The Wisdom at Dawn

I opted to wrestle with myself privately and skip the blog last week, but God still gave me an opportunity to speak into someone’s life at sunrise. Kevin, newly retired and fishing at the pier, chats with me sometimes. Wednesday morning, he revealed something deeper—he was doing therapy.

“I feel like it’s doing more harm than good,” Kevin said. “Talking about painful memories stirs up all the emotions again.”

I had three minutes before driving to school, just enough time to share what I’ve learned the hard way about therapy.

First, when we share about something from the past, we’re not recounting the actual memory—we’re recounting the last time we recalled that memory. That means “present me” has an opportunity to reframe what happened to “past me.” Doing the work in therapy gives us the chance to rewrite the memory considering current knowledge and skillsets, potentially stripping it of its power.

Second, revisiting painful moments must have a purpose. We don’t meander through hardships, wallowing. We go back to learn, to inform future choices. We recount difficult memories to be better, stronger, smarter in the present.

What I didn’t tell Kevin: sometimes we’re creating the painful memories we’ll need to reframe later, even as we’re trying to heal from the past ones.

Building Monsters

Despite my original stance on Tony’s monster house idea (that he was welcome to create it, but I wasn’t going to help), I wound up bonding with him for hours in the garage last week, bringing his Halloween dream to life.

We marched to the front of the house while he explained his vision. We discussed logistics, measured, sawed, sanded, painted. We labored as a team, and I thought we felt like partners again. The house became a monster with glowing eyes in Calista’s bedroom windows, teeth framing the front porch. It was creative, collaborative, connecting.

But on Halloween night, just before the trick-or-treaters would arrive, an argument erupted. Like clockwork, Tony played his card, and what could have been a great night building traditions devolved into another missing memory—one we don’t get to make or recall.

Knowing Your Lasts

Over the weekend, the husband of one of my colleagues got military orders. Come next school year, she’ll be working in a different state. It’s familiar for her, this three-year cycle of investing and painful unplugging. Her daughter had a band competition last weekend, and my colleague found comfort that at least her daughter knew this was the last one and could make the most of it.

I’m not saying her pain isn’t real. It is. The constant uprooting, the perpetual goodbyes, the exhaustion of starting over every three years. Her kids have to leave friends behind again and again. My colleague has to rebuild her entire professional and social world repeatedly. The grass isn’t greener on their side; it’s just a different kind of brown.

But there’s something about knowing. They can count down, prepare, say proper goodbyes. They can make peace with endings because they see them coming.

On bad days, I wonder if my husband and I have had our last sunset chat, sea glass stroll, or park walk… I just didn’t know it would be the last. If I did, would I have done things differently? If I could know it would be the last time he held my hand, would it make a difference?

On good days, I pray I won’t have to know what all our lasts look like in hindsight.

One Day at a Time Doesn’t Build

Tony’s taking it “one day at a time,” tiptoeing to the end of our lease to determine, at a later date, whether or not we should get divorced. We’re still doing family dinners and practicing normalcy, mimicking stability, but there’s something missing in all the moments.

A “one day at a time marriage” might sound progressive, even strategic. But I’m convinced it’s a systematic way to disassemble any hope for healing. What’s missing? A future.

One day at a time works for:

• Getting through grief
• Managing addiction
• Surviving crisis
• Processing trauma in therapy

But marriage? Marriage needs:

• Shared vision beyond today
• Plans worth keeping
• Trust in tomorrow
• A road heading somewhere

Calista and I have been going to therapy together. Dr. Lindsey says we have typical stepmother-teenage stepdaughter challenges. Last week, Calista finally unpacked some painful memories. I hated to see her cry, and yet I believe what I told Kevin: talking about them will lead to healing and restoration.

Nevertheless, I’m left wondering. How productive can our therapy work be if there’s always a question mark around my “mom” status? Should we make plans for Christmas? It’s too soon to know if we’ll string together enough good days.

The Junkyard of Moments

The ironic thing is that Tony wants me to be “Laura Joy, full of joy,” but the primary obstacle blocking the joyful soul he fell in love with is the absence of any foundation to build on. When you’re not building together on a road headed somewhere, the memories you’re accumulating just pile up in a junkyard—more painful moments to reframe in future therapy.

Fisherman Kevin thinks I’m a catch. He told me so when he caught me crying one morning. I told him I’d have to disagree; he just doesn’t know what it’s like to live with me. Do I really think so little of myself now, eighteen months into a marriage where consistency is the exception, not the rule?

There are rare moments when I feel cherished. Most days, I feel like a failure who will never measure up to an ever-shifting standard.

The Monument or the Museum

Some relationships are meant to be monuments we build together, stone by stone, day by day, with a blueprint for something lasting. Others become museums we have to curate alone later… carefully labeled exhibits of what was, what almost was, what should have been.

The difference isn’t in the love. It’s in the looking forward together.

My military colleague’s family knows their timeline. They can count down, make the most of their lasts, prepare for the next beginning. But when someone keeps leaving without going anywhere, when every good day might be the last good day but you won’t know until later, when you’re taking it one day at a time with no shared tomorrow? You’re not building anymore.

You’re just accumulating artifacts for a future museum of memories you’ll need to reframe.

At sunrise this morning, I thought about Kevin starting therapy, Calista finally crying in ours, my colleague preparing for her known goodbye. We’re all processing our lasts—some in advance, some in arrears, some as they’re happening without our knowing.

The sun rises every day with or without our plans. But marriages? Marriages need tomorrow to mean something to both people. Otherwise, we’re just taking it one day at a time toward an ending that’s already begun.

I still don’t know if yesterday was a last of something. I won’t know until it’s too late to matter. That’s what “one day at a time” really means in a marriage…never knowing what to hold onto because everything might already be gone.