Sharing personal stories with the hope of helping someone else is essentially the purpose of this blog. As well as figuring out this thing called life for myself.
I’ve been going through a rough patch the last few days. It felt like too many personal and work issues collided all at once — pressing on every nerve and fraying every edge.
Physically, I was wiped out by an exceptionally heavy period. The kind that leaves you drained and disoriented. I couldn’t train for the better part of three days. And after almost four weeks of focused, intentional weight training, that felt like failure. Not even a long walk. The movement my body had come to rely on was suddenly unavailable, and it hit me harder than I expected. Blue days followed.
Missing Out
There was a fundraiser at my daughter’s school — a Warrior Race kind of day. Normally I would’ve jumped at the chance to join a team and run, climb, laugh. But not this time. Not with the fatigue and discomfort. We went, stayed for a couple of hours, and left before the fun really began. Another notch up on my scale of frustration.
Back at work, small fires caused by other people’s slackness meant I had to step in and sort things out. Again. The irritation crept in like smoke under a door. I felt used. Taken for granted.
Then Came the Cigarette
But the thing that finally pushed me over the edge was a small, almost cinematic moment. My husband’s new habit of smoking a cigarette before bed.
It started a couple of weeks ago when he casually announced he was going outside for a smoke. I was surprised — this from a man who didn’t even smoke in his twenties. At first, I brushed it off. But now it’s become a thing. He goes out when I’m in the bath, then comes back in, cold and smelling like smoke, being all warm and enamoured with me.
I didn’t want to be harsh or dismissive, but kissing my man after a cigarette just didn’t sit well with me. And worse — it felt like while I was focused on getting strong and healthy, he was sliding in the opposite direction. We were out of sync. I lost it. I asked him what on earth he was thinking starting this now, at his age. His answer was soft: it helps him relax and unwind under the stars.
We talked it through. We resolved it, mostly. But it stirred something deep in me.
“When you share a life with someone, their choices aren’t just theirs anymore.”
When It’s Your Person
If this were a friend, I’d be curious. Maybe concerned. But I wouldn’t be shaken. But this — this is the man I’ve chosen to walk through life with. So no, I can’t just let it go. It’s not about judging. It’s about sharing a life. Sharing teenagers who are watching. A business that depends on both of us being healthy and strong. A future we’ve built brick by brick.
So many questions:
What example are we setting?
Why now?
What is he carrying that I don’t see?
Living with Love and Limits
Today I’m calmer. And I’m sitting with the question: Why did this shake me so deeply?
Maybe it’s the unspoken agreement in marriage — that we will do our best, for the sake of each other and the shared life we’re building. When one of us breaks that rhythm, even in a small way, it feels like a breach. Like something sacred was missed or misunderstood.
Loving someone means wanting the best for them, not just for their sake, but for yours too. Because we’re in it together.
And maybe the deeper question is this:
How do we love fully and unconditionally, while still drawing boundaries that protect us both?
It’s made me think of the families dealing with deeper struggles — addiction, depression, disconnection. This wasn’t that. But the feeling, I imagine, carries a similar weight.
How do we stay soft in the face of disappointment?
How do we hold space without losing ourselves?
How do we speak the truth, without shattering the love?
I don’t have the answers.
But I’m asking the questions.
And for now, that feels like a good place to begin.
Wild Soul Notes 