As the Dust Settles

Usually these posts come from some inspirational reel, a song that hits a nerve, or an epiphany that sneaks up on me. Honestly, I haven’t had any of that lately. Right now, I’m just sitting here waiting for the potatoes to finish baking so I can make twice-baked potatoes. Call it the “calm” before the storm.

In about five minutes I’ll be juggling soggy potato shells that feel like hot diapers, trying to scoop them out without destroying them, mixing butter and cream before piping it all back in. Then it’s the meat on the smoker—which should be simple if I can make it across the backyard minefield left by Ellie and Jasper. Of course, the backyard has zero shade this time of day, so I’ll be standing there in the blazing sun, breaking out in hives… still.

Ah, the hives. They showed up right after Nari was born. Everything I read said they’d go away in a few years. Well, it’s been nine. I’ve tried everything. Nothing works. Another story for another time.

Heartbreak though—that’s its own beast. It’s not just sadness, it’s grief with paperwork. If you’re married, it costs you an arm. If you’ve got kids, it’s an arm and a leg. Add in bitterness and zero accountability, and now you’re paying both arms, both legs, maybe even a kidney. Depends on the market that day.

Like the day I bought a new outfit for court just to be told what I had to say didn’t matter—because my attorney missed a technicality. I sat there doing the math: $5.83 a minute to sit and watch my voice get tossed aside. All while fighting for the right to just be the dad I already am, while my kids are stuck in the middle of a story they never asked for.

And that’s what wrecks me the most. The kids. They lose the family they knew. They lose the house, the neighborhood, their school, even the simple comfort of a bedtime routine that didn’t come stapled to a custody schedule. You can throw thousands at lawyers, spend hours in court, even win the occasional fight—but the kids still lose. And while I’m grieving the loss of a marriage, they’re grieving the loss of normal.

The only thing I can do is focus on what’s mine to control. I can’t control what’s said in court, or what happens in the other house, or the lies that keep coming. I can’t stop the sleepless nights when the “what ifs” sneak in. But I can show up. I can build new traditions with my kids, even if they don’t look like the old ones. I can keep my sanity when everything else is trying to unravel it.

Eventually the noise fades. The sting dulls. And the kids—resilient in ways I never imagined—are still laughing, still playing, still finding joy. That’s when it hit me: we’re winning. Not because we're “healed,” or because court was fair, or because heartbreak disappeared. None of that.

We’re winning because I haven’t collapsed. And I won’t. We won't.