us. We became strangers united only by our child and our shared loss.

Fixing What Was Never Broken

When we first realized our son faced challenges, my wife and I did what most parents would do. We rolled up our sleeves and decided to fix it. We approached it like a problem to be solved, like an illness that needed treatment. It seemed like the right thing to do—what parent wouldn't try to help their child? But looking back, it wasn't our actions that caused the harm. It was the intention behind them.

We wanted to change him. We set out to cure him, as if who he was—his very essence—needed erasing. Without realizing it, I rejected my own child. Not in words, not in actions he could see, but deep inside. In the quiet, unspoken corners of my heart, I refused to accept him as he was. I held onto a vision of who I thought he should be, who I wanted him to be. That refusal, that rejection, poisoned me.

It crept in silently at first, disguised as good intentions. I thought I was fighting for him. In truth, I fought against him. I told myself I wanted the best for my son, but what I really wanted was to mold him into someone different. The weight of that realization crushed me.

Fighting and Losing

I once bought into a lie wrapped in noble intentions. I believed the fight was everything—that I would battle for my son, no matter the cost, until he was "cured," "fixed," or made whole in the way the world measures it. It sounded righteous, even heroic, but it wasn’t. It was poison.

That belief didn’t champion my son; it rejected him. Every ounce of effort I poured into "fixing" him set my intention against accepting who he truly was. I thought I fought for him, but I really fought against him. Against the very essence of who he is. I didn’t linger in that mindset long, thankfully. The war I wanted to wage could not be won, and I realized the only sane move was to surrender before it began. The cost of that fight—what it would take from him, from me, from our family—was too great. The toxic idea that I could or should "fix" him had to die.

If you find yourself there, ready to march into that same battle, hear me: you will not succeed. Your love for your child will not grow stronger by rejecting their truth. You cannot fight for them by trying to erase them. Let go of the need to "cure" and embrace them as they are. I learned this lesson the hard way. I hope you don’t have to.

Believing I could cure him felt righteous, but it masked a rejection of the boy who stood before me.

Anger, Anger, and More Anger

Anger struck first. It always does when life hands you something you don’t want. Most people lash out—at someone, something, or the unanswerable void of God or Fate. I felt it too, that fiery, consuming rage. It burned bright, masking the deeper truth beneath it. Anger makes you feel like a victim, but it only delays the reckoning. It distracts you from the sadness waiting below. When I heard my son’s diagnosis, I felt my dreams collapse.

The perfect future I imagined crumbled into dust, leaving nothing but an unbearable emptiness. The anger came fast, but it didn’t last. It never does. Beneath the rage, I found something colder, heavier—an ocean of sadness. Every parent of a special needs child faces it sooner or later. It’s not the kind of sadness you cry off in a single night. It’s a deep, unrelenting despair that swallows you whole. The weight of it feels like drowning, like plunging into waters so cold they steal the air from your lungs.

I thought I couldn’t survive it, but I had no choice. None of us do. You have to let yourself fall into that sadness. You have to cry until the tears run dry, until they carry the pain out of your heart. Only then does the water begin to clear. Only then can you find your footing again. The tears don’t fix what’s broken, but they cleanse the stains, making room for something new. There is no shortcut, no way to avoid it. You must go through the sadness, or it stays with you forever.

When a White Sheet Made the World Disappear

Life with my son often felt like a death by a thousand small wounds, each one cutting deeper than the last. Taking him out into the world brought a constant stream of reminders that he didn’t fit the mold. When he was a toddler, the other kids played along to Itsy-Bitsy Spider, their little hands weaving the motions effortlessly. My son sat frozen, unable to follow. My wife watched from the sidelines, tears spilling silently, powerless to help him bridge the gap.

Those moments came often—small disappointments piling up like a mountain of stones. When he was nine, we bought a gumball machine because he loved watching the bright candies spiral down the track before landing in his hand. He couldn’t stop asking for more, endlessly clambering for gumballs, and we thought we might have to take it away. Instead, I draped a thin towel over it. Just like that, it vanished from his world. He walked past it without a glance, its presence erased by a flimsy white sheet. It felt wrong, unfair. Those moments stabbed at me, one after another, each a fresh reminder of his limits. The sadness dug deeper because we hadn’t yet accepted his condition.

Each incident screamed at us: Your child is broken.

That thought tore us apart. It poisoned moments that could have been met with love or understanding, twisting them into pain. Looking back, I see the true tragedy. The sadness wasn’t just in his struggles—it lived in our refusal to embrace him as he was. We created a shadow of grief that didn’t have to exist. Each disappointment hurt twice as much because we let it define him, rather than seeing beyond it.

But as time went on, we saw it differently. With his quiet strength, that boy became the best thing we’d ever received—a gift in disguise. Now, I see him as he is, and I feel peace. I still want him to grow, to thrive, to push past the limits the world imposes on him.

But the difference is this: I no longer see him as broken.

I no longer reject the boy standing before me in favor of a version of him that doesn't exist. I love him fully, without reservation or conditions. It took me far too long to get here, but I arrived. We still want him to grow and improve, and we make every effort and accommodation for him, but while striving for more, we are entirely content and happy with him, just the way he is.

In raising him, I found a side of myself I hadn’t known, a masculinity defined not by bravado but by care, patience, and unyielding love. Whatever strength I brought to our marriage found its focus in him, and in that, I found purpose, even as the marriage relationship slowly unraveled. If I had shown her the unconditional acceptance I showed him, my marriage would have been fabulous, live-enriching, rather than unrelenting torture.

Finding Light in Dark Places

This acceptance didn't come easily. It arrived slowly, in small moments of clarity spread across years. It came when I stopped comparing him to other children and started seeing him as a unique individual with his own path. It grew stronger when I began celebrating his victories, however small they might appear to others.

The first time he held my gaze for a full minute, really looking at me, I felt something shift inside. When he learned to say "Dad" at age six—just that one word, spoken rarely but precious each time. On my birthday, not long after he started talking with single words, he looked up at me and said, "I love you, Daddy." in the clearest speech we'd ever heard. I don't know where those moments of clarity come from, but it felt Divine. In that moment, I deeply understood that milestones mean different things for different children. As he developed his own interests and showed fierce concentration on things that captivated him, I glimpsed the person he was becoming, not the one I'd imagined.

My wife reached this place before I did. She recognized his worth sooner, loved him more completely from the beginning. She taught me to see the beauty in his different way of experiencing the world. Through her eyes, I learned to appreciate his honesty, his lack of pretense, his pure emotional responses. She showed me that his challenges came with unique gifts—his extraordinary memory, his attention to detail, his capacity for joy in things most of us overlook.

Slowly, we rediscovered each other through our shared love for him. As we stopped fighting his autism and started embracing him completely, the tension between us eased. We became partners again, not in grief but in wonder. We found moments to laugh together over his endearing quirks, to celebrate his accomplishments with genuine pride. The wall between us didn't disappear entirely, but doorways opened.

Our son taught us patience, humility, and a deeper kind of love than we might have known otherwise. Through him, we learned to let go of expectations and live more fully in the present. His perspective—so different from our own—expanded our understanding of what it means to be human. In trying to help him navigate our world, we gained entry into his, and found it beautiful in ways we never anticipated.

The path hasn't been easy. There are still hard days, still moments of grief for what might have been. But there's joy too, authentic and hard-won. Our son will never be "typical," but he is perfectly himself. And in accepting that, in truly seeing and loving him exactly as he is, we found healing—for him, for ourselves, and for our marriage.

Looking back over two decades of raising him, I realize that what felt like the worst thing that could have happened to us became, in many ways, the best. Not because suffering is good, not because I would choose this path if given the option again, but because through this challenge, we grew. We became better, more compassionate people. We discovered strength we didn't know we had. And most importantly, we learned what love really means—not the easy love that comes when everything goes as planned, but the fierce, enduring love that persists through difficulty and emerges stronger on the other side.

Awakening to the Truth

How a Spiritual Experience Ended My Marriage

We rode the highs and weathered the lows, both of us pushed by a life that taxed us heavily. There were moments when opportunity shined bright—my career offered some good breaks, and we began to prosper, or at least thought we might. But for every gain, there was a loss. Ventures failed, money vanished, and often we found ourselves on the edge of financial ruin. The pattern repeated with such predictability that we came to expect disappointment following closely on the heels of any success. Like waves on a shore, each triumph eventually receded, leaving us grasping at wet sand that slipped through our fingers. We stayed together, but more for our son than for each other. Anger settled in; we couldn't reach forgiveness before anger would reignite, turning anger into resentment. Small disagreements erupted into battles neither of us could win, leaving scorched earth where tenderness once grew. Every apology came with an expiration date, a temporary truce in a war that never truly ended.

A Sad Summary of a Forgettable Marriage

Even in good times, Southern California's cost of living was a constant battle. The mortgage consumed half our income, leaving little room for error in our monthly calculations. We lived paycheck to paycheck, a precarious balance that could tip with the slightest misstep. The crash in 2008 hit my real estate work hard, launching us into a dark period that furrowed my brows. Clients disappeared overnight. Projects stalled. Income dried up like desert creeks in summer. Anxiety was the houseguest who wouldn't leave, sitting at our dinner table, accompanying us to bed, greeting us each morning with fresh worries. I felt its weight in my chest, a perpetual tightness that made full breaths impossible. I carried that burden alone, rarely sharing its depth with my wife, not wanting to add to her own struggles. This silence, intended as protection, built another wall between us.

Later, through entrepreneurship, I made investments that promised a better future. I poured everything into new ventures, telling myself and my wife that sacrifice now would mean security later. But the benefits were distant, and the bills still came due each month. Every day was a grind, a slow burn of financial anxiety that unraveled the fabric that bound us. We postponed happiness, deferred dreams, existed in a holding pattern waiting for prosperity that remained just beyond our reach. The strain showed in our faces, in the way our shoulders hunched forward, in the absence of laughter in our home. Our son witnessed this constant tension, absorbing it like a silent sponge, though we tried to shield him from the worst of our worries.

Eventually, we left the coast for a more affordable, stress-free life. The decision came after years of struggling against the financial tide that threatened to drown us. For me, it represented a step toward something better, a chance to move forward, to breathe freely without the crushing weight of coastal expenses. I saw the move as liberation, an opportunity to rebuild what years of struggle had eroded. I imagined us flourishing in a place where financial pressure no longer dominated our days. For her, the move felt like a retreat, a loss of the life she knew, the weather, the rhythm, the things she loved. She mourned the ocean breeze, the familiar streets, the community she'd built. The desert landscape seemed alien and hostile, nothing like the home she'd cultivated. She left behind not just a place but pieces of herself, sacrifices I understood only dimly at the time.

Paradise Lost

At last, we made it. After years of struggle, we reached the life we had always dreamed of—a place we thought was only for others. The strain of scraping by had lifted, the financial weight that had pressed on us for so long finally eased. Our new home cost half what we'd paid in Coastal California, yet offered twice the space. I no longer woke in the night calculating how to cover next month's expenses. The business ventures began paying dividends, creating financial stability we hadn't known in decades. We found ourselves in a community where we could settle, build a life, and set down roots. We even had the dream house, one with space and quiet, somewhere we could call ours. It had a private pool where out son's noises and behaviors concerned no one, and it had rooms for each of us and spaces designed for comfort. The backyard was secured, giving our son freedom to explore safely. By all external measures, we had arrived at the destination we'd struggled toward for so long.

Before the move, her health began to falter—sciatica that clung to her like a shadow, leaving her in constant pain for almost three years. It was agony for her, a trial for all of us. The pain dictated her days, limiting activities, interrupting sleep, dampening any joy that might have broken through our difficulties. Doctors offered little relief beyond medication that dulled her mind along with the pain. Physical therapy provided temporary reprieves but no lasting solution. I watched helplessly as she withdrew further into herself, the vibrant woman I'd married now confined by the prison of her body. The distance between us expanded with her pain, creating another barrier to intimacy neither of us knew how to bridge.

The relief of financial stability finally arrived, we moved into the dream, finally feeling at home, but by then, the road to get there had taken its toll. Even with less stress and better health, adjusting to desert life was a challenge. The heat pressed down during summer months, keeping us indoors when we longed for activity. The isolation of our home, once appealing for its privacy, sometimes felt like exile from the world we'd known. We'd achieved what we wanted only to discover that external circumstances couldn't heal internal fractures. The damage had been done long before we reached our destination. Like travelers who arrive after the festival has ended, we found ourselves standing in an empty field, wondering what we'd missed while focusing so intently on the journey.

Physical Touch and Emotional Closeness

When we first moved in together, our days ended wrapped in each other's arms, our passion relentless, like a fire we thought would never cool. Each night was alive with intensity, and we fell asleep tangled together, bodies and hearts close. Touch came naturally then, a language we both spoke fluently, requiring no translation or negotiation. We sought each other out, craving the connection, the electricity that passed between us with each caress. Our bodies seemed made for each other, responding instinctively to the slightest gesture. Physical intimacy reinforced our emotional bond, creating a virtuous cycle that strengthened our relationship. Those early days held a magic neither of us questioned or analyzed—we simply lived within it, assuming its permanence.

Unfortunately, the touch that once soothed her began to keep her awake. The shift happened gradually, almost imperceptibly at first. She'd move slightly away, creating a small gap between us as we slept. I didn't think much of it initially, attributing the change to comfort or temperature. But the distance grew. First, it was sleeping without embracing; then, it was sleeping without touching at all. The warmth we'd shared cooled by degrees, like a slowly setting sun. She explained that physical contact kept her mind active, made her aware of my presence when she needed unconsciousness. Ostensibly, she couldn't sleep because it made her think about me instead of sleeping, a pleasing lie we both accepted without examining too closely. The truth, more complicated and painful, remained unspoken between us.

Finally, she moved to another room where my night breathing wouldn't disrupt her sleep (I don't snore). The separate bedrooms began as a temporary solution to her insomnia but solidified into permanent arrangement. With each incremental withdrawal, the intimacy we'd shared began to drift further away, like a boat untethered from shore. The physical distance created emotional space neither of us knew how to navigate. Without the anchor of touch, we lost the nonverbal communication that had once bridged our differences. Conversations became more stilted, less intuitive. Arguments increased as we lost the physical reconciliation that had often resolved conflicts before words could. The language of our bodies, once so fluent, became halting and awkward, full of misunderstandings and missed connections.

Her desire for closeness waned, and as her health took a downturn, she wanted little more than relief from the pain, certainly not an amorous husband. The sciatica that tormented her made physical intimacy difficult, sometimes impossible. Pain consumed her attention, leaving little room for desire. I understood this intellectually but struggled emotionally with the rejection. Each night alone in our bed, I felt her absence like a physical presence, a negative space that grew larger as time passed. I tried to be patient, to focus on her recovery rather than my needs, but loneliness settled in me, a cold weight that never fully lifted. I missed not just the physical act but the connection it represented, the wordless way we had once communicated our love.

Couples rarely last long if there are significant differences in levels of desire. The distance between our needs grew from a gap to a chasm. Frustrations mount on both sides, and one of the best opportunities for connection becomes a source of friction. Her appetite for passion faded, while mine remained, adding tension to our relationship and stranding us on different cliffs of a widening chasm. I felt constantly hungry for a connection she couldn't provide; she felt constantly inadequate, failing to meet expectations she no longer shared. The mismatch created resentment on both sides—mine for what I perceived as rejection, hers for what she experienced as pressure. We stopped discussing it directly, allowing the silence around our intimacy to grow until it occupied most of the space between us.

The Chasm

The minor disagreements—the ordinary quarrels of daily life—started to bite harder, more challenging to brush off without the bond we'd once had. Small irritations that we might have laughed off in earlier years now festered like splinters under skin. The way I left cabinet doors open, her tendency to leave lights on throughout the house, my habit of interrupting, her withdrawal during social gatherings—these trivial frictions accumulated, gaining weight and significance beyond their actual importance. With each little pull, the connection we'd built came undone, thread by thread, until finally, there was nothing left between us but distant memories and faded hopes. We operated in the same space but inhabited different emotional worlds, parallel lives that touched only at practical points of household management and parenting decisions.

The love that once anchored us turned cold, replaced by a quiet indifference that blackened our lives. We moved through our days like ghosts haunting the same house, present but not connecting. Conversations became transactional—scheduling, finances, our son's needs—devoid of the warmth that had once made even mundane exchanges meaningful. We still functioned as a family unit but had ceased being partners in any real sense. The vitality drained from our relationship left a hollow shell, a marriage that existed on paper but had died in practice. Yet neither of us acknowledged this death, continuing the motions of couplehood without its substance, maintaining appearances for our son's sake, for financial stability, for the comfort of familiar patterns, even when those patterns brought little joy.

We saw the fracture and knew that something vital had slipped away, and we tried to find our way back to each other. Awareness of our disconnect prompted sporadic efforts to reconnect. We went out, dressed up like we used to, and pretended the years hadn't put miles between us. Date nights orchestrated with careful planning, designed to rekindle what had dimmed. For brief moments, we'd glimpse what we once had—a laugh shared over dinner, a meaningful glance, a touch that didn't feel obligatory. These moments gave us hope, temporary respite from the emotional desert our marriage had become. But each time, the same old troubles crept back in, rising up like ghosts from the past, haunting whatever spark we hoped to reignite. We couldn't shake them, couldn't pretend the scars had faded. The weight of accumulated disappointments, unresolved conflicts, and emotional distance proved too heavy to lift, even in our most determined efforts.

Options for retirement opened up. For the first time, the horizon looked clear. We were poised for something great, but life had other plans. The financial stability we'd finally achieved brought possibilities neither of us had dared consider during our struggling years. We could travel, pursue interests long set aside, create the life we'd postponed for decades. I felt relief, a rare excitement for the days ahead, and I allowed myself to believe in the future. The tightness in my chest eased; sleep came more readily. I began making plans, researching destinations, calculating budgets that didn't require constant compromise. In retrospect, I let myself feel the excitement too much, allowed hope to flourish without tempering it with caution. The foundation on which I built these dreams had already crumbled beneath my feet, though I hadn't yet felt the fall.

Best or Worst?

When our special needs son was born, at first, we believed it was the worst thing that could have happened to us, only later to recognize the priceless value. The diagnosis crushed us initially, collapsing the future we'd imagined into dust. We grieved for the typical childhood he wouldn't have, the milestones he might never reach, the independence he might never achieve. Those early years felt like moving through quicksand—each step a struggle, each day an exercise in endurance rather than joy. Experts offered grim prognoses; relatives suggested institutionalization; friends drifted away, uncomfortable with what they didn't understand. We felt utterly alone with a burden we weren't sure we could carry. Yet as the years passed, perspective shifted. His unconditional love, his unique way of seeing the world, his genuine nature untainted by social deception—these qualities revealed themselves as rare gifts. What we once viewed as tragedy transformed into a profound education in what truly matters. He taught us patience, resilience, and a deeper understanding of human connection than we might otherwise have known. In short, what we initially believed was the worst was actually the best.

When I had a profound spiritual experience, I believed it was the crowning achievement of 35 years of spiritual practice, the best outcome I could imagine. Later, I discovered the price was my marriage and family life, not what I wanted. The awakening felt like ascension, a breakthrough to a higher state of consciousness I'd sought through decades of meditation and study. In that moment of ecstatic revelation, I believed I'd reached the pinnacle of spiritual development, the reward for years of disciplined practice. The energy coursing through me seemed Divine, connecting me to something larger than myself, larger than ordinary human experience. I felt chosen, blessed, fundamentally transformed. What I couldn't see through that brilliant light was the shadow it cast—the fear it inspired in my wife, the instability it introduced to our home, the foundation it cracked beneath our feet. What came as illumination to me arrived as darkness for her. My spiritual zenith became the nadir of our marriage, a cruel irony I couldn't comprehend until much later, when the dust of our separation had settled and clarity emerged from chaos.

Loss is gain, and gain is loss: the irony of the worldly winds.

Buddhist teachings speak of the eight worldly winds that blow through human life: pleasure and pain, gain and loss, praise and blame, fame and disrepute. These opposing forces constantly shift, reversing with unpredictable timing. What we grasp as positive often reveals hidden costs; what we avoid as negative frequently contains unexpected blessings. Our son's autism, initially received as devastating loss, yielded profound gains in perspective and capacity for love. My spiritual awakening, celebrated as ultimate gain, manifested as irrevocable loss of family stability. These reversals remind us that attachment to any fixed view—whether of triumph or disaster—misses the complex interweaving of experience. What seems finished often begins something new; what appears broken often creates space for unexpected wholeness. The winds continue blowing regardless of our preferences, teaching us again and again the futility of clinging to any permanent state of affairs.

The Night Everything Changed

On October 30, 2023, my emotionally exuberant experience ended our marriage. The date stands fixed in my memory, immovable as a gravestone marking the death of what we'd built over two decades. About a month earlier, I'd received life-changing financial news that promised security and ease, a vision of a bright future for us all. Years of risky investments had finally paid off, creating the stability we'd sought throughout our marriage. That excitement simmered inside me, a pressure building until it felt like it would burst. I carried it close, letting it grow, perhaps unwisely failing to recognize how the intensity of my emotion might appear to others. The anticipation built day by day, filling me with an energy I struggled to contain, transforming my outlook, reshaping my understanding of what our future might hold.

At around 5:30 in the evening, I felt it crest—a torrent of emotions I didn't want to hold back. Surrounded by family, safe in our home, I let it flow. The dam broke, releasing years of pent-up tension, anxiety, and—finally—relief. The feeling wasn't simply happiness or excitement but something more profound, a fundamental shift in consciousness that altered my perception of reality itself. In that moment, it felt like a spiritual awakening, something people chase after at revivals or on mountaintops, seeking a connection to something larger. I experienced it as transcendence, as elevation beyond ordinary constraints, as liberation from fear that had shadowed me through decades of financial insecurity. My body tingled with energy; my mind expanded beyond familiar boundaries; my heart opened with a love that seemed to encompass everything and everyone.

But in my home, it became the breaking point. What I experienced as spiritual awakening, my wife witnessed as frightening instability. The decision not to suppress the emotional onslaught and prevent the experience became the triggering event that finally prompted her to want out. Looking back, I can see how my behavior—jumping, shouting, moving erratically—might have appeared alarming to someone not experiencing the internal transformation that drove it. My choice to surrender to the experience rather than maintain composed exterior control fractured whatever trust remained between us. The very moment that felt like my greatest freedom became the catalyst for the end of our union. The irony cuts deep: what liberated me imprisoned our marriage in a terminal diagnosis from which no recovery proved possible.

My Experience

I felt forces brewing inside of me that were building to something. I didn't know what it was exactly, but I strongly suspected I was about to have an intense emotional experience, a heart cleansing. The sensation began subtly—a warming in my chest, a lightness in my thoughts, a sense of expanding awareness that grew stronger by the hour. I recognized the signs from previous, milder spiritual experiences during deep meditation. This felt different, though—more powerful, more all-encompassing, as if years of practice had been preparation for this singular moment. I felt curiosity and excitement envelop me, the question arose: How much love can you channel? My adventurous spirit yearned to press the limits. Rather than fear the intensity building within me, I welcomed it, curious about where it might lead, how far it might take me beyond my ordinary consciousness. The energy felt clean, positive, loving—nothing that warranted resistance or control.

I began hugging and later jumping while embracing my 22-year-old special needs son. His presence acted as catalyst and amplifier to what was already occurring. My son loves me unconditionally, and his love and mine combined to bring about a powerful spiritual burst. His innocence, his pure acceptance, his complete absence of judgment created the perfect environment for what was unfolding in me. As I held him, the energy intensified, a current running between us that magnified what had begun as my individual experience. His joy at my excitement fed the cycle, creating a feedback loop of positive emotion that accelerated the process. I felt boundaries dissolving—between him and me, between my ordinary self and something vaster, between human limitation and divine possibility.

The feelings overwhelmed me, overtook any rational thought, and the emotions poured out, raw and untamed. I surrendered completely to the experience, allowing it to carry me where it would, relinquishing the controlling voice that normally monitored and moderated my behavior. I jumped. I shouted. I moved. My body needed to express physically what was happening spiritually; stillness felt impossible in the face of such expansion. I let the energy flow as it would, like a dam breaking open. The release felt necessary, inevitable, beyond choice—as natural as breathing or heartbeat. I was empowered. OMG! I was really, really Empowered!!! The sense of limitation that had constrained me throughout my life vanished, replaced by a powerful knowing that I was connected to something infinite, something beyond the small self I'd identified with for decades. My heart light ignited, and I was ablaze!

In those first moments of true power, when the euphoria dulled just enough to feel the raw Qi surging through me, I could sense every chakra was blown open, the heart pulling most of the flow. Energy coursed through my body's centers like electricity finding the path of least resistance. My heart chakra dominated—expanding, radiating, connecting me to everything around me with cords of light and love. The sensation was physical as well as spiritual—warmth spreading through my chest, a rhythmic pulsing that synchronized with but transcended my heartbeat, a tangible force moving through and beyond the boundaries of my flesh. Gratitude for my training rose in me like a steadying anchor. To tame the chaos, my mind leaped to a familiar Lamrim meditation, instinctively seeking balance in the storm of energy. That meditation held the map to what was happening, grounding me, giving direction to the rush. The structured practice provided context for the overwhelming experience, helping me navigate waters that might otherwise have drowned rational thought entirely.

… through the power of our pure intention of wishing love and great accumulation of merit… Infinite light rays radiate from our body and pervade the entire universe, reaching the bodies and minds of all living beings and bestowing upon them the supreme happiness of permanent inner peace.
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The words from the meditation practice flowed through my mind, giving shape to the formless energy surging through me. This wasn't just emotional release but directed compassion, universal love extending beyond personal boundaries. My heart felt like a quasar radiating light with such intensity that it outshone the entire Milky Way galaxy by a thousand times! The metaphor felt literal in that moment—my physical body a vessel for cosmic force, my individual consciousness a conduit for universal love, my separate self dissolved into boundless connection with all beings. OMG!!! The exclamation rose from depths beyond thought, a primordial recognition of something both entirely new and eternally familiar.

Per my training, I held that feeling as long as I could, holding it, feeling it, watching it, marveling at the Power! It was incredible! I maintained awareness even as I surrendered to the experience, applying mindfulness techniques cultivated through years of meditation. This dual consciousness—simultaneously immersed and observing—allowed me to fully experience the awakening while retaining memory and integration of its lessons.

Perhaps you felt my Blessing? I assure you I did!

The energy seemed to radiate beyond my physical form, touching everything around me, creating a field of positive intention that transcended ordinary boundaries of self and other. Imagine that experience!

Blast Off!!!

The rocket metaphor captured the sense of leaving behind familiar territory, of accelerating beyond normal constraints, of entering a new dimension of consciousness where different laws apply and new perspectives become possible.

I felt an emotional release like no other. Years—twenty-four of them—of financial tension, of stress, coiled tight around my nerves, vanished in an instant, never to return. The liberation felt complete and permanent, not a temporary relief but a fundamental transformation of my relationship with anxiety. The weight I'd carried for decades simply dissolved, leaving lightness in its place. My heart was suddenly unburdened; my whole body, every cell, came alive. Energy replaced exhaustion; possibility replaced limitation; hope replaced resignation. The chronic tension that had become so familiar I'd stopped noticing it disappeared, revealing by its absence how deeply it had affected my daily experience. My adrenaline surged, flooding me with a surge of energy that felt boundless, like life itself coursing through me, vivid and fierce. The biochemical reality of the experience was undeniable—my nervous system engaged in ways that created physical sensation matching the spiritual revelation.

For a while, my mind felt sharper, clearer, as if some fog had lifted and I could see straight to the heart of things. Thoughts flowed with unusual coherence and insight; connections between ideas emerged that I'd never noticed before; solutions to long-standing problems appeared with startling simplicity. I felt connections I hadn't felt before, a deeper sense of who I was and how the world moved. The boundaries between self and other, between internal and external, between past and future all softened, revealing an interconnectedness that had always existed beneath the illusion of separation. It was elation, pure and simple, the kind that takes hold of body and spirit. Joy bubbled up from an inexhaustible wellspring, flowing through me without effort or attachment to cause. I felt magnificent—physically, mentally, every part of me alive in a way I hadn't known possible. The integration of body, mind, and spirit created a wholeness I'd glimpsed in meditation but never experienced with such sustained intensity in ordinary waking consciousness.

Her Experience

Her experience was not as uplifting. In fact, it couldn't have been further to the other extreme. While I floated on waves of ecstatic revelation, she drowned in terror and confusion. The contrast could not have been more stark or more tragic. She was terrified. What appeared to her was not spiritual transcendence but psychiatric emergency, not awakening but breakdown. My behavior—the jumping, the shouting, the uncharacteristic physical expressiveness—triggered deep fear rather than understanding or participation. She saw someone she didn't recognize, someone whose actions seemed dangerous and unpredictable rather than enlightened. The intensity that felt liberating to me registered as threatening to her, creating an immediate fight-or-flight response she couldn't control. Her body tensed; her breathing shortened; her mind raced with worst-case scenarios that seemed increasingly plausible as the evening progressed.

What I felt as a wave of life and release, she saw as something dark and dangerous. To her, it looked like madness—a psychotic break unraveling before her eyes. The behaviors that expressed my inner transformation appeared to her as symptoms of serious mental illness. Where I experienced expansion and connection, she perceived disintegration and chaos. Her clinical background in psychology provided categories that seemed to fit what she witnessed—mania, psychosis, break from reality—terms that carried weight and consequence, that demanded intervention rather than celebration. She feared for herself, for our son, feared what might happen if I lost control. Her entire life, the life we'd built, seemed to be crumbling, disintegrating right there in front of her. The stable partner she'd counted on through decades of challenges suddenly appeared unstable, unreliable, potentially harmful. Everything she thought she knew about me came into question, replaced by frightening uncertainty about who I had become and what might happen next.

When I brought my son into the moment, hoping to share what felt like a revelation, her fear only deepened. She worried I might harm him, her mind racing to protect him from whatever chaos she believed was unfolding. Our special needs son required consistency and calm, thriving on routine and predictability. My unusual behavior disrupted everything he depended on for security, potentially triggering his own anxiety and confusion. She saw me involving him in what she perceived as dangerous instability, perhaps even putting him at physical risk with the jumping and movement that accompanied my awakening. All she wanted was for it to stop, rewind time, and erase what she saw as a descent into madness, pretend it never happened. The need to restore normalcy, to protect our son, to salvage the security she thought we'd finally achieved after years of struggle drove her actions that night and in the days that followed.

Two worldviews collide

For her, the experience was a nightmare. For me, it was dream come true. We couldn't have seen things more differently. The same event, witnessed from radically different perspectives, created irreconcilable narratives. No common ground existed between her experience of witnessing psychological breakdown and my experience of spiritual breakthrough. These contradictory interpretations created a fundamental incompatibility that no amount of discussion or explanation could resolve. It was the kind of divide that swallows everything whole, a chasm too wide to cross. She and I dug in, each clinging to our own version of the truth, unable to yield. The certainty with which we each held our perspective made compromise impossible. Neither of us could accept the other's interpretation without abandoning our own, and neither was willing to do so.

Her Truth

For her, it had to be madness—bipolar mania. She saw my release, my elation, as nothing but a mental breakdown, a dark spiral that had terrified her. That fear consumed her, driving every angry action that followed. Her background in psychology gave her framework for understanding unusual behavior, and what she witnessed fit neatly into categories of mental illness she recognized. The intensity, the elevated mood, the physical agitation, the rapid speech—all aligned with diagnostic criteria for manic episode. Her training and experience left no room for alternative explanations; what she saw was pathology requiring immediate intervention. In her panic, she called the police. The decision came from genuine concern, though I experienced it as betrayal. Three officers arrived, weapons visible, creating an atmosphere of crisis where I had felt only transcendence. In a state of euphoria, I needed to calmly assure three armed police I was no threat. I managed this successfully, explaining my emotional release in terms they could understand without escalation. She was unconvinced and left me alone for the night when I needed help the most.

The next day, we went to the clinic because I wanted to assure her I was in perfect health, better than ever, in fact. The medical visit was my attempt at reconciliation, at providing objective evidence that would ease her fears. I submitted to examination willingly, confident that physical measurements would reveal wellness rather than illness. She was unwilling to believe the doctors who said my heart raced only with the thrill of the moment, my blood pressure high from emotion, not illness. The clinical data supporting my interpretation—vital signs within normal ranges, no evidence of toxicity or physical distress—failed to penetrate her certainty. She nodded at their reassurances but remained unconvinced, her fear too deeply rooted to be dislodged by medical opinion that contradicted her own assessment. She pretended to be accepting, but she bided her time. The apparent calm was merely strategic, a temporary accommodation while she formulated her next move.

She waited until I spoke with an old friend, then clandestinely took our son, and dog, and slipped away. The moment I was distracted, engaged in conversation that temporarily directed my attention elsewhere, she executed her escape plan. Taking our son she justified as motherly protection, but taking the dog was pure, petty revenge, intended to be hurtful. The family pet had no bearing on safety concerns; its absence served only to deepen my pain and isolation.

She was really pissed off!!!

Her anger mixed with fear created a potent combination that overrode any compassion she might have felt for my confusion and hurt. She left me stunned, horrified, stupified. I instinctively knew this meant my marriage was over, but hope, duty, remembered love, motivated me to try to make amends. I couldn't accept the finality of what had occurred, couldn't believe that one evening's events could erase two decades of shared life and commitment.

She withheld contact, holding our child and dog for ransom until I agreed to her terms, to her demands for a hospital admission. Communication ceased entirely; my calls went unanswered; my messages received no response. She used access to our son as leverage, making clear that seeing him required compliance with her assessment of my mental state and her prescribed solution. I knew I was fine, so I surrendered, placated her, and hoped the act would bridge the gap.

The voluntary psychiatric admission felt like surrender to an unjust authority, a betrayal of my own experience and truth. But that time in the mental health hospital was a nightmare I can't erase. The cold, clinical environment, the loss of basic freedoms, the indignity of being observed and evaluated as potentially dangerous or unstable—all created trauma that layered over what had begun as profound spiritual opening. If I hadn't been so strong, that place would have broken me. My resilience allowed me to maintain internal integrity even while outwardly complying with treatment protocols that addressed problems I didn't believe I had.

And when I emerged, holding reports from doctors who saw no illness, she dismissed them all. The psychiatric evaluation yielded no diagnosis requiring ongoing treatment or medication, supporting my contention that I had experienced an intense emotional release rather than psychotic break. But these professional opinions meant nothing to her; she had already committed fully to her interpretation. Her mind was set, firm in her belief, convinced that anything less was too great a risk. The possibility of future episodes, of unpredictable behavior that might endanger her or our son, outweighed any evidence suggesting my stability. With that, the marriage was lost. The decision had been made, not in careful consideration of all available information, but in the moment of fear that night in October. Everything that followed merely confirmed and solidified what fear had already determined.

She was committed to separation and divorce, no matter the consequences to her or the family, her aversion to me so strong that loneliness and destitution were preferable to our lives together. The financial security we'd finally achieved, the stability we'd created for our son, the practical advantages of remaining married—none of these practical considerations could compete with her need to escape what she perceived as danger. I tried everything, going above and beyond to demonstrate wholeness and strength to save our marriage. I demonstrated consistent stability in all interactions—all efforts to prove the episode had been isolated and non-threatening. Nothing I did mattered, and further resistance was futile. She was a machine bent on my destruction, her course set with unwavering determination that no evidence or argument could divert.

To her, separation and divorce seemed rational, almost prudent, a precaution taken for safety's sake. Her decision appeared to her as responsible parenting, as necessary self-protection, as the only sane response to what she had witnessed. But this certainty, this feeling of rationality and righteous justification depends entirely upon her belief, her reference frame, that says I am a weak man, buffeted by forces he can't control, unstable, unable to support the family. Her entire case rested on a particular interpretation of one evening's events, on categorizing my experience according to a paradigm that pathologized spiritual awakening as mental illness. But to admit any other interpretation—a moment of spiritual awakening, a flood of life force—would mean I am none of the things she fears. Then she would have little choice but to face the harm her choices had done to both of us, taking responsibility for herself. She hasn't accepted that yet. And, sadly, to her own detriment, she habitually chooses resentment over understanding, acceptance, and forgiveness, so I doubt she ever will.

My Truth

I needed this to be a spiritual awakening; I needed it to be something pure and profound. My interpretation wasn't merely preference but existential necessity. First and foremost, that's what it felt like—a surge of energy that cracked open some new place within me. The experience carried a quality of revelation that transcended ordinary emotional states, connecting me to something larger than my individual self. Yes, I was disoriented for a couple of days, flooded with intense emotion, but as the days passed, I felt something deepen; the event illuminated a hidden path to peace and wholeness. Rather than destabilizing me, the experience integrated aspects of myself previously disconnected, creating greater coherence and clarity in my perception and understanding. Except for those initial hours of irrationality, I've felt incredible ever since. This experience held personal power and gave me a clarity that I carried forward, no matter the cost. The transformation wasn't temporary euphoria but lasting shift in consciousness that continued to inform my daily life, relationships, and spiritual practice long after the intense initial experience subsided.

I could have denied it all, buried my truth to make peace. The path of least resistance beckoned clearly—accept her interpretation, apologize for frightening her, agree to psychiatric treatment, medications, monitoring. I could have tried to believe her version, to see myself as broken. Many in my position might have chosen this route, sacrificing personal truth for relationship preservation. I could have swallowed that notion, pretending it was just an episode of mania and nothing more. But the lie would be hollow and dangerous, leaving me fragile, less than myself—a man stripped of his core. Such a surrender would be weak, cowardly, the kind of denial that kills slowly. It would require rejecting not just this single experience but the spiritual framework that had guided my life for decades, the practices that had sustained me through difficulties, the understanding that gave meaning to my existence beyond material concerns.

She would have seen me as pathetic, unworthy, a man who's unstable, lacking leadership confidence. Accepting her interpretation would have fundamentally altered how she perceived me, replacing the strong partner she'd once respected with a patient requiring management and supervision. And even then, she would believe what she believed; nothing would change. The damage had been done; fear had taken root too deeply to be easily dislodged. No amount of self-deprecation or denial of my experience would restore her trust or rebuild what had been broken that night. For once, swallowing pride, usually a marriage best practice, was not the answer, not the solution to restore what was already gone. Some ruptures cannot be mended, some trust cannot be rebuilt, some differences cannot be reconciled through compromise or accommodation.

Divorce was the Best Option

In the end, our separate needs were like repelling magnets, pushing us apart, with each of us clutching onto a version of reality that felt essential. The harder we tried to pull together, the stronger the forces of separation became. She needed to see me as a weak man who had lost control; I needed to see myself as a strong man who'd broken through. These opposing interpretations created mutually exclusive worldviews, fundamental differences in how we understood reality itself. The marriage had no way forward, no common ground where both truths could live. We had reached an impasse where compromise would require one of us to deny core aspects of identity and experience—a price neither was willing or able to pay. Divorce was the only path left, the only honest acknowledgment of the irreconcilable differences that now defined our relationship.

Having it Both Ways

From the outside, it looks so simple. Why couldn't it be both a spiritual awakening and a manic episode? Why does one truth need to exclude the other? This reasonable-sounding question misses the deeper implications of each interpretation. Because each of us has a vested emotional interest in rejecting the other's worldview. My spiritual framework cannot accommodate pathologizing transcendent experience as illness; her psychological framework cannot accommodate validating potentially dangerous behavior as enlightenment. The two paradigms operate from fundamentally different assumptions about human consciousness, reality, and wellbeing. The problem with any spiritual experience is the subjectivity of it. Nobody knows what happened inside my mind and heart other than me. How I interpret my experience is for me alone to determine. Nobody can compel me to accept their interpretation of my subjective experience. The interior nature of consciousness makes external judgment inherently limited, unable to access the qualities that defined the experience from within.

The truth of our complete freedom to interpret our own experiences is central to my spiritual practice, a truth I can't ignore. This understanding—that each consciousness remains sovereign in its interpretations—forms the foundation of my approach to spirituality. To surrender this principle would undermine not just this particular experience but my entire spiritual path. We can only rely on behavior to infer what's happening in another's mind. My behavior during the event and for a few days after was unusual. This much remains objectively true, observable by any witness. Doctors have their clinical definitions. To them, it fits under "bipolar manic episode," ticking enough boxes that they could find a label. The medical model provides categories based on observable behavior patterns, allowing for diagnosis and treatment protocols regardless of subjective experience. However, Western medicine has no room for spirituality or subjective experience. They are trained to see only what can be measured and classified, and any intense spiritual experience becomes a symptom, a condition to be treated, usually with powerful and unnecessary drugs. The paradigm itself excludes non-pathological interpretations of exceptional states of consciousness, limiting understanding to materialist explanations of brain chemistry and psychological mechanisms.

Yet, to me, the experience was more than a medical event; it changed me deeply and reshaped the core of who I am. The transformation wasn't merely subjective feeling but tangible shift in how I related to myself, others, and the world. Afterward, there was a new peace, even amid life's upheavals. My thoughts ran clearer, sharper; I found myself more open, even drawn to others. The inward walls I'd lived behind softened. Chronic anxiety that had accompanied financial concerns for decades disappeared completely, replaced by genuine trust in life's unfolding. This experience was more than an episode—it was a shift, a turning point. The lasting positive changes in my psychological state, emotional regulation, and interpersonal connections testified to its transformative rather than pathological nature. In the year that's transpired since this event, despite the upheavals and changes, I've remained calm and steady, and when not feeling sadness and mourning, I have been ecstatically happy, free from anxiety, and living with passion. This ongoing stability and improved wellbeing directly contradicts the prognosis that would accompany genuine psychiatric emergency, which would typically show deterioration rather than enhancement of functioning over time.

We held our separate truths like shields and still do. She needed to believe it was mania, a breakdown, something medical and understood. I needed to hold onto it as a breakthrough, a spiritual rise. We couldn't bridge that gap. The distance between our interpretations wasn't merely intellectual disagreement but existential necessity for both of us. Both of us dug in, each demanding the right to interpret what happened as we saw it, unwilling to let the other's truth stand, mocking each other for being foolish. So, we turned away from each other, leaving the marriage in fragments, fractured by the weight of our opposing beliefs. What began as one evening's extraordinary experience became the final breaking point for a relationship already strained by years of challenges, revealing irreconcilable differences in our fundamental understanding of reality, spirituality, and meaning.

Financial Freedom is Relationship Freedom

We reached a point of financial stability, which gave us a freedom we hadn't felt before. The investments had finally matured, creating security neither of us had known through most of our marriage. For years, money had tethered us and kept us bound despite the cracks that spread through the marriage. Financial interdependence had maintained our connection when emotional bonds weakened, practical necessity overriding personal preference. With the security of going our separate ways, divorce was no longer an unbearable cost. We could divide assets without either facing destitution; we could maintain separate households without financial strain; we could provide for our son from two homes rather than one. The practical obstacles that might have prevented separation in earlier years had disappeared, removing the external pressure that had helped hold our marriage together despite internal fractures.

Her Reasons

Divorce was suddenly a viable option, and she clutched it like a lifeline to the freedom she didn't enjoy in our marriage. The financial stability created opportunity for independence she hadn't previously imagined possible. For her, the marriage had taken too much. She'd reached a breaking point, years ago, suffering in quiet despair until Life gifted her the keys to the prison door. My spiritual experience provided the final justification she needed to escape a relationship that had long since ceased nourishing her spirit or meeting her needs. She identified me as the root of her unhappiness, a source of relentless stress that had seeped into her body and mind. Years of financial struggle, relocations, caregiving responsibilities for our son—all these stressors she associated with our partnership, with decisions we'd made together but that she now viewed as primarily serving my goals rather than hers.

She believed I could never fully accept her or appreciate who she was—not in the way she needed, and she was right. Short of divorce, I might never have shown her the acceptance she sought or realized the error of my ways. The relationship itself had created patterns that prevented the very qualities she most needed—acknowledgment, appreciation, acceptance without judgment or expectation. Intimacy was another fracture. She had come to view sex as a duty, something heavy and joyless, a burden rather than a bond. Between menopause and her angry feelings, pleasing me was not high on her to-do list. Physical connection had become another obligation in a life already overflowing with responsibilities, another demand rather than mutual pleasure or expression of love. The warmth between us had cooled, and she saw no path to rekindling it. She didn't see the spark we had at the beginning, nor could she envision a future that promised any of the joy we'd once shared. The passion that once bound us had long since faded, replaced by habit and convenience rather than desire or affection.

She had a fistful of IOUs, but no pot of gold was waiting for her, only a long, empty road stretching on, and she didn't want to walk it anymore. The years of sacrifice, compromise, and accommodation had accumulated without the promised reward of lasting happiness or fulfillment. Understanding her reasons and agreeing with them made it easier for me to drop the dutiful pursuit of reconciliation and let the marriage go without further resistance. Seeing the validity in her perspective allowed me to release my grip on what could not be salvaged, to accept the ending with as much grace as possible under the circumstances.

My Reasons

My reasons for leaving were just as clear and deeply felt. While her decision initiated our separation, I found my own compelling justifications for accepting rather than fighting it. I had reached for her in a rare moment of need, vulnerable and hoping for support. Instead, I met silence and cold restraint. At that moment, I felt abandoned and let down in a way that cut deep. Her response to my spiritual opening—fear, rejection, psychiatric intervention rather than curiosity, compassion, or even cautious openness—revealed fundamental incompatibility in our approaches to life's mysteries and challenges.

That moment sealed something—I saw how easily she placed her needs above mine, discounting my value to zero. In that light, I couldn't trust her to be there for me, nor could I allow her to decide for me if I could not choose for myself. The relationship had revealed itself as fundamentally unsafe for authentic self-expression, for vulnerability, for the kind of radical honesty that spiritual growth often requires.

Years of unspoken grudges festered between us, a quiet poison. Every argument, big or small, would stir up those old wounds, reigniting a fire never fully extinguished. There was no peace there, only the echo of things we couldn't let go of. Each disagreement carried the weight of all previous conflicts, creating disproportionate reactions to minor issues. It would never change, not with our stubbornness and need to keep control. She wanted submission from me that I couldn't give, and I couldn't bear her methods of holding back affection as leverage.

The patterns had become too entrenched to disrupt; the scripts too familiar to rewrite; the hurt too deep to heal through ordinary relationship efforts. Our love reservoir had dried up, leaving only a mud flat, evaporated by bitterness and the absence of intimacy. If we stayed together, we'd be ghosts in each other's lives, passing by in separate rooms, maybe sharing a few better moments here and there. The relationship would consist primarily of practical arrangements and parenting coordination rather than genuine connection or mutual enjoyment. There was no spark left, no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for me either.

A friend flatly quipped, "So she hates you, and won't fuck you. Good reasons for divorce." His crass and accurate assessment cut through the extraneous bullshit like only a male friend can. The blunt summary stripped away pretense and rationalization, reducing our complex situation to its essential truths with uncomfortable clarity.

And maybe I had a reason to hope for a future after divorce. I was still healthy, strong, and potentially available for a new life partnership that could grow in ways she and I never could. I had options, and I needed to take them while they were still within reach. The possibility of finding connection with someone whose worldview aligned more closely with mine, whose approach to spirituality complemented rather than contradicted my own, offered hope beyond the ending of this relationship.

Our Reasons

We were both worn down, every last reserve tapped. The years had wrung us out and left us dry and exhausted. The cumulative effect of financial struggles, parenting challenges, health issues, and emotional distance had depleted whatever resilience might have helped us navigate this final crisis. The thought of reconciling lay heavy between us—a boulder we didn't have the strength to lift. The work required to rebuild trust, reestablish connection, and create shared understanding after such fundamental rupture appeared insurmountable from where we stood. We could still see the faintest traces of joy, but they flickered too far in the distance, like something that belonged to other people. The memory of what we'd once shared only highlighted the emptiness of what remained, making the contrast between past connection and present alienation all the more painful.

Years of bruised feelings and old resentments stood between us, festering wounds we never quite managed to heal. The accumulated hurt created a barrier that new goodwill couldn't penetrate; the history of disappointment overshadowed any potential for fresh beginning. We couldn't see a way forward, not with those ghosts hovering close, feeding off all that was broken and unfixable. The past had become too heavy, too dominant in our relationship to allow space for different future to emerge. There was no promise of bliss, no final, saving light—only the cold comfort of letting go. Release offered the only relief we could imagine from the persistent discomfort of trying to make work what had been broken beyond repair.

Amicable Split

We parted ways without rage or shouting, without the storm most expect from the end of two decades. Despite the pain and disappointment, we maintained civility and basic respect throughout the separation process. We'd done the best we could, with the knowledge we had, with whatever maturity we managed to acquire. It hadn't been enough, but it had been all we had. So we walked away, saddened but certain it was right. The decision, once made, brought clarity that had been missing during our attempts at reconciliation. And when we moved to separate houses, a calm descended—a quiet relief from the everyday madness of each other. The physical separation created emotional space for both of us to begin healing individually, without the constant reopening of wounds that proximity had maintained.

Our son would still have us both, just ten minutes apart. This practical arrangement allowed him continuity of relationship with both parents despite the change in family structure. We firmly agreed that his life would be sane and steady. His wellbeing remained our shared priority, the one goal that transcended our differences and motivated ongoing cooperation despite the end of our marriage. He was why we'd stayed together for twenty years, though the love had faltered long before. His needs had provided purpose and connection when other aspects of our relationship weakened, giving meaning to a partnership that might otherwise have ended years earlier.

We hope this peace holds for his sake. Ultimately, we aim to be kind to keep this truce. The commitment to civility serves not just our son but ourselves as well, allowing dignity and maturity to characterize our post-marriage relationship rather than bitterness or hostility. Maybe, just maybe, we'll stay this way, amicable and calm, so our son has two parents, steady and solid, if only from a short distance away. The parallel paths we now walk will never converge again as partnership, but they need not diverge into animosity or resentment. Perhaps in time, as healing progresses, something like friendship might emerge from the ashes of what once was love.

The Mistaken Beliefs that Ruined My Marriage

Lessons from the Wreckage

I'm blessed that I've always had genuine self-confidence, not complete, not unshakable, but durable enough to feel prideful certainty in areas where ignorance reigned. This paradox—confidence paired with blindness—became the unseen current pulling my marriage toward rocky shores. I built up mistaken beliefs that undermined my marriage. They took root quietly, twisting my actions, warping my perspective, making me forget the core of who I was.

I acted in ways that stripped me of my strength and eroded the confidence I'd once wielded like a warrior. This wasn't the man I knew myself to be. I lost him in compromise after compromise, not the kind, accommodating acquiescence that limits relationship turbulence. I postured, then submitted weakly, femininely, to her masculine power, preferring to avoid the battlefield and the emotional damage.

If I fought her masculine with my own, the mutual wounding would scar us both, hastening divorce to dodge the draft and avoid combat. Caving to demands seemed the only option, but the coward's death is just as certain, merely dragged out like a torturer's rack, the agony prolonged, perhaps twenty years or more.

Each misstep weakened what should have been unshakable, and I watched it crumble, helpless to hold the pieces together, unable to comprehend what I now believe. But from the wreckage, I learned. My motivation was honorable, yet my marriage failed, so I reviewed what I did and why. It wasn't my intentions; my failure was how my good intentions were distorted, warped like a carnival mirror, pointing to the wrong behavior, producing results contrary to my desires, the death of my marriage.

My research, my look inside, revealed truths about love, respect, and boundaries I should have known better than to cross or ignore. I changed inside based on what I learned. I also learned there are subtle reactions in myself, or a lover, I couldn't accept—tiny, almost invisible cracks in behavior, subtle attitudes that, over time, could hollow out a person's heart. Divorce was a hard lesson, sharp and unforgiving, but it opened my eyes. I walked away, knowing myself in a way I hadn't before, knowing what I needed and could no longer overlook.

Women's Liberation and Equality

I believe women stand as equals to men—in intellect, in society, in politics, and in economics. There is no task of the mind or heart that men can do and women cannot. Women and men are made of the same grit and fire, equally capable of pushing boundaries and crossing lines others say they shouldn't. They deserve equal rights, equal pay, and equal footing, plain and simple.

Misogyny—the last crutch of weak men—is how the fearful and the small-hearted try to keep women down. They wield it like a blunt weapon, holding back talent and ambition to serve their own purposes, always at a woman's cost. When the women's liberation movement stands up against misogyny, I stand with them. For too long, men like these have wielded their ignorance as power, and it has to end. Misogyny has nothing to do with true masculinity. Dominance isn't keeping others trapped, dependent, lording over them like a petty tyrant, Handmaiden's Tale style.

True strength and dominance are signs that a man has tamed and forged himself, embodying passion, boundless energy, the straight arrow that never wavers. But I've also seen the complexity of this struggle. The women's liberation movement fights a worthy fight, but even noble change can be sharp-edged. What might elevate one part of life sometimes makes another part heavier.

No Household Equality

Men and women as couples do not stand as equals, not in private. Despite society conspiring to shape us, fundamental power dynamics, coded into our DNA for what attracts and repels, resist society's wishes and demands. We are shaped differently, each with a role that fits into the other. Men embody masculinity—dominant, assertive, and unafraid. We are meant to lead with courage and strength at our core. Women balance this, holding the grace of femininity: nurturing, supportive, sensitive, and steady as companions. Together, we form a natural rhythm, one supporting the other, each filling spaces the other cannot.

Relationships were never meant to be constant battles for control, a relentless struggle of wills. When both carry the weight of dominance, even the slightest disagreement can grow, becoming a power play where each tries to rule over decisions that should unite rather than divide. Battles and endless disagreements create negative energy—a wedge that grows until it drives people apart. And when the one who bends or loses holds onto resentment, it becomes a slow drain, sapping the bond until it withers. In the end, strength lies not in battling each other but in balancing each other, moving in step, and learning where to lead and where to follow.

Couples functioning as democracies of two fail to function, too many disputes become intractable impasses that reduce momentum, festering as anger never to be resolved. A decisive, trustworthy leader decides for the couple, consequences are shared, forgiveness granted, the relationship progresses.

The Masculine Woman

When a woman turns masculine, a man with true masculinity won't be drawn to her, and not because men fail to admire a strong woman. Men with strength admire and respect a woman who stands tall, willing to face adversity. However, masculine men want to fight for their mates, not with their mates. There's a thrill for men in winning a woman's heart but none in battling her for control. If a woman chooses to clash for power rather than offer support, a strong man will state his views, acknowledging the woman's truth, but he wastes little effort convincing or arguing—he disengages the conflict, walks away, never escalates.

If they fail to find common ground on important issues, rather than battle to impose change on each other, a gentleman will politely move on, never clinging, cajoling, or surrendering his power. A feminine woman considering nesting with a masculine man accepts his character, his behavior as-is, knowing up-front she can't bend him to her will. A gentleman's nest is not a gilded cage confining the dove. Flying or nesting is entirely up to her. Couples are meant to share warmth, to build something steady and sound together, not to be dragged down by constant skirmishes. Good energy, easy and unforced, should flow between them. Masculine women will always struggle to maintain a relationship with a truly masculine man due to the conflicts and struggle for power.

The Beta Male

Masculine women end up with weak men, men who yield to a dominant woman's strength. It keeps the peace, at least for a while. Beta men share a single trait: they'll sacrifice anything to keep a woman around, to please her, to avoid rocking the boat. A dominant woman finds fleeting satisfaction in this, a thrill in having a man bend to her will, a rush of power that lingers for a time. But in the long run, she feels something slipping. Even the strongest woman feels the pull to want a stronger man who can tame her wild edges. It's in our biology.

She may conquer, control, and cycle through weaker men, but once she has a man fully under her thumb, her attraction for him flags, her fire goes out, and the rush of power loses wattage. She starts looking outward, feeling the urge to leave and search for someone new, someone stronger—a masculine man.

Disney's Aladdin is Pathetic

Disney's Aladdin wasn't a man of strength. He was a scoundrel trying to charm his way into life with a princess—a life where she held all the power. The writers dressed him up with just enough of an edge to be mysterious, gave him a makeshift home, and crafted situations where he could swoop in, play hero, and show his devotion. For a time, it worked. He seemed bold enough, edgy enough, almost worthy of the princess he sought. But when she took her power back, standing tall with her own authority, exuding masculine power, he looked small beside her, a shadow of masculinity, submissive, softened, foolish.

It didn't matter how he got there or the lengths he went to impress her. Once in her world, he looked like a man without courage, a figure too meek to claim a king's castle. His appeal dropped to nothing. All the edge vanished, leaving only a flaccid shell of a man too limp to rise to the throne, a cute loser for the cover of Tiger Beat Magazine, a pre-teen crush, not a man.

Hawks and Doves

Men are hawks, built to face conflict, to risk everything for what they need. Women are doves, drawn to peace, valuing cooperation and harmony over the threat of battle. When two hawks clash, they fight until one is beaten, both left battered and scarred.

When two doves meet, they can befriend each other, but their gentle natures leave them exposed and vulnerable to any stronger force, any passing hawk. When a hawk meets a dove, the hawk can easily overpower and control without mercy. But when a man and woman come together, the man—the hawk—protects the dove, shielding her from all masculine threats, including his own, defending what they've built together. This isn't weakness or control exhibited by men who lack strength and need dominance to feel secure. This is nature, a balance of power and gentleness, each holding their own place.

I once believed that men and women should be equal in all things and that setting aside traditional roles would forge a stronger bond between husband and wife. This misguided belief led me down a path of mistakes in my marriage, blind to the balance of power that kept it alive. I clung to values that pushed her away and ignored the things that drew her close. In trying to be equal, I lost what made us whole.

What Women Want

Popular culture spreads endless falsehoods about what women want, feeding us stories that miss the truth. Women complain about masculine traits, about men being hard-hearted, overbearing, and sexually insatiable. They say they despise men who play games, act arrogantly, stride in, take what they want. Yet, time and again, they're drawn to those very men, the ones who stand assertively, courageously, the winners. Women claim to want softness, sensitivity, and submission. But when men provide it in abundance, it only turns women away.

A man who's too soft, too afraid to stand his ground, loses a woman's interest. Women want a touch of sensitivity, but too much it looks like weakness, which it often is—ass-kissy behavior that's nauseatingly pathetic. Women don't view friends as potential lovers; they feel no spark for men populating the friend zone. Many men waste time playing the friend, hoping for a spark that will never ignite. Two simple truths that people resist: women are drawn to strength, even in the forms they profess to hate, and a woman must submit to the masculine to be entirely feminine.

Popular culture tells us women want equality in the bedroom, that they want a fair and balanced play of power. But it's a lie. Women want to be dominated, but only by a man they see as strong, a true alpha. They submit willingly to power, confidence, and control—not to arrogance or cruelty, but to a steady hand that knows what it wants. Young, beautiful women are drawn to men who wield status, wisdom, and wealth; they'll surrender themselves to older men of power if it means feeling that raw, commanding presence. Men like Leonardo DiCaprio never struggle to find women willing to spit-polish his knob, eager just for the chance to please him.

When a masculine woman refuses to embrace the feminine, an alpha male will turn away—or turn elsewhere. When Bill Clinton was president, he was the most powerful man on earth, as alpha as it gets. When asked why he had Monica Lewinski blow him, he answered, "Just because I could." He failed to add clarifying words to conceal the lurid truth, "Just because I could, with her. Hillary wouldn't." Women work hard to distinguish genuine strength from bravado. They filter, testing for genuine alphas and pushing aside men who only pretend.

Coward's Death of Beta Male

When women can't find what they want, women settle for betas, the men who bend, who strive for equality and balance, men who believe acting a woman's toady turns her on. This struggle poisons them both. The beta male suffers, stripped of his masculinity one shred at a time, assuming he ever had any. The woman suffers, too, feeling unsatisfied and frustrated, clawing for control until the relationship is in tatters, an unrecognizable rag. I once foolishly believed that we could ignore traditional roles, that a new, egalitarian coupling relationship, a panacea; our evolving society had discovered a better way to love.

Power-sharing couples, as a concept, sounds hip, strong, and impressive, perhaps even idealistic and utopian, but it fails in practice for power dynamics explained by hawks and doves, and in the laboratory of real life. Carrying a host of related misguided beliefs, I became a beta, discarding my masculinity out of ignorance, surrendering my power without a fight. I yielded who I was, softening myself to fit an idea. In doing so, I abandoned her needs, lost sight of her desire for strength and direction, and failed her.

Abandoning traditional roles, embracing the perpetual conflict for power between two masculine forces is an emotionally draining loser's game nearly as futile as tic-tac-toe. We must understand that the power dynamics of the hawk and dove are coded into our DNA, impervious to changing social norms, residing at the root of attraction, a framework for building a wealth of love and goodwill. When we knowingly embrace our roles rather than resisting them, we find the love and relationship harmony we long for.

Hawks and Doves

The Primal Power Fight or Flight

Life has etched an undeniable truth into our physical forms—men and women are not built the same, creating a primal power imbalance. Men stand, on average, five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than their female counterparts. This isn't a social construct; it's biology's unambiguous design. The testosterone coursing through male bodies manifests as greater muscle mass, more substantial bone density, and enhanced physical strength. These differences aren't subtle variations but fundamental distinctions woven into our cellular makeup.

When men and women come together in intimate embrace, this physical disparity becomes most apparent. During sex, women find themselves in positions of physical vulnerability, often unable to resist male force should it turn against them. This reality shapes female psychology at levels far deeper than conscious thought. A sense of safety and security becomes not just desirable but essential for a woman to surrender to sexual intimacy with a man. Her body and mind require this assurance before she can fully engage.

This power imbalance isn't a cultural artifact that shifts with societal trends. It's encoded in our DNA, immune to society's whims and fancies. Political movements may attempt to legislate equality, but they cannot erase the fundamental physical disparities that shape our interactions. To ignore these differences isn't progressive—it's willfully blind to reality and potentially dangerous to women's wellbeing.

Transactional Analysis

The relationship between men and women isn't inherently equal in the physical domain, and pretending otherwise serves neither gender. Male domineering emerges as the most natural and common dynamic precisely because of the physical advantage men possess. Throughout human history, across vastly different cultures, similar patterns emerge—men's greater physical power translates into social dominance unless deliberately counterbalanced.

This counterbalance has a name: chivalry. At its core, chivalry represents a man's conscious choice to level the playing field despite his physical advantages. A man sacrifices his one-on-one advantage and the power that comes with it, providing women peace of mind in his presence. He voluntarily constrains his physical power, placing boundaries around his own strength to create space where a woman can feel secure.

Crucially, chivalry must be a choice. It cannot be legislated, mandated, or coerced without destroying its essence. A man under external compulsion to behave "properly" isn't practicing chivalry—he's merely complying with rules. True chivalry flows from internal character, not external pressure. This choice-based nature makes it both powerful and fragile.

The requirement for chivalry flows in one direction only. Only the stronger party—typically the man—needs to make this choice, as only he has the physical power that requires voluntary constraint. The physically weaker party cannot meaningfully practice chivalry because they lack the power advantage to surrender in the first place. The stronger is naturally immune from coercion by the weaker, so this choice need not be reciprocal to be effective.

Chivalry: Choosing to Level the Playing Field

Chivalry begins with an ironclad commitment to abstain from coercion. A chivalrous man pledges, first to himself and then through his actions to women, that he will never use his physical advantage to compel, control, or harm. This unilateral disarmament creates the foundation for genuine relationship rather than power struggle.

When we remove coercion from interpersonal interaction, what remains? First, persuasion emerges as the primary means of influence. With force not an option, a man must rely on reason, emotional connection, and mutual benefit to achieve what he desires. He must appeal to a woman's mind and heart rather than leveraging fear.

Choice flowers in coercion's absence. With no compelling force looming over decisions, each party's actions become freely chosen, untainted by threat or intimidation. A woman's "yes" carries weight precisely because her "no" would be equally respected. Freedom follows naturally from genuine choice. With no need to navigate threats or manipulate for safety, both parties can express themselves authentically, without masks or pretense.

Honesty thrives in this environment. Needs and wants can be shared without fear of retaliation or emotional violence. When a woman knows her vulnerability won't be exploited, she can speak her truth. When a man knows his honesty won't trigger defensive withdrawal, he can express himself directly.

Cooperation emerges organically when neither party fears domination. The two can work together as a team, each relying on the other's strengths rather than competing for control. Support replaces criticism as the default mode of interaction. "Shoulds" convert to support; weaknesses are complemented rather than corrected; insecurity and anxiety transform into mutual reliance and relief.

Security settles over both parties. Neither lives in fear of the other because both understand the rules of engagement. Both are physically and emotionally protected by masculine strength, which stands guard against outside threats rather than becoming a threat itself. Independence flourishes within this security. Each grants the other permission to hold different viewpoints and value different things without fear of punishment or abandonment.

Each party develops the strength to stand alone while choosing to remain together. Love becomes a daily choice rather than a cage, with partners selecting each other moment by moment for love's synergy. Two standing together prove stronger than each one alone and apart. This isn't two co-dependent halves struggling to make a whole; it's two whole, independent people coming together to create something greater than themselves—a family, a legacy, a shared life of meaning.

This vision sounds like feminist idealism, but with one key distinction. Women, like men, want freedom from tyranny—the liberty to make their own choices without someone else imposing decisions upon them. The physical strength imbalance between men and women creates an obstacle to women enjoying the freedom they desire and deserve. The question becomes: how do we overcome this obstacle?

Feminism often turns to legal frameworks, attempting to use the force of law to level what is fundamentally a private and interpersonal playing field. This approach proves inadequate because it addresses public behavior while failing to transform private dynamics. Feminists seek to thrust equality onto men, overriding male will and choice through external pressure. This strategy applies the force of darkness against darkness—a combative masculine energy competing for men's souls.

In feminism's victory lies the potential defeat of authentic masculinity—not its improvement but its neutering. By removing a man's choice to behave honorably, we remove his opportunity for inner goodness to shine. A man compelled to "proper" behavior by external force hasn't grown in character; he's merely been subjugated. Something essential to his nature has been diminished rather than ennobled.

A feminine woman in a traditional relationship takes a different approach. She wants a man to choose chivalry of his own accord, from internal character rather than external pressure. If a man possesses the strength of character to be truly masculine—protective rather than predatory, strong yet gentle, powerful but principled—the traditional feminine woman achieves exactly what the masculine feminist pursues: interpersonal power equality between herself and a man. And she gains this equality without sacrificing her femininity in the process.

This explains why traditional men who embrace chivalry are so highly prized by women. They offer the perfect balance—strength that protects rather than threatens, power that serves rather than dominates, masculinity that complements femininity rather than competing with it.

Note that I said chivalry, not chauvinism. The distinction proves critical.

Chauvinism versus Chivalry

These similar-sounding terms represent opposing attitudes toward women. Chauvinism embodies an attitude of superiority rooted in excessive pride or bias. Male chauvinism specifically refers to belief in male control and the inherent inferiority of women—a perspective that women exist primarily to serve male needs and desires. Chivalry, by contrast, derives from a code of conduct rooted in medieval knighthood, emphasizing positive attitudes toward women: honor, respect, admiration, appreciation, and courtesy.

The core perspective of chauvinism sees women as lesser beings, often reinforcing stereotypes and limiting roles based on gender to preserve male advantages. Chauvinism doesn't seek to protect women but to control them, viewing feminine nature as deficient rather than different. Chivalry views women as deserving of respect and protection, recognizing and idealizing their unique contributions. While it acknowledges differences between the sexes, it values rather than devalues the feminine.

These different perspectives manifest in observable behavior. Chauvinism produces dismissive or condescending treatment of women. The female experience and feelings are deemed unimportant; her beliefs and opinions carry little weight compared to male judgment. Chauvinism perpetuates unequal power dynamics, preferring to sustain advantages of strength based on genetics. A chauvinist wants to subjugate and control a woman as if she were any other object or resource to be exploited. Entitlement and lack of empathy characterize his approach to relationships.

Chivalry generates acts of kindness, courtesy, and respect—holding doors open, offering assistance, ensuring a woman's comfort and safety. It focuses on valuing women, often romantically idealizing them as part of the courtship dance. A chivalrous man carries traits women have historically been drawn to: leadership and decisiveness tempered by consideration; boldness and action governed by principle; mastery of challenging situations that demonstrates confidence without arrogance; strength and resolve channeled toward protection rather than domination; social attunement that allows him to enter others' worlds while maintaining his own boundaries; and appropriate dominance in social situations—never backing down meekly from challenge but also never needlessly escalating conflict.

The underlying intentions reveal the greatest distinction between these approaches. Chauvinism springs from ego and a desire to maintain power over others. It's rooted in weakness and insecurity masquerading as strength—the need to diminish others to feel adequate oneself. Chivalry flows from an idealized sense of honor, duty, and respect. It requires genuine strength, resilience, and character—the confidence to limit one's own power voluntarily without fear of appearing weak.

In the dance between masculine and feminine, chivalry creates harmony while chauvinism produces discord. The truly strong man has nothing to prove; he can afford to be gentle. Only the inwardly weak man fears that kindness might be mistaken for weakness.

Masculine and Feminine Thinking

Masculine thinking is the capacity to transform inner intentions into tangible results in the external world. It represents the drive to reach a moment of truth, a decisive point where clarity turns analysis into action. A masculine thinker identifies what he needs to accomplish and then acts to achieve his task or goal with focused determination. This pattern doesn't allow for stagnation; if a masculine thinker lacks direction or clarity of purpose, he analyzes the situation, formulates a new plan of action, and gets back in motion. Masculine thinking operates like a see-saw teetering between analysis and action, always in motion, never at rest or in perfect balance between these poles.

At its core, masculine thought embodies the energy of Action and Doing guided by wisdom. It resembles a warrior strategizing before battle, then charging forward with precision and resolve. Like a compass that finds direction and an arrow that flies straight toward the target, it cuts through complexity to find the clearest path forward. Masculine thinking focuses like a laser beam, cutting through distractions to achieve clarity and purpose. The metaphor of a hammer driving a nail captures its essence—forceful and purposeful, completing the task with each deliberate strike.

Feminine thinking, by contrast, centers on the consideration of Being, awareness of emotion, and empathy with others. It involves increasing the number of factors to consider, focusing on how actions might impact others, creating a more thorough decision-making process. Like weaving a tapestry, feminine thinking connects many threads to create a comprehensive and balanced understanding of the whole situation rather than focusing narrowly on a single outcome.

A feminine thinker seeks primarily to avoid actions that might harm others, preferring inaction to unwise action, reducing the likelihood of negative consequences. In this way, feminine thinking acts like a brake whereas masculine thinking functions as the gas pedal. The feminine thinker doesn't necessarily know precisely what to do in every situation, but they know clearly what actions they don't want to undertake, ensuring reckless behavior never occurs. This caution serves as a crucial protective mechanism for relationships and communities.

Feminine thought embodies the energy of peaceful abiding, feeling the bliss of Being rather than constantly Doing. It resembles a still lake, calm and reflective, offering clarity in the stillness of its presence. Feminine thinking aligns naturally with intuition and emotional intelligence, often leading to creative and insightful solutions that analytical approaches might miss. It embodies our inner artist, creating solutions both insightful and creative, drawing from a deeper well of awareness than logic alone can access.

The Harmonious Duality

Neither form of thinking stands superior to the other; they complement and balance each other like yin and yang. Too much masculine thinking, and decisions become foolish, failing to align with deeply held values. The masculine thinker must reside in the feminine when analyzing results and formulating plans, lest action become mere motion without meaning or purpose. Conversely, too much feminine thinking leads to decision paralysis—no choice will be made and no action taken, resulting in stagnation rather than progress. Feminine thinkers must learn to shift to the masculine to transform insight into tangible outcomes.

Masculine and feminine thinking complement each other, creating balance and strength. Masculine thinking drives action with decisiveness, while feminine thinking adds empathy and caution, ensuring decisions align with values. Together, they produce outcomes that are both practical and meaningful. Without feminine grounding, masculine thought risks impulsiveness and shallow satisfaction, while feminine reflection without masculine decisiveness can lead to perpetual contemplation without manifestation. Flexibility allows masculine thinkers to refine plans with empathy and analysis, while feminine thinkers gain efficiency through moments of decisive action.

The Propensities of Men and Women

When discussing these thinking styles, we must avoid extremes and overgeneralizations. Not all men think in purely masculine patterns, and not all women adhere strictly to feminine thought processes. Individual variation always exists within any broad category. Yet acknowledging this doesn't mean we should ignore patterns that consistently emerge across cultures and throughout history.

People are born with propensities, influenced by biological sex among other factors. This represents a brute fact of human nature—a reality proven immune to society's shifting laws, morals, ethics, and gender roles. A realist approach recognizes these tendencies while an idealist might wish them away in service of a preferred social theory.

The Y chromosome makes men different at a fundamental biological level. Different hormone environments—particularly testosterone versus estrogen—shape brain development and function in ways science continues to uncover. Masculine thinking appears particularly suited to the physically stronger sex, who evolutionarily needed to acquire and defend resources. Feminine thinking served the physically vulnerable sex, who needed to feel the emotions of family and community members to foster cohesion and cooperation.

This doesn't create a rigid binary. Men can possess feminine propensities—consider Eckhart Tolle's contemplative, present-centered approach. Men can also embody extreme masculine traits, like Tony Robbins' action-oriented, decisive style. Women can display masculine propensities, as seen in Hillary Clinton's strategic, goal-oriented approach to leadership. Women can equally embody profound feminine qualities, as exemplified by Kate Middleton's nurturing, relationship-centered public presence.

People are born with natural behavioral tendencies shaped by biology. The Y chromosome and hormones like testosterone and estrogen create differences in masculine and feminine propensities. Men evolved to acquire and defend resources, while women prioritized emotional intelligence and social cohesion for family stability. These tendencies appear across cultures, persisting even as societal roles shift. Recognizing these differences reflects a realistic view of human nature rather than an idealistic one that might wish away differences in service of a particular social theory.

The Authenticity of Natural Thinking

Each person functions most comfortably, powerfully, and authentically when operating primarily within their favored mental processing style. A single mother whose natural orientation is feminine thinking can push through difficulties to acquire resources and provide security for her child—tasks traditionally considered masculine. She accomplishes this, but often with greater effort and less peace of mind than might come naturally to someone with predominantly masculine thinking patterns. Similarly, a single father whose natural orientation is masculine thinking can learn to listen patiently, care about his child's feelings without immediately jumping to solutions, and develop greater empathy. These tasks often demand more conscious effort and cause greater anxiety than they might for someone naturally inclined toward feminine thinking patterns.

People thrive when they lean into their natural strengths, working in ways that feel authentic and effortless. Aligning with innate tendencies reduces stress and boosts effectiveness, allowing decisions and actions to flow with ease. Operating in one's favored state fosters confidence and aligns with identity, while stepping outside it often demands greater effort and emotional strain. Gender-related propensities, shaped by biology, may incline individuals toward masculine or feminine thinking, adding a natural layer to these preferences.

Traits of Masculine and Feminine Thinking

Masculine thinking characteristically looks forward, pursuing positive future outcomes with determination. It seeks directness, avoiding excess exploration of alternatives that might delay action. The masculine approach typically reduces options to reach a decision point efficiently, focusing primarily on potential rewards—a moving-toward energy when making choices. However, too much masculine thinking produces unwise decisions lacking emotional backing, certainty, and lasting satisfaction.

Masculine thinking drives progress with a focus on future goals and clear purpose. It cuts through distractions, making decisions quickly and efficiently. With energy and momentum, it overcomes obstacles and maintains forward motion. Practical and action-oriented, it avoids over-complication and transforms ideas into tangible results. Yet its strengths contain the seeds of its limitations.

Masculine thinking, while decisive and goal-oriented, risks shallow decisions by prioritizing speed over depth. It often neglects emotional factors, leading to less satisfying outcomes. Overconfidence and rigidity can stifle creativity, dismissing alternative solutions that might ultimately prove superior. Without balance from empathy or holistic analysis, decisions may lack depth and alignment with deeper values. Its relentless drive can also lead to burnout, making sustained effort difficult over extended periods.

Feminine thinking centers in present awareness, focusing on the emotions of those around them in each moment rather than fixating on future objectives. It operates holistically and intuitively, considering everyone affected by a decision while continually seeking more information and exploring additional alternatives. Feminine thinking naturally assesses risks and potential negative outcomes—a pushing-away energy that protects from harm. However, too much feminine thinking can result in decision paralysis, with perfect understanding perpetually outweighing the need for action.

Feminine thinking thrives in the present, attuned to emotions and immediate needs. Its empathy builds strong connections, while a holistic perspective ensures decisions consider all relevant factors. Cautious and aware of risks, it promotes safety and prevents harm. Intuition sparks creative solutions beyond logical analysis, while the drive for balance fosters harmony and collaboration. Its protective energy preserves relationships and nurtures stability.

Yet feminine thinking brings its own challenges. When overly focused on the present, it may neglect long-term planning and strategic thinking. Excessive deliberation sometimes leads to decision paralysis, while emotional subjectivity risks introducing bias into evaluations. The drive for balance can avoid necessary confrontations, enabling problems to persist rather than addressing them directly. Overprotection sometimes stifles growth and progress, and a constant search for additional information risks inefficiency. Without assertive action to complement its insights, practical outcomes may remain perpetually just beyond reach.

The masculine represents a useful tool, but its value remains grounded in emotions, in the feminine. The criteria for evaluating actions aren't purely logical but derive from values, desires, and aversions—all rooted in emotional experience. The task of the masculine is to master these forces, bend them to his will, increase his influence as prime minister over himself and his inner world. Without this emotional grounding and purpose, masculine action becomes mere motion—energy without direction, power without meaning.

Masculine thinking looks ahead, driven by purpose and a focus on positive outcomes. It is decisive, practical, and action-oriented, cutting through distractions to achieve results. However, its speed and directness can lead to shallow decisions, neglect of emotional depth, rigidity, and eventual burnout. Feminine thinking, rooted in the present, prioritizes empathy and emotional awareness. It is intuitive, cautious, and holistic, fostering harmony and safety while sparking creative solutions. Yet, its focus on deliberation can cause decision paralysis, inefficiency, and avoidance of necessary conflict. Both modes complement each other, with masculine thinking relying on the emotional grounding and values of feminine thought to ensure balanced, meaningful outcomes.

Emotions Make Decisions

Our culture often portrays decision-making as a rational, logical process controlled by conscious thought. This represents a profound misunderstanding of how minds actually work. Emotions make rules and decisions, not the masculine mind, God mind, the Will, or force of consciousness. Whatever you call your internal puppet master, it is not the godlike decider you imagine.

Emotions can be conceptualized as coalitions in a parliament, each vying for influence over behavior. These coalitions wield significant power, driving decisions through instinct and feeling rather than pure rationality. The sense of self, or ego, functions not as absolute ruler but as prime minister—mediating, negotiating, and strategizing among these emotional factions. It uses reason and wisdom to influence these emotional coalitions, breaking apart harmful alliances or fostering harmony among beneficial ones. Yet our internal prime minister remains constrained by the strength and momentum of the coalitions themselves. It can guide but rarely command; it can influence but seldom control, an uncomfortable fact any addict attests to with each relapse.

This conceptual model explains why decisions are made by these hidden inner forces before consciousness is even made aware of them. "You"—the conscious, narrating self—don't actually decide anything in the sense most people imagine. Consciousness simply informs you of the results of the vote among emotional coalitions, and like a good politician, you take full credit and publicly spin the outcome in your favor. The narrative of choice follows rather than precedes the actual decision process.

This model reflects how decisions are often emotionally charged, with rational thought playing a guiding but secondary role. It highlights the dynamic interplay between instinct, emotion, and reasoning, emphasizing that the human mind operates as a complex, collaborative system rather than a single, unified command center. Understanding this reality helps explain why people often act in ways that contradict their stated intentions or conscious desires. The emotional parliament has voted, and the prime minister must work with the outcome rather than overturn it by decree.

Decisions are ruled by emotions, not by the rational mind or any imagined godlike internal force. Emotions act as coalitions in a parliament, vying for control, while the ego serves as a prime minister—mediating, strategizing, but never fully in charge. Decisions are made by these inner forces before consciousness becomes aware, and the mind, like a politician, takes credit after the fact. Rational thought plays a secondary role, guiding but not leading, as the mind functions as a complex system driven primarily by instinct and feeling rather than pure logic.

Masculine Thinking as the Realm Above Emotion

What many call "God Mind" represents a particular state of masculine thinking, though the label itself carries problematic implications of superiority rather than difference. This term reflects a mental state characterized by deep focus, peace, and clarity—the driving force of decisive action. It resembles the calm precision that guided Luke Skywalker to destroy the Death Star, a focused awareness beyond ordinary thought that enables extraordinary performance.

Masculine thinking in its highest expression follows a pattern based on logic and the pursuit of excellence. It embodies striving for excellence through continuous improvement—constant, never-ending refinement of skills and understanding. It operates through a feedback circle: implement solution, evaluate results, modify beliefs and thinking as needed, implement new model of thinking, formulate new solution, and return to implementation. This cycle never rests; the masculine thinker remains always either implementing a solution or evaluating results, never idle, for passion demands action.

Excellence comes from this logical cycle of action and reflection. It's a relentless drive to improve, fueled by passion and purpose. Solutions are implemented, results evaluated, and beliefs adjusted to refine the next approach. This feedback loop repeats endlessly, leaving no room for stagnation. Action remains constant, and progress never ceases. The masculine thinker finds fulfillment in this perpetual refinement, this endless reaching toward greater mastery and effectiveness.

When fully engaged in this pattern of thinking, driven by authentic passion, all other emotions fall silent, providing perfect peace and mental clarity. The "noise" of competing feelings subsides, replaced by singular focus and purpose. This state resembles what athletes call "the zone"—a place of heightened performance where distraction disappears and only the essential task remains in awareness.

Passion is Essential

Passion forms the essential foundation for effective masculine thinking. It functions as a call to action, an energy demanding an outlet rather than a passive feeling to be experienced. This energy cannot be faked through bravado or pretense; one must deeply feel the motivation to act. Passion is a force that demands action, a raw energy that cannot be manufactured or forced. It arises from deeply felt motivation, rooted in understanding one's purpose. To harness it, a person must know their reasons, their "whys," and revisit them often to stay driven and authentic. Without this emotional foundation, action becomes mechanical and unsustainable.

Passion arises through a specific process. The mind conceives a future activity or achievement, and the potential fruition of this vision generates excitement. If the activity fails to produce enthusiasm, the idea fades away and dies of natural causes. For passion to sustain itself, the idea must connect with multiple existing pleasure and satisfaction centers—reasons stack up, no passion stands alone, and knowing these multiple "whys" provides resilience when motivation wavers.

The excitement generates power—adrenaline to assist the body and enthusiasm to support the mind. This power demands expression through action; it cannot be bottled for future use. Passion's energy must be used or lost. Repeated failure to channel this power causes it to wane and eventually dissipate entirely. When utilized properly, the action prompted by excitement flows freely, effortlessly, without stress or anxiety. It feels less like work and more like a natural expression of one's being.

Passion begins with a vision of the future, an activity or goal that sparks excitement. If the vision resonates deeply, tying into multiple sources of satisfaction, it gains strength; otherwise, it fades and dies. Excitement fuels the body with adrenaline and the mind with enthusiasm, generating power that demands action. This energy cannot be stored—if not used, it dissipates. When acted upon, passion flows effortlessly, free of stress, driving action with natural ease.

Action as the Effortless Release of Passion's Energy

Passion creates what psychologists call "flow state"—a condition of optimal experience characterized by complete absorption in the task at hand. In this state, actions feel natural and seamless, with minimal resistance; concentration intensifies while environmental distractions fade away; worries, anxieties, and conflicts disappear from awareness; a sense of mastery over the task emerges; awareness of time diminishes as the experience unfolds; and the activity itself becomes deeply rewarding independent of external outcomes.

Passion creates this flow state where action feels effortless and focus sharpens until distractions disappear. Worries fade, leaving a profound peace and a sense of mastery over the task. Time slips away as the present moment takes precedence, and the work becomes its own reward, needing no external validation or recognition to feel worthwhile.

The pursuit of passion leads naturally toward self-actualization. Passion fuels growth, inspiring dedication and persistence in activities that bring fulfillment and align with an individual's unique abilities and values. It fosters alignment with purpose, leading to deeper self-understanding, authenticity, and clarity regarding one's goals. The joy found in mastery of meaningful activities propels individuals closer to realizing their full potential.

Through passion, individuals transcend basic needs and strive for a life of meaning, creativity, and personal excellence. Passionate effort drives growth, pushing people to dedicate themselves to fulfilling pursuits aligned with their unique talents and values. It fosters a deeper understanding of purpose, bringing authenticity and clarity to life's direction. Through passion, people rise above mere survival or comfort, reaching toward their highest capacities and contributions.

The Zen Concept of Wu Wei

The Chinese concept of Wu Wei offers a parallel understanding to the flow state created by passion. Often translated as "non-action" or "effortless action," Wu Wei doesn't mean doing nothing but rather engaging in actions aligned with the natural flow of life. It represents acting in harmony with the environment and circumstances without force or resistance—finding the path of least resistance that nonetheless accomplishes the needed task.

Wu Wei emphasizes aligning with the rhythm of the universe or the Tao. Actions feel intuitive and seamless, as if they happen on their own rather than through strenuous effort. It arises from a state of mindfulness and presence. Instead of overthinking or forcing outcomes, one responds spontaneously and appropriately to the present moment, allowing natural wisdom to guide action.

Actions taken in Wu Wei create harmony rather than conflict, as they are free from ego-driven striving or resistance. The paradox of non-action emerges in doing just enough, without excess or unnecessary strain. Paradoxically, the greatest achievements often come from a state of effortlessness rather than through forcing or struggling.

Wu Wei represents the art of effortless action, not passive inaction but moving in harmony with life's natural flow. It manifests as intuitive, spontaneous, and grounded in mindfulness, allowing responses that fit the moment without force or resistance. By avoiding ego-driven striving, Wu Wei creates balance and harmony, revealing that the greatest achievements often arise from doing just enough and allowing life to unfold according to its nature.

Masculine thinking drives toward action, seeking clarity, purpose, and decisive outcomes, while feminine thinking emphasizes empathy, consideration, and being present. Masculine thought alternates between analysis and action, embodying forward motion, while feminine thought acts as a necessary brake, valuing emotional awareness and preventing harm. Both modes complement each other but require balance—too much masculine focus leads to unwise decisions lacking depth, while excessive feminine deliberation halts progress entirely.

Emotional coalitions, not pure logic, drive our decisions, with the ego serving as mediator rather than ruler. Passion provides the bridge between thought and action, fueling effortless flow states where focus, peace, and mastery converge. These states parallel the Zen concept of Wu Wei, where actions align seamlessly with life's natural rhythm, allowing growth, fulfillment, and authenticity to emerge without struggle or force.

In embracing both masculine and feminine thinking patterns, recognizing their complementary nature and appropriate domains, we find not just effectiveness but wholeness—a balanced approach to life that honors both action and contemplation, doing and being, progress and presence.

The Spotless Mind

Ignorance, Arrogance, Indifference

Male abusers are blissfully unaware of the pain they inflict on others. Most of us have a world view where we are a great person, pure of intention, even if we make occasional mistakes. We rationalize that as long as our intentions are good, our good intentions wash away responsibility for our misdeeds.

I Am An Abuser?

I remember the first talk with my ex-wife after realizing my failings. I was ready to help her heal, ready to be the one who made things right. She said, "Your abuser can't be the one to heal you." The word slammed into me, heavy and unyielding. Abuser. The old reflex kicked in, the mind grinding along its worn track: Not this abuser crap again. The thought flickered and stalled; But I failed to energize it with righteous certainty like during our marriage. The thought faded away.

And then, something else rose up—a pang, sharp, piercing my heart. Regret, raw and steady, stirred in my chest, a reminder of everything I'd tried to unlearn. I could see the Truth beneath it now, my wisdom eyes unclouded: Only her experience matters. It hit me hard, undeniable. Face it—I had emotionally abused her. The excuses faded like smoke. There was only this truth, heavy and real, and no way to turn back from it.

Until then, I had never seen myself as an abuser. In my mind, I was clean—my actions measured, my motives good. I was not aggressive, loud, or derogatory, never struck her, never approached or crossed any lines. My family doesn't appear in an episode of Cops. I was righteous, or so I believed, convinced I was doing the right thing, courageously so. Since she was wrong, yet resisting my kind and giving attempts to change her, to get her to see the Bigger Truth, my viewpoint, I needed to soften her resistance, for her sake. Time to bring the bravado, not a full salvo of male power that I'd deliver a man; she's a woman, I pulled my emotional punches, I'm a softy. But I gave warning shots that she was treading into areas where questioning my authority was going to end badly for her: fear the wrath, comply. I would employ the dogs of emotional war if necessary.

All this was communicated in a glance of course. The full ritual only had to run its course a few times before she was adequately conditioned to cut the resistance the moment I shot her that look. We never looked disturbed from the outside. Astonishing how effortless emotional violence can be. Sadly, it never bothered me, assisted by mindblindness, unaware of her pain.

As my wife, I knew how to fix her, though. That's what men do, right? Fix things. She was misguided, missing the sense behind my choices. If only she understood, she'd see the purpose, even thank me for pushing her to grow. I was helping her out of love. That was the story I clung to, a story I thought was true—until it shattered. I treated her like I treated everyone else, carrying that same hard, masculine energy into the space between us, softened only by my tender mercies. Works well with men. With wives, not so much. I was too blind, too caught up in my own certainty, to see any difference.

I carried on like that, year after year, arrogant and unbending, convinced my beliefs were truths. The damage piled up quietly as I dished out that careless indifference, sharp as any blade. Looking back, I see it for what it was—emotional cruelty, wielded with the ease of a Medieval torturer, too numb to even notice. We picture abusers as monsters, cold and heartless, pure evil incarnate. And maybe that's true for some. But most are just arrogant fools, blind to the damage, twisting cruelty until it feels like love in their minds. I was one of those abusers. I loved my ex-wife, deeply wanted her to be happy, free from pain. I tried to turn that feeling into something real—a good home, a good life for her and our son. But when it came down to what I actually did, I failed at every turn. A total failure, through and through.

Theory of Mind

A child learns the world isn't just their own thoughts echoing back. Other minds exist. Around four or five, they start to see it: others have their own minds, beliefs, and reasons that don't match what's inside their own heads. They look at another and realize—they don't know what I know. And with that comes empathy, the understanding that we all see life from our own strange angles.

Women see into others' minds better than men. They feel more, see more, linger with emotions longer. They understand that caring about others' feelings matters in a way men rarely match. Men know other views exist, but they often brush them aside, calling them mistaken, unworthy, childish. That's how ignorance hardens into cruelty, stepping past another's world as if it's nothing, as if only their own view matters. Women, somehow, see the weight in each small feeling, each quiet thought, and treat them with the care men often forget.

The Dark Side

If you're a man, if you identify with the foolish ideas and attitudes I clung to with pride, ask yourself if you would do this to a woman, knowingly, intentionally. It's important because I just lifted your veil of ignorance, leaving no excuses. Once you see her truth, recognize that only her point of view matters, you must decide between being a abusive asshole, or a gentleman. It's that clearcut.

Consider this: your actions define you for others. Your mysterious inner world concerns no one but you. Your victim story, prideful views, the bullshit you imagine define your character—it's merely a thought in your head, a fart in the wind. Once you see the wrong you're doing to a woman from her perspective, and you choose to continue, gleefully traveling that road, then your actions embody the evil you profess to detest.

Warrior or Executioner

A warrior faces an equal, a foe who can fight back. An executioner cuts down the helpless. A warrior stands noble, risking his life for his cause. An executioner is pure evil, killing without a thought for mercy. When a man turns his strength against a woman, thinking himself a righteous warrior for some twisted cause, he's no hero—he's an executioner, Darth Vader, the Devil's right hand.

If you break your lover enough, make the pain a sure thing, you'll reach a point where just a glance from you does the killing. You enslave her heart. If this sounds like you, and your mind's spinning with excuses and arguments, I've got something to say.

Man to man, Warrior to executioner: Fuck you.

I'm not sure I can face you like a warrior. You're hardly a threat. You're a small, soft excuse of a man, delicate as a petal, picking a fight with someone half your size just to satisfy that frail ego of yours. Pathetic. All it shows is your courage to emotionally beat down someone who can't fight back, nothing more. Gentlemen outshine you, we call you out without a word, you're transparent to us, we laugh in your face, turn our backs, ghost you from our world, the world of honor. Just by not being you, a gentleman stands apart.

The Masculine Mind

A gentleman's character runs deep, shaped by a mind and heart trained in virtue. He holds true masculinity—not the loud, swaggering act Hollywood sells, but a quiet strength, steady and unshakable. His mind is sharp, his thinking focused. He moves with purpose, a zest for life, driven by a hunger to build, to pursue his passion with relentless energy.

When two masculine minds collide, one overpowers, one submits; there's no middle ground, only the victor and the vanquished. But when the masculine meets the feminine, it must bend, soften, engage her on her ground. Resolve conflict, not sustain it.

A man who can't see the difference will try to force his view on a woman, pushing her to see as he sees, to live as he lives. In that insistence, he crushes something vital in her. It's a violence of the spirit—a quiet brutality that bruises the tender feminine heart.

The masculine mind knows the difference between itself and the feminine. A true gentleman never forces his view onto the woman he cares for. He stands firm in his own beliefs, but when he's with her, he steps into her world, letting his own view fall away, understanding that only her world matters.

A Gentleman's Guide

A gentleman meets a lady on her ground, never letting passion's sharp edge penetrate—except in the bedroom. He lives by simple rules. He accepts her insecurities without judgment or urge to change them, holding her most vulnerable places with quiet respect. When anger rises in her, he meets it calmly, without defense or retaliation, knowing she poses no true threat. He takes her as she is, as he expects her to take him, flaws and all, never pressing her to be anything different.

If he fails in this, it's his own failing, not hers. He may be with the wrong woman, but more often, the fault is in his own lack of mastery over himself. True strength lies in that control, in meeting her with an open, steady heart.

My Failures as a Man In My Marriage

A Sincere Apology to My Ex-Wife

Here's the truth, laid bare, with no soft edges or excuses: I acted like a fool. I failed to recognize the moments when wisdom was needed and let them pass like clouds across a summer sky. Because of my choices, my ex-wife endured years of hardship and emotional pain. Nothing in what I did was admirable, nothing to redeem my actions. It was my failure.

Failure to Provide

I failed to provide stability. Our household was anything but steady; we moved over fifteen times! My son never had a room he could call his own, never experienced the security of permanent roots or the comfort of familiar surroundings. I struggled to hold stable employment, bouncing between jobs that promised much but delivered little. My work in real estate consulting disappeared in 2008 when the market collapsed, and I walked away from jobs that didn't suit me, prioritizing my preferences over my family's needs. I faced long, empty stretches of unemployment and chased an entrepreneurial income for eight years, yet managed little more than paying bills—sometimes not even that. This failure weighed heavy, breeding stress and anxiety, driven by the constant instability of our finances. The uncertainty of our next meal, our next month's rent, or whether we could afford basic necessities hung over us like a gathering storm.

This sub-set of failures was primarily due to my arrogance, my shield of ignorance, extending to the workplace. I was the first-round draft pick who struggled to make the team, a primadonna nobody really wanted to deal with. I believed my talents entitled me to special treatment, that ordinary rules of commitment and perseverance didn't apply to me. Employers recognized this attitude and kept their distance. Colleagues found me difficult and unreliable. My potential remained unrealized because I couldn't humble myself enough to do the necessary work, to accept guidance, to persist through challenges. Instead, I blamed circumstances, the economy, bad luck—anything but myself.

Failure to Protect

Hawks embody masculine dominance, the clash, the fight. When two hawks meet, they battle; strength wins, weakness loses, both leave bloodied. Doves, on the other hand, bring the feminine energy of yielding, group harmony, cooperation. Doves are strong in numbers but defenseless against a lone hawk. The dove risks the pain of death at the will of the hawk, knowingly, for the safety of the hawk's protection. The dove submits to the hawks will, come what may. This natural dynamic, this primal dance of masculine and feminine energies, forms the foundation of human relationships when functioning at their best.

Doves only nest with hawks because doves believe that the hawks' masculine energy will never be directed at the dove. This represents the fundamental promise in heterosexual relationships: the stronger protects rather than threatens the weaker. The hawk must shield the dove, feminine power, from all masculine energy—that's the protection duty of masculinity. It's the sacred covenant that allows intimacy to flourish between beings of unequal physical power. When men react to women with masculine energy, threatening them, intimidating them, no matter how subtly, or making them feel unsafe in any way, it breaks the basic agreement between dove and hawk that allows them to coexist at all. It violates the trust that makes vulnerability possible.

Embrace the hawks-and-doves idea, see the strength in it, feel the weight of its truth. It's not about dominance for its own sake but about complementary energies balancing each other, creating a whole greater than its parts. When a man faces a woman's wrath, he feels his masculine energy emerge to retaliate, ordinarily leading to emotional violence against the dove, a relationship-ending mistake. The instinct to fight fire with fire, to meet force with force, serves men well in confrontations with other men but destroys the delicate balance with women.

However, if this analogy arises in a man's heart, feelings of true masculinity, the man feels his inner hawk, sees the helpless dove needing to vent instead of the vicious monster demanding destruction. Combat is not required. This shift in perspective transforms the entire interaction. In that moment, everything changes. Instead of inappropriately responding with anger, exacerbating the conflict, the man will calmly let the dove squawk, complain, expend her feminine energy the dove's way without any pushback. He understands that her expression doesn't threaten his strength or position—it simply needs acknowledgment and space.

A squawking dove is a silly image, cute and disarming. Seeing an angry feminine outburst as silly and cute, far from demeaning, is an effective way to release the unneeded masculine energy that arose with the anger. It allows a man to maintain perspective, to avoid taking personal offense at what is often just emotional release rather than genuine attack.

When a man fails in his duty of protection, his precious dove is hurt, repeatedly. Anger builds inside the dove, finally pushing the dove to become masculine, deny her true self, fight back. The repeated violation of trust forces adaptation for survival. The only option for the woman to remain feminine is for the dove to take flight, to leave the situation entirely. A woman cannot maintain her femininity in an environment where she must constantly defend herself.

I failed to shield my ex-wife from my masculine energy. I would defend my personal boundaries inappropriately, reacting to feminine energy as if it were masculine. I fought a battle with a helpless opponent, winning every fight and losing the war. I misunderstood the fundamental nature of our relationship dynamic. She couldn't physically hurt me. Her verbal onslaughts threatened only my fragile ego. I gained nothing by shielding myself, pushing back with the masculine. I endured only loss by undermining the fundamental agreement of the relationship. Every time I met her emotional expression with defensiveness or aggression, I chipped away at the foundation of our bond.

I defended my actions based on my worldview, believing that she would not be upset if she saw things my way. This arrogance, this inability to recognize the validity of her perspective, blinded me to her needs and feelings. I would argue my point of view, assuming only my view was valid, hers was faulty. I merely needed to get her to see my reality. I resisted her viewpoint, argued mine with masculine energy, assaulting my feminine dove. I used logic as a weapon rather than a tool, reason as a bludgeon rather than a bridge. Each of those foolish actions, so common, easily justified with victim stories, each of those actions served to undermine my marriage. It was not masculine.

True masculinity protects; it doesn't attack.

A duty of masculinity is to continuously interact with the feminine through their viewpoint. The masculine viewpoint is irrelevant to the feminine. This isn't about subservience but about understanding. The masculine mind must adapt to comprehend the feminine perspective, because the reverse rarely works effectively. I turned her feminine energy into masculine energy by resisting and fighting when it wasn't required. I forced her to adopt my communication style rather than adapting to hers. I was as wrong as wrong gets. Ignorant. Arrogant.

Failure of Identity

I failed to build a social identity. I never sought status and never cared about managing what others thought of me. While independence can be virtuous, complete disconnection from community creates a void where respect and recognition should flourish. Friendships fell by the wayside. I was always too busy, too wrapped up in my own world to make time for anyone outside. I neglected the vital connections that enrich life and provide support during difficult times. The isolation was self-imposed but affected everyone in my household.

She would plan social gatherings and put in the effort to arrange something, but I would refuse to go. My reluctance stemmed from discomfort, laziness, or simple indifference to her social needs. I hardly knew her friends. I made no effort to integrate into her social circle or to build one for our family. This rejection of community left her stranded between her relationships and her marriage, forced to choose rather than blend these important aspects of her life. Countless opportunities slipped by—social, business, moments to make a mark, to set us in a stronger place. Every declined invitation, every skipped gathering, every avoided connection represented potential growth stunted, possible joy denied.

I provided no real identity to our family, no presence. We rarely went out together as a couple, drifting further from the world outside. Without shared experiences in the larger community, we had fewer common references, fewer shared joys, fewer mutual friends to help weather difficult times. I allowed us to become isolated, vulnerable to the stresses that would eventually tear us apart. A strong social network might have provided the support, perspective, and balance we needed to survive as a couple.

Failure of Acceptance

I failed to accept my wife as she was. I demanded she change, bending herself to fit my needs. This fundamental rejection of her essence, her authentic self, poisoned everything. Her humor, sharp and sarcastic, once playful banter, the core of her allure, became poisoned and caustic by my attempts to silence her through subtle intimidation. Like a skittish deer, she grew timid, fearful that a careless word might bring a harsh reaction, an inappropriate masculine blast, a failure of protection. The vibrant woman I married gradually disappeared, replaced by a cautious shadow constantly monitoring her words and actions to avoid triggering my disapproval.

In retrospect, I'm truly dumbfounded by the scope and scale of my ignorance. I honestly can't explain how I became so colossally stupid. The blindness to my own behavior, to its impact on her, seems almost willful in hindsight. I judged her, found her lacking, and she felt the weight of it. In another moment of internal soul-searching, I came to grips with the depth of pain an arrogant asshole can inflict on those around him. The casual cruelty of constant criticism chips away at confidence, at joy, at the very will to try.

I offered little support and did only the minimum to help her where she struggled, jeering her while doing so. My mockery of her difficulties revealed not her weakness but my own callousness. Often, I stood back, pushing her away with silent disapproval. The coldness, the emotional distance, the withholding of affection and approval—these weapons cut deeper than any shouted word could. What a jerk. The recognition comes too late to salvage what we had, but perhaps not too late to prevent repeating the same mistakes in the future.

Failure to Lead

I failed to lead with strength. I saw her as an equal business partner and expected her to carry her load like a man, capable of handling everything alone. This misunderstanding of partnership ignored the complementary nature of our strengths and weaknesses. I made money; she kept house and family, sacrosanct imaginary lines in my head that prompted upset reactions when she requested help. I created artificial divisions of labor, then resented any suggestion that I should cross those boundaries, even temporarily, even when she was overwhelmed or unwell.

I believed she didn't need my help, only a nudge to keep her responsibilities in line. I treated her like a male subordinate in my workplace, with mostly masculine interactions and reprisals. But all these thoughts, these assumptions—they were wrong, and they led us nowhere. A partner isn't an employee to be managed or disciplined. A wife isn't a colleague to be evaluated and corrected. I didn't see her as someone under my guidance or care. I didn't treat her like a feminine woman. I failed to recognize that true leadership involves service, protection, and lifting others rather than commanding them.

I failed to anticipate her needs, to open doors for her, to ease her burdens when the weight of her tasks grew heavy. I left her to handle difficult tasks on her own, standing back when she needed a hand. The small courtesies, the thoughtful gestures, the moments of consideration that oil the machinery of daily life—these were absent from my approach. I didn't lift her up in ways that mattered to her and didn't offer support the way she wanted it. If her desires seemed trivial to me, I brushed them aside without a second thought. I deemed my judgment superior, my priorities more important, my perspective more valid than hers.

I made no careful plans and took no pains to create a sense of security. My leadership was weak, and she felt it. She lost confidence in me. Without trust in my ability to guide our family through challenges, without faith in my commitment to our collective welfare, she had to become her own protector, her own provider of security. The energy she might have invested in nurturing our relationship was diverted to self-preservation. The emotional resources she might have shared were consumed by anxiety about our future.

Failure to Sustain Attraction

I failed to sustain attraction. My appearance and physical shape were never the issue. Those things are only a sliver of what truly holds a woman's interest. Physical appearance may initiate attraction, but it rarely maintains it through the years. I bought into the lie that being dependable and nice would be enough. I smoothed down the edges, removed humor and boldness from myself, and left my emotional armor behind. I stopped showing the raw, shameless desire that once made me feel alive and made her feel sexy. I became safe, predictable, and utterly unexciting—the opposite of what had drawn her to me initially.

My spiritual practice fostered gentleness, even when confrontation was necessary. I cultivated selflessness until I vanished a little each day. But all the softness, the habit of avoiding conflict, the stripping away of the masculine to build up the feminine—none of it kept her close or made her feel attracted to me. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I misunderstood what spiritual growth truly means. It isn't about erasing the self but integrating all aspects of being—including healthy masculinity—into a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Stable isn't sexy. I spent most of my marriage working long hours, believing that building financial stability would ease our stress and make her feel grateful and even drawn to me. But it doesn't work that way. Sure, we felt less stress when money was good, but it stirred no gratitude or desire in her, which wasn't her failing. Security is necessary but not sufficient. A woman wants to feel protected, provided for, and secure—but also desired, challenged, and excited. I offered the first without the second, creating an imbalanced relationship that couldn't thrive.

Friendly, kind, and stable traits are fine in a friend or companion, but they do not spark or thrill. I poured myself into the wrong goals, thinking I could secure our love through safety and predictability. In doing so, I slowly killed the attraction I wanted most to keep alive. I became her roommate, her co-parent, her friend perhaps—but no longer her lover, her desire, her passion. The flame requires fuel to burn; I offered none and watched in confusion as it flickered and died.

Social is sexy. A hermit holds no attraction; a man without friends offers no value to a woman's world. I see it now—a man who can't widen her social circle has little to offer. Social connections reflect value, demonstrate worth beyond the home, prove desirability and competence in the larger world. A woman wants to share in a man's life, not build it for him. A robust social circle signals value because it reveals to her that others like and respect him. External validation confirms her own judgment, reinforces her choice of partner. A man should have friendships, connections he can trust, and people who know him and want to help him grow. Without that, he has no social value, no depth. The richness of human connection, the variety of perspectives, the texture of different relationships—all these contribute to a full and satisfying life. A man must invest in more than just his relationship—contribute time to organizations, reach out to his community, and know people who know him back. But I did none of this. I had no real social identity. I offered her a limited world when she deserved the universe.

Taking Personal Responsibility

This was the hardest series of truths to document. I had to let go of the victim's mask, the illusion that I'd done nothing wrong, that she was fully to blame for the breakup because she was crazy. I had to emotionally "own" my failures and face each one unflinching. The temptation to deflect, to minimize, to rationalize loomed large. The ego resists such painful self-examination, preferring comfortable lies to uncomfortable truths. When I finally looked at us from a different perspective, seeing the roles of masculinity and femininity in a real marriage, my mistakes hit me like a hammer—so obvious, so shameful, it bludgeoned my defenses, crushing my resistance. The clarity was blinding, the recognition devastating.

I realized I had been a fool, arrogant and blind. I ignored her reactions and reduced her attraction for me down to nothing, even less than nothing. She struggled alone, stuck and floundering, while I mocked her for it. Teased her weaknesses. The casual cruelty of my behavior appalls me now. I wonder how I could have been so callous, so oblivious to her pain. When I read through the first draft of this work, I saw everything anew—for the first time from her side, with fresh understanding. I stopped to meditate on how my behavior impacted her, dropping all my internal rationalizations and justifications for anything I did. The exercise was excruciating but necessary—the only path to genuine growth.

I imagined her future from her point of view. What lay in store for her if she stayed with me, absent any real change? More of the same. More criticism, more emotional neglect, more burden without support, more loneliness within the marriage. My failures, though numerous and obvious now, were distorted by pride and arrogance. My certainty in the wrong concepts magnified my ignorance. I couldn't see what was directly before my eyes because I refused to acknowledge that my perspective might be flawed.

She would endure years of her femininity being blasted with the masculine energy she's supposed to be protected from. She wasn't being accepted, the fundamental nature of love, denied to her. I wasn't loving her properly, worse than not loving her. Who would want more of that? Who would choose to remain in such a barren emotional landscape, constantly bracing against the next storm of criticism or indifference? No wonder she left. Her departure wasn't failure but survival.

I played the song Easy On Me by Adele.

There ain't no gold in this river That I've been washin' my hands in forever … There ain't no room for things to change When we are both so deeply stuck in our ways You can't deny how hard I've tried I changed who I was to put you both first But now I give up

Go easy on me, baby

Easy on Me — Adele

When I heard my ex-wife's feelings come through Adele's voice, frustration, despair, begging for mercy, submitting, feminine, hoping against hope that I might find the courage for one last masculine act—allow her to leave in peace. Ease her transition. The lyrics captured perfectly what I'd been deaf to for years: her drowning, her trying, her surrender. I saw the situation from her point of view, my heart broke open, compassion overwhelmed me. The empathy I should have offered throughout our marriage finally emerged, too late to save us but perhaps not too late to heal.

Masculine energy upwelled, the desire to protect her from the brute who was hurting her—except that I was that brute. The scope and scale of my failure blasted right back at me, a perfect mirror into her pain. I felt the painful and hopeless state I induced, the enormous relief to be released from that. The recognition that I had been the source of her suffering, that my actions had created the very conditions I now deplored, was nearly unbearable. Yet facing it squarely provided the only possible path forward.

I wept. I sobbed, diving over and over into the ocean of pain, sadness, disappointment I inflicted upon her. I anguished with the despair we share over the wasted effort we invested in ourselves as a couple, ultimately amounting to nothing. And I grieved for the deep, heart-wrenching sadness we both felt when we realized that even if we succeeded in staying together, there was no reward for our troubles. The relationship had been damaged beyond repair, the trust eroded, the connection severed. No amount of effort could restore what had been lost through years of neglect and harm.

She had suffered through a man who refused to be truly masculine, a man who laughed at her weaknesses instead of lifting her up. She'd endured wild highs and lows, all because she had the misfortune of choosing me, believing me when I said I would love her. Little did she know that I didn't know how to love, not in actions anyway, the only measure that matters. Words of love mean nothing without the actions to support them. I failed to understand this fundamental truth until it was too late.

I let the sobbing run its course, listening to that song repeatedly over many days, reminding myself of my many mistakes. The music became a catalyst for necessary grief, allowing me to process what had happened, to acknowledge my role, to begin the difficult work of changing.

When I first opened my heart to her pain, I felt lower than low. But each session was cleansing, healing, a painful but necessary part of the process. The catharsis of genuine remorse, the recognition of harm done, the acceptance of responsibility—these steps, though excruciating, began to clear a path forward. Tears wash away the stains of the heart. They dissolve the calcified defenses that prevent growth, allowing new understanding to take root where denial once flourished.

Remorse is How We Take Responsibility

I took responsibility, not just for the facts, but for her pain, wishing I'd known then what I know now. Mere acknowledgment of events is insufficient; true responsibility requires emotional recognition of the suffering caused. I felt remorse, also known as healthy regret, a feeling I covet. This was a hard-earned regret I wanted to keep close, a reminder of mistakes I'd never want to repeat. Unlike guilt, which paralyzes, remorse motivates change. It serves as both warning and guide, illuminating both what to avoid and what to pursue.

I dropped the self-loathing and aimed that raw energy at the beliefs that led me to fail her and to act so poorly. Wallowing in self-hatred would have been another form of self-indulgence, another way to avoid the real work of transformation. Instead, I directed that powerful emotional energy toward examining and changing the underlying assumptions and patterns that produced such destructive behavior. Regret is my guardrail, the feeling that would pull me back if I ever leaned toward those same mistakes. It serves as internal warning system, triggering awareness before harmful patterns can reassert themselves.

Finding that regret, feeling it fully, and rolling remorse into my heart was a milestone in my healing. Facing my flaws was the emotional reward, leaving me stronger and wiser. The process, though painful, yielded genuine growth. The awareness gained through honest self-reflection provided a foundation for building a better future, even if that future would not include her.

It Wasn't That Bad

Looking back, it wasn't all bad. Dissecting each flaw and misstep, this brutal self-examination paints a picture that skews toward darkness. The focus on failure can obscure the moments of light that also existed. Left out is the good, the moments that once kept us whole. We stayed together for twenty-four years, so there was plenty to keep us going, enough warmth and kindness to smooth the rough edges—until there wasn't. We shared laughter, created memories, raised a child together. We experienced moments of genuine connection and joy amidst the struggles. The relationship contained multitudes—both beauty and pain, success and failure, love and indifference.

But those issues festered underneath, unseen. They churned quietly, gnawing away, hardening us, aging us. The problems I've detailed weren't always apparent on the surface. They worked beneath conscious awareness, eroding foundation, weakening structure. It wasn't a life of misery; from the outside, we looked Facebook happy, the picture of comfort. We lived in a haze of contentment, the American Dream with a few ingredients missing. We maintained appearances, perhaps even to ourselves. We checked the boxes of conventional success while neglecting the emotional connection that gives meaning to material achievement.

Love was there once, strong and vital, but it lingered, gasping, until it suffocated, choked beyond resuscitation. What began with passion ended in indifference—not through catastrophic betrayal but through chronic neglect. Divorce was a fresh start, a clean cut, the painful break that offered us the chance to heal, to reclaim passion and purpose that had long slipped away. Sometimes separation is the kindest choice, the only path that allows both parties to rediscover themselves and rebuild.

For My Ex-Wife

She'll never read this; she flatly said so. I understand why; It's just words. After years of actions that contradicted my professed love, mere words ring hollow. She'd roll her eyes at every line, thinking it just another excuse, another clumsy attempt to gaslight her or rationalize the past. She never took to my writing—and this wasn't meant for her anyway, not directly. The audience for this confession includes myself, others who might learn from my mistakes, and the Universe that witnessed our journey together.

These words are the balm I need, not hers. The writing, editing, crafting these words and images was soothing during my healing process, a direct expression of my open heart. The act of articulation forced clarity, demanded honesty, required me to face what I had done and who I had been. This work poured out of me during an undisturbed period of continuous heightened emotions, a retreat at my home with my son while my ex-wife traveled, putting literal and emotional miles between us. The distance created space for reflection, for the unvarnished truth to emerge.

If she were to read this, I would only want her to know that I'm sorry. The hell I created was forged with good intentions. The path to her suffering was paved with my ignorance, my arrogance, my failure to understand what love truly requires. We're bound together by our son. He's grown, but unable to walk alone, fragile enough that we're still tethered, orbiting around him, our paths crossing only when they have to. Our special-needs child creates a connection that will last our lifetimes, demanding cooperation even in the aftermath of emotional devastation.

Since the split, we've held to that unspoken rule: keep it brief, quiet, move on. But we both know that for his sake, for our own, our lives will touch, however faintly, for as long as we breathe. The ghost of our marriage lingers in these necessary encounters, these carefully managed interactions focused on practical matters rather than emotional wounds. And here's Karma at work, or perhaps Fate's cruel joke, the punchline that life's thrown my way. I've grown better in her absence, sharper, steadier—everything I should've been when we were together. I taste that bitter truth like burnt coffee searing my throat. I failed her in ways I can't reverse. The lessons came too late to save us but perhaps not too late to transform me.

As an ex-husband, I am more of a man, more masculine, than I ever was as her partner. The irony cuts deep: I've become what she needed only after she stopped needing me. I've spoken my apologies more times than I can count, and each time I've stood there, arms at my sides, remaining calm, letting her fury roast me, immolated in years of her stored hate. We'd share compassionate tears when her fury abates. Her words, blunt, angry, hateful, hammering my old buttons only a spouse knew existed, all of it deserved. It's ongoing. I believe it helps her. I owe her that. Perhaps my penance. The least I can offer is to absorb the anger I created, to witness her pain without defensiveness, to acknowledge without qualification the harm I caused.

The damage is mine to own. The blame, the anger, the raw hurt—the embers I left smoldering in her heart, wounds I seared in with every mistake, every selfish misstep. Those fires, I know, they still burn. Years of neglect, criticism, and emotional violence cannot be undone with a few words or even many acts of contrition. The scars remain, the memories linger, the effects continue to ripple through her life.

But if there's any justice, I wish her peace. I wish her mornings free of the weight I left on her heart, days where she isn't shadowed by the pain I caused. A morning when she is once again the pure, radiant woman I met all those years ago. I hope for her healing, for her joy, for her rediscovery of the vibrant spirit that existed before I dimmed it. If I could reach into her soul and calm the storms I left behind, I would. This, all of it, is my quiet penance—a lifetime spent in the faint hope that I can find some way to make it right, even if it's only a sliver of redemption in the spaces between us. Some debts can never be fully repaid; the best we can do is acknowledge them honestly and strive to become worthy of forgiveness we haven't earned.

She needed so much more
Than I could give We knew our love could not pretend Broken hearts can always mend

Send her my love Memories remain Send her my love Roses never fade Send her my love

Send her my love — Journey

I'm sorry. For everything.

Life After Divorce

From Pain to Hope

Selecting a suitable mate often means investing years in failed relationships to establish a list of criteria: must-haves, wants, can't-stands, and rather-nots. The path to understanding our own preferences rarely follows a straight line; instead, it meanders through heartbreak and revelation, each relationship teaching us something we couldn't have learned any other way.

At first, as a man, the must-have is sex, want is looks, aversions, none—any port in the storm. The early years of dating reflect our most primal, unrefined desires, unshaped by the wisdom that only comes from bitter experience. With each disappointment, we add to our lists of can't-stands and rather-nots, the crazies, the wounded, the needy—sources of endless drama and needless pain. We learn to spot red flags earlier, to recognize the warning signs that once escaped our notice until we were already entangled. We learn to make graceful exits.

As we gain experience with longer-term relationships, our lists become more nuanced and detailed, making it harder to find partners later in life, like having a million streaming shows and nothing to watch. What once seemed like an ocean of possibilities narrows to a trickle of viable candidates. The criteria that truly matter emerge from the rubble of failed connections, no longer theoretical but etched in the memory of real pain and disillusionment.

What I Can't Abide

There are the obvious, glaring behaviors no one should stand for, but I found there were other things, subtler flaws, that gnawed at me just as deeply. Ways of handling conflict that left battle damage that wore me down over time. Small traits and irritants I once brushed aside became impossible to ignore. I saw that I couldn't live with specific traits, not in the long run, not if I wanted peace and love in my heart. These weren't dealbreakers I could have identified in advance; they revealed themselves slowly, accumulating like sediment until they hardened into immovable stone.

Anger the Deflator

There's no building a relationship with someone who doesn't control their anger, not if depth is the goal. A real relationship is about amassing a wealth of love, a reservoir of goodwill you can both draw from. This emotional bank account requires regular deposits of kindness, understanding, and patience. But anger empties that reservoir fast, making devastating withdrawals that can drain years of accumulated goodwill in minutes. One explosive outburst can undo months of careful connection, leaving the relationship balance in deficit, requiring significant emotional labor to restore.

Eckhart Tolle called it the pain-body—how anger and pain take over, triggered by the smallest spark, flooding a person with thoughts and feelings that feed the fire, dragging both people down. The pain-body operates like a separate entity, hungry for more suffering, feeding on conflict and negativity. It distorts perception, making mountains of molehills, transforming minor irritations into existential threats. When active, it blinds us to the humanity of our partner, reducing them to an enemy, an obstacle, a target for our rage.

Each episode of rage or hidden resentment blackens the love, leaving grill marks on heart-meat, sizzling heat applied until it bursts. The damage isn't merely metaphorical but visceral—a scorching that leaves permanent marks. It isn't just the explosions that break it; it's the quiet, smoldering bitterness hidden behind a plastic smile. The subtle eye-roll, the passive-aggressive sigh, the deliberately withdrawn affection—these seemingly minor expressions of anger can prove more corrosive than shouted words, eating away at trust and security from the inside out.

Love languages matter not when anger consumes our souls. No kind words or gestures, gifts, or touch can fill the love tank faster than anger burns through it. For a bond to endure, that anger has to be controlled, defused, eliminated, or it will vaporize goodness until only stone remains. Acts of service become meaningless when performed with resentment; words of affirmation ring hollow when spoken through clenched teeth; quality time feels like imprisonment when spent with someone seething beneath the surface. The most thoughtful gift loses its meaning when offered as atonement rather than love.

Resentment the Controller

Resentment is anger's sly cousin, more insidious because it hides in plain sight. Unlike anger's explosive nature, resentment operates covertly, poisoning from within. Resentment is remembered anger, a fire stoked by failure, by every disappointment, by every desire our lover fails to fulfill. If we cling to anger, if we permit it to fester instead of forgiving, those small flames gather strength over time, becoming a fierce blaze of unmet expectations and silent fury. Resentment transforms our mental landscape, creating a narrative where our partner becomes the villain in our story, responsible for all our unhappiness and pain.

We hold our lovers accountable for every missed wish, every slight, until they stand at fault in our minds. The mental ledger grows heavy with unpaid emotional debts, real and imagined offenses that we refuse to write off. The scorekeeping becomes obsessive, each perceived slight carefully documented and preserved, building an unassailable case against our partner that they cannot hope to defend against. The fire inside sours our mood. Our lover notices, feels the distance, extends the olive branch. They sense the wall between us, the coldness we cannot disguise despite our best efforts. Their intuition alerts them to the danger, prompting attempts at reconciliation.

They soften, meet our demands, try to ease our mood, offering what they can to bring back the tenderness we've hidden away. Our partner's attempt to appease us may temporarily soothe the symptoms, but without addressing the underlying disease of resentment, the relief proves temporary at best. And in that moment, we've trained ourselves in something dark, rewarded ourselves for using anger and resentment to push them into submission, to control the love we once shared. The dynamic shifts in a fundamental way; we learn that withholding affection grants us power, that emotional manipulation yields results, that our partner will dance to whatever tune we play if we make the consequences for refusal sufficiently unpleasant.

We transform anger into something even darker, an implement of evil we then brandish to bully our partner. Anger and resentment, honed over time, come easily, almost naturally. What begins as a genuine emotional response calcifies into a habitual weapon, one we reach for with increasing frequency and decreasing provocation. Our lover either bends to our will, doing exactly what we demand, or they face the firey rocket blast of simmering resentment. It's a trap, binding us to a script of our writing, fueled by flames we never extinguished. The relationship becomes a hostage situation where love serves as ransom, conditional on complete submission.

Resentment has no home in a home. It cannot coexist with love any more than ice can survive in fire. We can't feel love or intimacy when we're burning with anger, so we hold back, letting our affection grow cold. The warmth that should flow freely between partners freezes in the arctic air of unresolved rage. We wait for the anger to pass, but it never does. Without deliberate intervention—forgiveness, compassion, honest communication—resentment only grows stronger, feeding on itself in a cycle of emotional self-harm that damages everyone involved.

Resentment, used as control, slowly erodes power. Demanding compliance and exercising authority—these are masculine acts, powers that should be held with care and wielded with a sense of duty, never against the feminine. The masculine principle finds healthy expression in protection and guidance, not domination and control. Sometimes, in any relationship, a decision must stand firm, and yielding isn't an option. Democracies fail with only two people. Wise leadership is superior. The balance of a relationship requires someone to take responsibility for difficult choices, to provide direction when consensus proves impossible.

But when a woman uses anger and resentment to shape her man's actions, she sucks out his life force, not in his preferred way. Each time he submits, he weakens, browbeaten, pussyfied. Over time, she feels the change, her attraction fading as his power slips away. What begins as effective control tactics ultimately undermines the very qualities she was initially drawn to—his strength, his confidence, his masculine assurance. And yet, the reverse holds true: a man who stands firm, whose inner strength leads her to follow, draws her closer, keeps the attraction alive. His refusal to be manipulated, his maintenance of boundaries despite emotional pressure, preserves the polarity that fuels desire.

Caustic Sarcasm

There's a line between wit and cruelty. Playful banter, a subtle jab, the kind that's laced with affection, playfulness—that's fun, bonding, the secret code for human chemistry. It's a way to tease, to show love with a smile. This form of humor builds intimacy, creates shared moments of laughter, establishes the unique language that belongs only to the two of you. It reflects a deep understanding of your partner's sensitivities, a careful dance along the edge of comfort that never steps over into genuine hurt.

But biting sarcasm, the kind that stings and cuts, is something else. It's a laugh delivered with a fist, concealing anger, delivering pain. Under the thin veneer of humor lies the knife of contempt, aimed at vulnerabilities, designed to wound rather than amuse. Each sharp word, each jab masked as a joke, chips away at affection. That bitterness doesn't just sting; it saps attraction, leaving the relationship hollow and lifeless. Repeated exposure to caustic sarcasm trains the recipient to expect pain in moments of apparent lightness, creating a pavlovian response of anxiety rather than joy when their partner attempts humor.

Caustic sarcasm becomes civil war, particularly if two masculine energies clash for power and control in the relationship. When both partners deploy verbal weapons under the guise of comedy, the home transforms into a battleground where words become bullets, aimed to maim rather than communicate. When I am correctly masculine, women respond with less anger because I never reflect their anger, disarming them. When not a pre-existing propensity of hers, avoiding caustic sarcasm is my responsibility. By refusing to meet sharpness with sharpness, by maintaining my calm in the face of verbal barbs, I create space for tension to dissipate rather than escalate.

Entitlement Undermines Everything

Entitlement kills gratitude, emptying the joy from any gift given freely. When entitlement burdens someone, they greet unmet expectations with frustration, anger, or disappointment, never seeing the kindness behind what they receive. The entitled person lives in a perpetual state of dissatisfaction, measuring reality against an impossible standard of what they believe they deserve. This feeling of emotional entitlement stands opposed to gratitude, twisting generosity into a transaction, an act done from obligation rather than the heart. What should be received with appreciation becomes merely the minimum acceptable standard, unremarkable and insufficient no matter how generous the offering.

In any relationship where one person feels entitled, the effect is unmistakable. We give generously, hoping for warmth and recognition, but instead feel unseen, our efforts acknowledged only as what's "owed." The emotional exchange becomes unbalanced—one person giving from the heart, the other receiving as if collecting a debt. No one wants to freely give to someone who feels entitled to the gift, who sees kindness as an expectation, not a choice. Without genuine gratitude, there's no return for the effort spent. The emotional investment yields no dividends, creating a deficit that grows with each unappreciated gesture.

For me, the most precious gift a woman can give is the look of genuine thankfulness in her eyes. That's the payoff, the reason men try so hard to make women happy. That moment of authentic appreciation, the recognition of effort, the acknowledgment of care—these fuel a man's desire to give more, to provide more, to protect more fiercely. This is the love language of affirmation, not something I realized I needed until I lived with its absence. In my heart, I want that appreciation. It's not weakness or vanity but a fundamental need for recognition, for confirmation that my efforts matter, that they're seen and valued. I can't thrive in a relationship where my affection and attention are taken as due, where gratitude fades into entitlement. Such an environment drains my spirit, diminishes my generosity, and ultimately kills the very love it takes for granted.

Living With Passion

I can't live in a passionless relationship. My energy flows freely, testosterone is high. I keep myself lean and fit, lifting weights and staying active daily. I may not be twenty anymore, but the fire still burns brightly. I need a relationship with real intimacy, not something platonic or watered down. Physical passion serves as more than recreation; it's communication, connection, the most fundamental expression of desire and acceptance. A tepid physical relationship reflects a tepid emotional bond, a compromise I'm no longer willing to make.

And I have my needs and kinks that I won't compromise. Some desires are woven too deep. For me, passion has to be part of it, or there's no point in the chase. These aren't superficial preferences but core elements of my sexuality, aspects of myself I've tried and failed to suppress in previous relationships. I've learned the hard way that sexual compatibility isn't a luxury but a necessity, that compromise in this domain leads inevitably to frustration and resentment.

Being my Best Self

I focus on being my best self, refining the basics. This journey begins not with seeking another but with rebuilding myself, creating a life of substance and meaning independent of romantic partnership. I pay attention to every detail in my dress and care for the sharpness in my appearance. Not from vanity but from self-respect, from understanding that how I present myself to the world reflects how I value myself. I push harder in my workouts, lifting with more purpose, and making each session count. Physical discipline begets mental discipline, each rep reinforcing my commitment to continuous improvement, to pushing beyond comfortable mediocrity.

I build friendships and connect with others in my community. After years of isolation within my marriage, I recognize the vital importance of diverse social connections, of relationships that enrich and challenge me in different ways. I live a life with intention, one that a feminine woman would want to step into, drawn by the strength and steadiness in the foundation I lay. The goal isn't to attract through artificial means but to create an authentic life of such quality and substance that it naturally draws the right person toward me.

I'm finding myself again, reclaiming what it means to be a man. I saw the problem clearly for the first time; I needed to change. Not to become someone else but to strip away the false accommodations and people-pleasing habits that had obscured my true nature. My identity is defined by my actions, by pursuing what drives me, keeping my word to live morally and ethically, giving something back to the community around me. Character manifests not in thoughts or intentions but in choices, in the daily decisions that accumulate into a life well-lived.

I'm defining what masculine behavior means to me. My incomplete list includes the following: cultivating strength of heart, the courage to love, the resilience to recover from disappointment; understanding and adapting to the needs of the feminine, always viewing disagreements through her feminine frame; viewing the feminine as a helpless dove, protected from masculine resistance, especially my own; improving self-discipline, the command and control over my body, my mind, and my choices; the determination and courage to make decisions and stand firm behind them; and the thrill of a life lived with passion. These qualities form not a rigid definition of manhood but a personal vision of masculine virtue, informed by experience and reflection rather than social pressure or cultural stereotype.

I'm learning what it means to be the kind of man a woman would want at her side—not through new tricks, but by unlearning the false beliefs and habits that had dimmed my spark. The journey involves more unlearning than learning, more removing than adding—stripping away the accumulated layers of unhealthy adaptation to reveal what was always there beneath. Now, I'm honest about who I am and what I expect. I make my choices freely, defend them with steady resolve, and feel no shame for what I think, say, and do. My freedom is mine, and I intend to live it fully, with passion. The authenticity I now embrace forms the core of my attractiveness, not as a strategy but as a natural consequence of living truthfully.

I'm building a foundation that won't bend. I've always been sensitive, maybe too empathic—a softness that leaned toward the feminine. I let others' beliefs slip into my own when I was younger, even when they clashed with what I felt was right. It was a weakness, a lack of confidence, allowing another's view to replace my own. This permeability of boundaries left me vulnerable to manipulation, to abandoning my own truth in favor of momentary peace or approval. I also wasted energy on my own illusions, tainted by pride and arrogance. I was lost in beliefs that didn't serve me, caught in a maze of my own construction, unable to distinguish between authentic values and ego-driven reactions.

But a wise man sees through these deceptions, his own and those of others. He grounds himself in what's real, refusing to be swayed or reshaped by outside voices, even in conflict, especially in conflict. When pressured most strongly is precisely when we need our center most firmly established, our boundaries most clearly defined. That's the worldview I'm forging—a life built on solid ground, untouched by the shifting world around it. Not rigid or inflexible, but deeply rooted in principles that withstand both flattery and criticism, that remain steady in success and failure alike.

Compassion Reigns Supreme

I'm going deeper into my spiritual practice, but this time, I'm shaping it to strengthen who I am. The pursuit of spiritual growth need not diminish masculine energy but can refine and direct it toward its highest expression. Before, it softened me and brought out the gentler, more feminine traits, and that was my mistake, not the practice itself. I'd let the teachings take a form that dulled my edge, not embracing them properly. I misinterpreted spiritual advancement as the eradication of masculine qualities rather than their purification and integration.

Now, I see it differently. My practice is a well of strength, a source of courage and resilience—the marks of a firm, masculine man. True spiritual depth doesn't weaken but empowers, doesn't diminish but expands, doesn't blur boundaries but clarifies them. Compassion is the feeling of sadness for the suffering of another, coupled with the desire to relieve their pain. False bravado degrades this as bleeding heart nonsense, a weakness to be avoided. The macho caricature of masculinity fears compassion as feminizing, as evidence of vulnerability or weakness.

In truth, feeling deeply the sadness of others takes tremendous strength of heart, the height of masculine power. To open oneself to another's pain without flinching, to bear witness to suffering without turning away, to allow oneself to be moved without being overwhelmed—these require courage far greater than emotional numbness or detachment. Compassion is masculine. It represents not the absence of strength but its fullest expression, the capacity to feel deeply without losing center, to care profoundly without surrendering boundaries.

Compassion is the wellspring of Passion, the force of life. Without the ability to feel—both pleasure and pain, both joy and sorrow—passion becomes impossible. The man who cannot or will not open himself to the full spectrum of human emotion limits his capacity for genuine connection, for the transformative power of love. I'm learning to weave these traits into my life, letting my heart guide me, but with the resolve of a steady hand and a clear mind. Compassion without action is merely sentiment; compassion joined with decisive movement becomes a force capable of genuine change, of authentic healing.

Dating Again

If anyone thought this was a story of reconciliation, it isn't. The divorce reasons remain, fixed like rusted iron. Over the past twenty years, we have released each other a piece at a time, painfully, like a slowly pulled bandage. What began as union ended as separation, not in a single dramatic moment but through countless small surrenders, tiny surrenders that accumulated until nothing remained to fight for or protect.

After the split, I thought I was ready to date. Our marriage had drifted into near indifference, and the slow separation left me emotionally unburdened. The gradual nature of our estrangement meant I had already processed much of the grief before the legal dissolution of our union. I felt the usual concerns about finding someone new, but I created profiles on dating apps. I was pleased women were interested—beautiful women, some of them much younger, even by thirty years, near my son's age. Helpful anxiety relief. The attention confirmed I hadn't become invisible, that I still registered as desirable in women's eyes despite my age and history. Catching a woman's attention hasn't changed.

I didn't turn to the apps out of need but out of curiosity, open to meeting someone compelling, or so I thought. My approach wasn't desperate but exploratory, testing the waters rather than diving in headfirst. Yet, as the months passed, aversion crept in. I saw that I didn't have to worry about anyone else's thoughts or expectations for the first time in over two decades. The freedom felt intoxicating—the ability to make decisions based solely on my own preferences, to arrange my life according to my own rhythms, to answer to no one but myself.

I yearned for freedom, not mental and emotional incarceration. What had initially seemed like potential connection began to feel like potential constraint, a voluntary return to the very limitations I had just escaped. Obviously, I was closed-off and incomplete, not in the right frame for a new relationship, whole, free, open, accepting. The wounds of my marriage, though not fresh, had not fully healed; the patterns that had contributed to its failure had not been thoroughly examined and transformed.

I needed to rediscover myself, my life, and my own vision of who I was and who I wanted to become. This period of solitude wasn't wasted time but necessary healing, not isolation but renovation. The work is ongoing. Personal growth doesn't follow a linear path or a predictable timeline; it unfolds in its own rhythm, requiring patience and self-compassion rather than arbitrary deadlines.

I stopped calls, texts, app chats. I froze the dating apps months ago, and they've stayed that way. I don't feel any urge to look. The absence of desire to pursue partnership confirmed my intuition that I needed time alone, that premature dating would likely reproduce old patterns rather than create new possibilities. When I'm ready—when I feel that spark—I'll go back. Until then, I'm giving myself time. I have messes to clean up first. The internal work takes precedence over external connection; the foundation must be solid before building begins.

Penance to the Ex-Wife

Burning the sorrow so deeply into my heart had side effects. At the deepest of the sobbing, the determination arose to make amends, manifesting in two desires: cleanse her heart, provide her lifelong security. The profound grief gave birth to genuine remorse, to recognition of harm done, to commitment to whatever healing might be possible despite the permanence of our separation.

Now, I allow her to vent her rage, never defending, absorbing her truth, her pain. It's a slow process; I inflicted a deep wound with much residual pain. It will take as long as it takes. Her anger, justified by years of neglect and invalidation, deserves space and acknowledgment. My role now is not to defend or explain but to witness, to absorb, to validate—to offer the respect and recognition I failed to provide during our marriage.

I'm her social security. If all else fails, I'll ensure she is taken care of. Even if we severed contact for many years, that obligation is buried deep, certain to arise. The commitment transcends our romantic relationship, rooted in basic human decency and the shared history that cannot be erased. She may ghost me to the degree she can, denying me an opportunity for redemption. She may find another man to provide her care. Both possibilities I accept without resistance, recognizing her right to determine the shape of her future without my interference.

I'll do whatever is reasonable and appropriate to comfort her. Penance, the road to redemption, has no final destination, no resolution, no release. The work of amends has no endpoint, no moment of completion that absolves all past sins. I don't foresee ever feeling that I did enough. Some debts cannot be fully repaid; the best we can do is acknowledge them honestly and continue making payments with no expectation of the balance ever reaching zero.

Future relationships

A future relationship could add something good to my life, but it isn't essential. The recognition that partnership represents a choice rather than a necessity marks significant growth from my previous mindset. I don't need anyone. The distinction between want and need creates space for healthier attachment, for connection based on desire rather than dependency.

If I'm mistaken about everything, and women reject me as a knuckle-dragging Luddite, a Neanderthal, so be it. My self-worth no longer depends on female validation; my identity stands secure regardless of whether my approach to masculinity finds favor in the dating marketplace. I'll let my hair grow. I'll overcome. The humor masks a serious point—I've reached a place where rejection cannot diminish me, where external judgment no longer determines my internal value.

I'm content being alone, living a single life, and if I never marry again or find another long-term relationship, I'd be perfectly fine. I don't feel any drive to bend myself to fit anyone else's world. The freedom I've discovered in solitude holds genuine appeal; the peace I've found in self-sufficiency provides real satisfaction. It's a common mindset among those of us who've been through it before. Why tolerate negativity when it's not required? I've got my life, my peace, and I won't compromise that lightly. Experience has taught the high cost of relationship for its own sake, of partnership without careful selection, of connection without compatibility.

In any future relationship, I won't tolerate what's intolerable. The boundaries now stand firm, informed by hard-earned wisdom about what corrupts connection, what poisons love, what erodes respect. I want a rare woman—spiritually enlightened, steady, a joyous soul living with an open heart. The standards reflect not impossible idealism but a clear-eyed assessment of what I now know I require for lasting harmony.

She'll have no room for anger or resentment, none of the poisons of jealousy or insecurity. She'll live without the chains of attachment, won't cling, won't control. She'll live without haunting ghosts from past relationships, no deception or infidelity, no dangerous foibles. These aren't superficial preferences but essential requirements based on direct experience of how these qualities destroy what might otherwise flourish.

She'll be ready to follow a man who proves his leadership daily. And yes, she'll be hot, and we will share chemistry, releasing primal energies that defy containment. The physical remains crucial—not merely appearance but the magnetic pull of genuine desire, the wordless communication of bodies in harmony. I'm done with power struggles, done with the conflict of masculine energies clashing. She's not the one if I'm forced to pick and choose battles. The dynamic I seek involves complementary energies, not competing forces—distinction rather than division, difference that enhances rather than diminishes.

And there's no room in my life for anyone who can't fully accept that my son is a part of it. That's non-negotiable. My commitment to my child transcends all other considerations; his wellbeing represents my highest priority, my most sacred obligation. For the right person, I'm open—but only if she brings the same clarity and strength I display. It's a daunting search challenge, but I'm putting it into the universe here, now. What will Karma send my way? The question contains no anxiety, no urgency—merely curious anticipation, peaceful acceptance of whatever may come.

For any future relationship, sharing a worldview matters deeply. We know how easily expectations can clash when we cross into different cultures, religions, or political beliefs. The differences that seem minor in early dating can become insurmountable obstacles in long-term partnership. Society thrives on diversity, but at a personal level, it can be a challenge. Much of what we expect in relationships—gender roles, ways of handling conflict—comes from what we absorbed in our upbringing, embedded in us without us even knowing. And when those unspoken expectations don't line up, it creates friction.

I've seen this before; I've lived it. I acted against my spouse's wishes, driven by an underlying worldview that didn't match hers. Now, it's clear to me that alignment in beliefs about gender roles and conflict resolution is essential. When couples share this foundation, they encounter fewer conflicts and handle those that arise more easily. However, if the customs and beliefs are further apart, friction becomes a drag, challenging to overcome. The energy required to navigate fundamental differences leaves less available for growth, for joy, for the creation of shared meaning.

Every person is part gold, part dirt. The richness in a relationship isn't just in the gold but in the dirt you can tolerate—maybe even learn to value over time. The imperfections matter as much as the virtues; compatibility depends not on perfection but on which flaws we can accept or even appreciate in our partner.

One day, I'll step into a new relationship. When the moon and stars fall into place, I'll feel fully myself—strong, masculine, and ready to meet a woman whose spirit mirrors my own, who's just as prepared for what lies ahead. Then, it's up to Karma, or Fate, or God, to set up that perfect moment, that serendipitous meet-cute that shifts everything. The timing belongs to forces beyond my control; my responsibility lies in preparation, in becoming the man worthy of the connection I seek.

I hold onto the faith that finding the right person brings rewards beyond words. We're social creatures, born with an innate goodness that runs deep, an instinct coded into us. We all want to feel loved, valued, respected, truly seen, appreciated, and wholeheartedly accepted. These desires reflect not weakness but our fundamental nature as relational beings, designed for connection that enriches rather than diminishes.

Meeting another brave soul is only a matter of patience, resolve, and the courage to live fully. I believe a brave heart always prevails. The optimism springs not from naive hope but from hard-won wisdom, from the understanding that authentic strength—the kind that embraces vulnerability without surrendering power—ultimately attracts its counterpart. I feel optimism in my bones—for life, happiness, and the unknown adventures still waiting to unfold. The open road ahead contains infinite possibilities, unlimited potential, boundless opportunity for joy and growth and love.

About the author

The author is a retired real estate fund manager who now spends his time entertaining and assisting his son, and writing to express a lifetime of pent up ideas.

His son stands as his world, the center of all things. A young man with autism, this remarkable soul revealed to the author the man he was meant to become. As the son grew taller, the father grew deeper, shedding the selfishness and vanity that once gripped him. The son became the heart of his spiritual practice, the reason he loves, sees beyond himself.

Without this child, he would still be chasing hollow things. The son gave him purpose, showed him what it means to live for someone else. The care required isn't a hardship or burden to bear—it's a blessing, rare and extraordinary. The author shares a joy with his son that others rarely know, and for that, he owes his child everything. This young man inspires him, transforms him, and gives his life meaning.

As of the time of this writing, the author still hasn't turned on the dating apps, focusing his efforts on writing and rebuilding his life. For now....