Understanding the Three F Words

Life often forces us to make choices in moments of conflict, uncertainty, or pain. Looking back over my journey, I realize that my responses to these challenges have almost always fallen into one of three categories: flight, fight, and, much later, fix. For years, I relied on fight and flight-the primal instincts that kick in when faced with perceived danger or emotional discomfort. Fixing was an option I didn’t even know existed, let alone how to implement.

The reasons for this are rooted in my upbringing. I grew up in an environment where fixing wasn’t modeled or encouraged. Confrontations weren’t resolved but avoided, denied, or escalated. In this landscape, I learned to survive by either running from conflict (flight) or bracing myself for a battle (fight). These patterns followed me into adulthood, shaping my relationships, my decisions, and ultimately my failures. But over time, I began to see the limitations of these responses and started searching for something different.

This story isn’t about blaming my circumstances or evading accountability. It’s about digging deep into the choices I’ve made, understanding why I made them, and exploring the consequences of those choices. It’s about acknowledging the harm I’ve caused-to myself and others-and seeking a path toward growth. Fixing doesn’t erase the past, but it offers a way to move forward with integrity.

Through my first marriage, I learned the cost of flight. Through my second, I learned the futility of fighting without resolution. And in my third marriage, I finally began to understand the power of fixing-not just relationships, but also the broken parts of myself. Each of these experiences has been a lesson, painful but necessary, in the journey toward becoming the person I want to be.

This post is my attempt to share that journey-not as a roadmap, but as a testament to the idea that it’s never too late to learn, grow, and fix what’s broken. If my story resonates with you, perhaps it’s because you’ve faced similar challenges. Perhaps you’ve run, fought, or struggled to find resolution. My hope is that by sharing my experiences, you’ll see that even when fixing feels impossible, it’s worth striving for.

A Childhood Without Fix

The Warmth of Daisy’s Care

The earliest years of my life were shaped by the loving presence of Daisy, my nanny. She wasn’t just someone who looked after me; she was my world. Daisy’s love was consistent, unconditional, and unwavering-a stark contrast to what would come later. I remember her holding me in her arms, rocking me gently as sunlight streamed through the windows. Her humming was like a lullaby that soothed my soul, creating a cocoon of safety and warmth that I didn’t realize was rare.

Daisy’s care was more than physical; it was emotional. She taught me what it felt like to be truly seen and valued for who I was. Whether it was wiping my tears, cheering me on as I toddled across the room, or simply sitting with me in silence, she made me feel important. In her presence, I didn’t have to prove my worth. I didn’t have to earn her love. It was freely given, and as a young child, I thrived under her care.

Her departure was a blow I didn’t understand at the time. One day, she was there, and the next, she wasn’t. No one explained why she had to leave or what it meant for me. All I knew was that the warmth and safety I had come to rely on were suddenly gone. The void she left behind was profound, though I couldn’t articulate it. It was as if the light in my world had dimmed, leaving me to navigate an unfamiliar darkness.

Looking back, I see that Daisy represented the concept of "fix" long before I knew what it was. She showed me that love could heal, nurture, and repair. Her presence in my life was fleeting, but the lessons she taught me lingered in my heart, even as they were overshadowed by the challenges to come. For years, I would yearn for the kind of love she gave me, not realizing that it was a rarity, not the norm.

Her absence marked the beginning of a new chapter-one where love became conditional, approval became transactional, and my understanding of relationships became skewed. Without Daisy, I entered a world where fixing wasn’t just absent-it was unimaginable.

The Transition to a Narcissistic Mother

After Daisy left, my mother became the central figure in my life, and the shift was jarring. My mother’s love came with strings attached. It wasn’t freely given like Daisy’s; it had to be earned. My achievements, behavior, and even my emotions were filtered through the lens of how they reflected on her. If I succeeded, it was a reflection of her greatness. If I failed, it was a mark against her image.

An example that has stayed with me: I brought home a drawing from school, eager to show my mother. I’d worked hard on it, pouring my creativity into every detail. When I showed it to her, she barely glanced at it before pointing out a flaw. "You didn’t get the proportions right," she said dismissively. My pride turned to shame in an instant. That moment encapsulated much of my relationship with her-my efforts were never enough. I was in pre-school, "proportions"?

Living with a narcissistic parent is like walking a tightrope. Every interaction feels precarious, as if one wrong step could send you plummeting. I learned to read her moods, to anticipate her reactions, and to suppress my own feelings. Vulnerability was dangerous, as it often became ammunition in her arsenal. Flight became my survival mechanism, a way to avoid the emotional landmines that surrounded me.

But the cost of this survival strategy was high. By avoiding conflict and suppressing my emotions, I lost the ability to engage with others authentically. I built walls around my heart, thinking they would protect me, but all they did was isolate me further. Fixing was never an option because it required vulnerability, and vulnerability was a risk I couldn’t afford to take.

My mother’s influence shaped my understanding of relationships in profound ways. It taught me that love was conditional, that approval had to be earned, and that fixing was unnecessary if you could control the narrative. These lessons stayed with me, shaping my responses to challenges and conflicts long into adulthood.

The Absence of Fix

Perhaps the most significant lesson I learned from my childhood was the absence of resolution. Conflicts weren’t addressed; they were ignored, denied, or turned into battles for dominance. My mother didn’t teach me how to fix things because fixing requires humility, empathy, and a willingness to admit fault-qualities that didn’t fit into her worldview.

This lack of resolution left a lasting impact on me. It taught me that problems were things to be avoided, not solved. When faced with conflict, my first instinct was to flee, to distance myself from the discomfort. If avoidance wasn’t possible, I prepared for battle, adopting the fight response to protect myself. Fixing never crossed my mind because I didn’t know it was an option.

This absence of fixing extended beyond my relationships with others; it affected my relationship with myself. When I made mistakes or faced personal challenges, I didn’t know how to address them constructively. I either avoided acknowledging them altogether or punished myself harshly. This internalized pattern of flight and fight kept me stuck, unable to grow or heal.

It wasn’t until much later in life that I began to see the cracks in this approach. The walls I’d built to protect myself were also keeping me from connecting with others. The avoidance that had served me as a child was now a barrier to meaningful relationships. The battles I fought weren’t bringing me closer to resolution; they were driving me further away.

Looking back, I can see how much my childhood shaped my approach to life’s challenges. The absence of fixing wasn’t just a gap in my upbringing-it was a fundamental flaw that would take decades to unlearn. But acknowledging this absence was the first step toward change, and for that, I’m grateful.

Flight in My First Marriage

The Illusion of Love

When I married my high school sweetheart, I thought I was stepping into the kind of love I’d always wanted. It felt like a fresh start, a way to leave behind the turbulence of my childhood and create a life of my own. I believed that love, by itself, would be enough to see us through any challenge. But I brought into that marriage the lessons I’d learned as a child-avoidance, fear of confrontation, and the inability to resolve conflict. My wife, like me, was young and inexperienced, equally unprepared for the complexities of building a life together.

Early in our relationship, there were moments of joy and connection that gave me hope. We shared dreams about the future and imagined a life filled with happiness and success. But beneath the surface, small cracks were already forming. When disagreements arose, I didn’t know how to navigate them. Instead of addressing issues head-on, I pulled away, retreating into silence or distraction. Maybe I thought I was keeping the peace, but in reality, I was avoiding the hard work that relationships require.

One early memory stands out as a clear example of my flight response. We had just moved into our first apartment together, and an argument broke out about something trivial. It was a small issue, but instead of discussing it, I shut down. I left the room, avoiding the conversation altogether. My wife called after me, her frustration clear, but I didn’t turn back. At the time, I told myself I was avoiding a fight, but in truth, I was avoiding growth. I didn’t know how to have a constructive conversation because I’d never seen one modeled. After a bigger fight, I left, for a long time.

The Slow Drift Apart

Over time, my tendency to flee from conflict created a distance between us. At first, it was small-a missed opportunity to share my feelings here, an avoided argument there. But those small moments added up, creating a gulf that neither of us knew how to bridge. My wife began to express her frustrations more openly, but instead of engaging, I withdrew further. I became emotionally unavailable, leaving her to carry the weight of our relationship on her own.

Infidelity and the Breaking Point

The turning point in our marriage came when infidelity entered the picture. It wasn’t sudden; it was the culmination of years of neglect and emotional distance. I believe, that for my wife, the affair was an escape-a way to feel valued and heard in a relationship that had become a void. For me, it was a way to feel alive, to reclaim a sense of connection that I hadn’t felt in years. But neither of us saw it for what it truly was: a symptom of the deeper issues we had ignored.

When the truth came out, it was devastating. We both felt betrayed, but we also knew, deep down, that we had betrayed each other long before the affairs. The infidelity was the final nail in the coffin of a marriage that had been dying for years. By then, we had stopped trying to fix anything. We had stopped talking, stopped hoping, and stopped believing in the possibility of reconciliation.

Even in the end, my flight response persisted. Instead of addressing the pain and seeking closure, I distanced myself. I focused on logistics-who would keep what, how we would split our finances-without ever addressing the emotional wreckage we had caused. I thought I was sparing us both more pain, but in reality, I was avoiding the hard truths I didn’t want to face.

The Consequences of Avoidance

The aftermath of my first marriage left scars that I carried for years. I didn’t just lose my wife; I lost a part of myself. I lost the version of me that believed in love, in the possibility of building a life with someone. My flight response, which I had relied on for survival, had failed me. It hadn’t protected me from pain; it had ensured it. By avoiding conflict, I had avoided growth. By running from problems, I had allowed them to fester and destroy what could have been salvaged.

The impact of my avoidance extended beyond my marriage. My children, who were young at the time, felt the ripple effects of our separation. They saw their parents drift apart, and they absorbed the unspoken lessons of that distance. I didn’t realize then how much my choices would affect them, but looking back, I see the ways my flight response shaped their understanding of relationships and conflict.

At the time, I didn’t have the tools to process what had happened. I blamed myself, but I didn’t know how to change. I carried the guilt and regret into my next relationship, hoping that things would be different but not yet understanding what needed to change. It wasn’t until much later, after more mistakes and more pain, that I began to see the patterns for what they were and started the long journey toward fixing myself.

Lessons Learned

Now, looking back, I see my first marriage as both a failure and a lesson. It taught me the cost of avoidance, the importance of communication, and the value of staying present even when it’s uncomfortable. It also showed me the damage I can cause when I choose flight over fixing. These lessons weren’t easy to learn, and the price was high, but they’ve shaped who I am today.

My first marriage ended because we didn’t know how to fight for each other in a way that led to resolution. It ended because I didn’t know how to stay and fix what was broken. While I can’t change the past, I can honor those lessons by applying them to my life now. And for that, I am grateful.

The Fight of My Second Marriage

A New Beginning or Escaping the Old One?

After the collapse of my first marriage, I rushed headlong into my second relationship, desperate to escape the pain of my failure. At the time, I convinced myself it was love, but in hindsight, I can see it was more about avoiding loneliness and filling a void. In the beginning, my second wife, was exciting in ways my first marriage wasn’t. She was unpredictable, charismatic, and bold. But those qualities, which initially drew me to her, became sources of tension and chaos.

The truth is, I wasn’t ready for another marriage. I hadn’t taken the time to process the lessons from my first one or to examine my own role in its failure. Instead of seeking growth, I sought distraction. We married quickly, and I didn’t notice-or perhaps I ignored-the red flags that should have given me pause. Looking back, I realize that my rush into this relationship wasn’t about building something new; it was about running away from the wreckage of my past.

One of the first signs of trouble was the way she and I communicated-or, more accurately, failed to communicate. When conflicts arose, she confronted them head-on, often with anger and accusations, while I retreated or responded defensively. Instead of addressing the issues, we locked horns, each determined to prove our point rather than seek resolution. Our fights became a battle of wills, with no room for compromise or understanding.

Living in a State of Conflict

As the marriage progressed, fighting became our default mode of interaction. Every disagreement, no matter how small, seemed to escalate into a full-blown argument. It was as if we were both carrying unhealed wounds from our pasts and using each other as punching bags for our frustrations. I fought to assert control, to create a sense of order in the chaos, but my efforts often made things worse.

One memory stands out vividly: Wey had started an online business and she started engaging in explicit chats with other men. She justified it as "just business," but for me, it felt like a betrayal. When I confronted her about it, the conversation quickly spiraled into a screaming match. She accused me of being controlling and insecure, while I lashed out about her lack of boundaries. Neither of us listened to the other. We were too busy defending ourselves, too entrenched in our positions to consider the other’s perspective.

These fights weren’t just emotionally exhausting; they were destructive. My children, who were living with us, were caught in the middle. They witnessed our arguments, absorbed the tension, and learned the wrong lessons about relationships. I fought to protect them from the chaos, but I also knew that my presence in the marriage was contributing to their pain. It was a vicious cycle-one I didn’t know how to break.

The Breaking Point

The turning point came when her behavior escalated. I found that she had always been involved in unconventional lifestyles, but when she started bringing those elements into our home, it became too much. One day, she informed me that she was moving one of her "slaves" into our guest bedroom. She presented it as a done deal, leaving no room for discussion or consideration of how it would affect our family.

I knew, deep down, that this was the beginning of the end. Her priorities were clear, and they didn’t include the well-being of our marriage or our children. I fought harder than ever, determined to salvage what was left, but the more I fought, the more I realized that I was the only one trying.

Eventually, she left-with her "slave" in tow-and moved into a new life that didn’t include me or our family. The relief I felt was mixed with shame and guilt. I had fought so hard to make the marriage work, for my children's sake, but in the end, I couldn’t fix it. I blamed myself for not being enough, for not seeing the warning signs earlier, for putting my children through such turmoil. It was a low point, one that forced me to confront the patterns that had brought me to this place.

The Cost of Fighting Without Resolution

Fighting, like flight, has its limitations. While my flight response in my first marriage had created distance, my fight response in my second marriage created destruction. By engaging in constant battles with her, I wasn’t resolving anything; I was simply prolonging the inevitable. Our fights didn’t lead to understanding or growth-they led to resentment and pain.

The impact on my children was perhaps the hardest part to bear. They had already experienced the fallout of my first marriage, and now they were living through the chaos of my second. I tried to shield them, but I know they felt the tension. They saw the shouting matches, the slammed doors, and the tearful aftermaths. They learned that relationships were about conflict rather than connection, and I can’t help but wonder how much of that shaped their own views on love and family.

Looking back, I see how much my fight response was rooted in fear. Fear of losing control, fear of being hurt, fear of failing again. I fought not because I believed in the marriage but because I didn’t know what else to do. I thought that if I fought hard enough, I could force things to work. But the harder I fought, the more I realized that some battles aren’t meant to be won-they’re meant to teach you when to let go. I was trying to create a plastic environment to protect my kids. Not realizing the similarities to my own childhood.

Lessons Learned

My second marriage taught me that fighting, on its own, is not enough. Conflict, when approached constructively, can lead to growth and understanding. But when it’s fueled by anger, fear, and the need to win, it becomes destructive. I learned that fighting without resolution is just as damaging as running away. It leaves wounds that take years to heal and scars that never fully fade.

I also learned that relationships require more than effort-they require alignment. We were fundamentally incompatible, and no amount of fighting could change that. Recognizing this was painful, but it was also freeing. It allowed me to see that some problems can’t be solved by force of will alone. They require mutual commitment, trust, and the willingness to fix what’s broken. We didn't have that.

Most importantly, I learned the value of humility. My fights with her were often about proving myself right rather than seeking understanding. If I could go back, I would approach those conflicts differently-not with the goal of winning, but with the goal of listening and learning. While I can’t change the past, I can carry those lessons forward into the relationships I value today.

Discovering Fix in My Third Marriage

The Turning Point: Meeting Someone Different

After the chaos of my second marriage, I was emotionally exhausted, maybe even destroyed, skeptical of love, and ready to be alone. I wasn’t looking for another relationship, let alone a marriage. My second marriage had taught me how damaging fighting could be, and I carried the scars into this new phase of my life. But then, I met someone who would change everything. My third wife didn’t come into my life like a whirlwind. She didn’t promise grand gestures or dramatic passion. What she offered was something I hadn’t experienced before: stability, patience, and genuine understanding. True, unconditional love.

Our connection wasn’t immediate fireworks-it was slow, steady, and rooted in trust. She listened in a way that made me feel truly seen. For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to prove myself or defend my actions. She wasn’t interested in fighting with me, nor was she going to flee when things got tough. Her presence in my life was the first step toward discovering the third "F" word: fix.

One of our early conversations stands out as a turning point. I was hesitant to talk about my past, afraid it would scare her away. I brought up feelings i didn't want to have or face. When I finally opened up about my failed marriages and the mistakes I had made, she didn’t judge me. Instead, she asked questions-not to challenge me, but to understand me. It was a foreign experience. I wasn’t used to someone who wanted to know my story without trying to rewrite it or use it against me.

Learning to Communicate

My third wife showed me the importance of communication-not the kind where you talk just to fill the silence, but the kind where you listen, reflect, and seek to understand. This was a skill I had never truly developed. In my first marriage, I avoided difficult conversations. In my second, I fought to dominate them. But with her, I learned that communication wasn’t about winning or avoiding-it was about connection.

One of the most profound lessons came during a disagreement about finances. In my past relationships, this would have been a trigger for either avoidance or an explosive fight. But with her, the conversation was different. She calmly expressed her concerns, giving me the space to respond without feeling attacked. When it was my turn to speak, I hesitated, expecting her to interrupt or dismiss me as I had experienced before. But she didn’t. She listened.

That moment was a revelation. I realized that communication didn’t have to be a battleground. It could be a bridge-a way to bring us closer together instead of tearing us apart. Over time, I began to adopt her approach, learning to listen without defensiveness and to express myself without aggression. It wasn’t easy; decades of ingrained habits don’t disappear overnight. But her patience and consistency created a safe space for me to grow. We still have problems, but now I really enjoy the fix part.

Confronting the Past

Being in a healthy relationship forced me to confront the unresolved issues from my past. For years, I had carried guilt and regret from my first two marriages, burying those feelings under layers of self-recrimination and denial. My third wife, however, wouldn’t let me hide from myself. She encouraged me to reflect on my actions, not as a way to dwell on my mistakes, but as a way to learn from them.

One evening, as we sat together on the porch, I shared with her the story of my second marriage-the fights, the betrayals, and the pain I had caused my children. I expected her to react with shock or disappointment, but instead, she simply said, "What did you learn from it?" The question stopped me in my tracks. No one had ever asked me that before. I had spent so much time focusing on what went wrong that I hadn’t considered what I could take away from it.

That conversation was the beginning of a deeper self-exploration. I started to see patterns in my behavior-the avoidance, the defensiveness, the need for control-and how they had contributed to the failures of my past relationships. Acknowledging these patterns wasn’t easy. It required humility and the willingness to admit that I had been wrong. But it was also liberating. For the first time, I felt like I had the power to change.

Building a Partnership

What sets my third marriage apart is the sense of partnership we’ve built together. In my previous relationships, I often felt like I was either carrying the weight alone or locked in a power struggle. With her, it’s different. We approach challenges as a team, each bringing our strengths and vulnerabilities to the table. There’s no need to fight for dominance or flee from discomfort because we trust each other to handle the hard stuff together.

One of the most challenging moments in our marriage came when a health scare forced us to confront our own mortality. In the past, I would have withdrawn, unwilling to face the fear and uncertainty. But this time, I stayed. We talked openly about our fears, our hopes, and what we wanted for each other. Instead of letting the situation divide us, we used it as an opportunity to strengthen our bond.

This partnership extends to every aspect of our lives, from parenting to finances to daily decision-making. It’s not about always agreeing; it’s about respecting each other’s perspectives and finding solutions that work for both of us. Fixing, I’ve learned, isn’t about erasing differences-it’s about finding harmony within them.

Learning to Fix Myself

Perhaps the most profound lesson of my third marriage has been the realization that fixing doesn’t just apply to relationships-it applies to ourselves. My wife has been instrumental in helping me see the ways I’ve held myself back, not out of malice or laziness, but out of fear. She’s shown me that fixing isn’t about perfection; it’s about progress.

One of the hardest things I’ve had to face is the way my past actions have hurt others, especially my children. For years, I avoided thinking about it, telling myself there was no point in dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. But she challenged that narrative. "Acknowledging isn’t the same as dwelling," she told me. "You can’t fix what you won’t face."

With her support, I’ve started to repair my relationship with my children. It’s a slow process, filled with setbacks and difficult conversations, but it’s also deeply rewarding. I’ve apologized for the ways I failed them, not just with words but with actions. I’ve shown up, listened, and tried to be the father they deserve. It’s not about erasing the past-it’s about building a better future.

Lessons Learned

My third marriage has taught me that fixing is the most powerful of the three "F words." While fight and flight are instinctive, fixing requires intention, effort, and vulnerability. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it. Fixing has allowed me to heal wounds I thought would never close, to build relationships that are stronger and more authentic, and to grow into a better version of myself.

Fixing doesn’t mean everything will be perfect. There are still disagreements, moments of frustration, and times when old habits resurface. But the difference now is that I have the tools and the willingness to work through them. I’ve learned that love isn’t just a feeling-it’s a choice, made daily, to stay, to listen, and to fix what’s broken.

Most importantly, I’ve learned that fixing starts within. You can’t repair a relationship if you’re unwilling to confront your own flaws. You can’t build trust if you won’t acknowledge the ways you’ve broken it. And you can’t find peace if you’re constantly running from yourself. My third marriage has been a gift, not because it’s been easy, but because it’s taught me what it means to truly love and be loved.

Fixing Relationships with My Children

Acknowledging the Past: The First Step

Fixing my relationships with my children has required me to confront the hardest truth of all: that my actions-and inactions-hurt them. For years, I avoided thinking about the impact my choices had on their lives. It was easier to focus on my pain, my struggles, and my sense of failure as a husband and father. But ignoring their pain didn’t make it disappear; it only deepened the divide between us. The first step in fixing these relationships has been to acknowledge, openly and without defensiveness, the ways I let them down.

When I began this process, I knew it wasn’t enough to simply say, "I’m sorry." Words, no matter how heartfelt, can’t undo years of absence or erase the memories of conflict and chaos. What my children needed-and what they still need-is for me to take responsibility for my role in their pain. They needed to hear me say, "I know I hurt you, and I’m not here to make excuses."

One of the first conversations I had was with my oldest son. He had grown up in the shadow of my flight response, learning to expect my absence and protect himself from the disappointment of relying on me. When I told him I wanted to rebuild our relationship, his response was guarded. "You’ve said that before," he told me. His words stung, but they were honest, and I realized that fixing our relationship would require more than good intentions. It would require time, consistency, and actions that matched my promises.

Rebuilding Trust

Trust, once broken, is hard to rebuild. With my children, I’ve learned that fixing isn’t about grand gestures-it’s about showing up, over and over again, even when it’s uncomfortable or inconvenient. It’s about proving, through my actions, that I am committed to doing better, not just today but for the rest of my life.

One way I’ve started to rebuild trust is by being present. In the past, I let work, stress, and my own emotional baggage pull me away from my children. Now, I make a conscious effort to prioritize them. I call more often, not just to check a box but to have real conversations about their lives. When I’m with them, I try to be fully present, giving them my undivided attention.

With my younger children, the process has been more delicate. They’ve carried the scars of my second marriage, and their trust in me was deeply shaken by the chaos they experienced. Rebuilding that trust has required patience. I’ve had to give them the space to express their anger and hurt without trying to defend myself or explain away my actions. I’ve learned to listen-not to respond, but to understand-and to validate their feelings, even when it’s painful to hear.

One moment stands out: my daughter finally opened up about how my fights with her mother had affected her. "I didn’t feel safe," she said, tears in her eyes. Hearing those words broke something in me. For so long, I had told myself that I was protecting my children, but in reality, I had failed to create the stability they needed. I apologized, not with excuses but with the simple truth: "I’m so sorry. You deserved better."

Learning to Be Patient

One of the hardest parts of fixing my relationships with my children has been learning to be patient. As much as I want to rush the process, to prove to them that I’ve changed, I’ve come to understand that healing happens on their timeline, not mine. I can’t force them to forgive me or to trust me again. All I can do is show up consistently and let my actions speak louder than my words.

There have been moments of progress-small victories that remind me this work is worth it. My oldest son, who always kept me at arm’s length, recently talked to me a bit about his family. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it was a sign that he’s beginning to believe in my commitment to change. My daughter, who used to avoid deep conversations, has started sharing more about her life, opening a door I thought might never open.

Patience doesn’t come easily to me. I want to fix things now, to make up for lost time and prove that I’ve learned from my mistakes. But I’ve come to see that fixing isn’t about me; it’s about giving my children the space to heal at their own pace. It’s about staying present, even when progress feels slow or nonexistent.

Actions Speak Louder Than Words

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that actions matter more than words. It’s not enough to tell my children that I’ve changed-I have to show them, consistently and without expectation of immediate reward. This means being there for them in ways I wasn’t before, not just in big moments but in the everyday details of their lives.

For my oldest son, this has meant taking a small interest in his passions, even if they’re outside my comfort zone. For my daughter, it’s meant helping her navigate the challenges of young adulthood, offering advice without judgment and support without conditions.

The most important thing I’ve learned is that fixing isn’t about erasing the past-it’s about creating a new foundation. My children don’t need me to pretend that everything is fine or to sweep the past under the rug. They need me to acknowledge what went wrong, to take responsibility for my actions, and to show them, day by day, that I am committed to being better.

The Road Ahead

Fixing my relationships with my children is a journey I’ve only just begun. It’s not a destination I’ll ever fully reach, but a process that requires constant effort and reflection. There will be setbacks, moments of doubt, and times when I question whether my efforts are enough. But I’ve come to see that the act of trying-of showing up, listening, and staying present-is itself a form of healing.

My children are teaching me as much as I’m trying to teach them. They’re teaching me about resilience, forgiveness, and the power of second chances. They’re showing me that while I can’t change the past, I can shape the future. And they’re reminding me, every day, that love isn’t about being perfect-it’s about being willing to try, over and over again.

The road ahead won’t be easy, but it’s one I’m committed to walking. Not because I expect my children to forgive me completely, but because they deserve a father who is willing to do the work. Fixing these relationships is my way of honoring the love I have for them-a love that has grown deeper and stronger through this process. And for the first time in a long time, I believe that healing is possible.

The Uncertainty of Fixing with My Son

A Son in Crisis

Out of all my children, my son from my second marriage carries the heaviest burden. His struggles have taken him down a path that I never imagined, one marked by paranoia, delusions, and now, legal troubles that have put an unimaginable strain on our relationship. His journey is one of pain, confusion, and a fractured sense of reality that has made communication almost impossible. Fixing our relationship feels, at times, like an unreachable goal. But even in the face of this uncertainty, I can’t stop hoping-or trying.

The first signs of his struggles appeared years ago. I noticed his behavior changing-he became more withdrawn, more distrustful of those around him, and less able to engage in meaningful conversations. At first, I attributed it to typical teenage angst, thinking he would grow out of it. But as the years went on, his paranoia deepened. He began to believe that people were conspiring against him, that the world was out to get him. No amount of reassurance seemed to ease his fears.

His legal troubles have only compounded these issues. When I first learned of his arrest, I was overwhelmed with a mix of emotions: anger, shame, confusion, and a deep, aching sadness. I couldn’t reconcile the boy I had raised with the man who now stood accused. The legal system isn’t built to accommodate mental illness, and watching him navigate this ordeal has been heartbreaking. I know he needs help, but I don’t know how to reach him.

Paranoia and Delusions: The Barriers to Fixing

One of the most challenging aspects of my relationship with him is his paranoia. He doesn’t trust me-or anyone, for that matter. He believes that even my attempts to help are part of some larger plan to control or harm him. This paranoia has created a wall between us, one that I’ve been unable to break through. Conversations with him often devolve into accusations or nonsensical tangents, leaving me feeling helpless and frustrated.

There was a moment recently when I tried to reach out to him, to offer support as he faced the legal challenges ahead. I told him I was here for him, that I loved him, and that I wanted to help in any way I could. His response was filled with suspicion. "What do you really want?" he asked, his voice laced with distrust. No matter how much I reassured him, he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-believe me.

His delusions make it even harder. He’s convinced that he’s being followed, that people are watching him, and that his actions are justified because of these perceived threats. Logic and reason don’t reach him in these moments. It’s as if he’s living in a reality that I can’t access, and trying to pull him out of it only makes him retreat further. Fixing our relationship feels impossible when we can’t even agree on what’s real.

The Pain of Not Knowing

Perhaps the hardest part of this journey is the uncertainty. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fix my relationship with him. I don’t know if he’ll ever trust me again or if he’s even capable of seeing me as anything other than a threat. The pain of not knowing is a constant weight on my heart. It’s not just the fear of losing him-it’s the fear that I’ve already lost him.

I think about the boy he used to be-the one who would run to me with a big grin on his face, eager to share his latest discovery or accomplishment. I remember the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his dreams, back when the future seemed full of possibilities. That boy feels so far away now, replaced by someone I barely recognize. And yet, I can’t let go of the hope that he’s still in there, somewhere.

Not knowing if our relationship can be repaired has forced me to confront my own limitations. I want so badly to fix this, to make things right, but I’ve had to accept that some things are beyond my control. I can’t force him to trust me. I can’t make his paranoia go away. All I can do is be here, ready and willing, if and when he’s ever able to let me back in.

Balancing Love and Boundaries

One of the most difficult aspects of loving someone with mental illness is finding the balance between offering support and maintaining boundaries. With my son, this balance is especially precarious. On one hand, I want to be there for him, to let him know that I love him unconditionally. On the other hand, I have to protect myself and the rest of my family from the chaos his behavior can bring.

There have been moments when his paranoia has turned into anger, and his words have cut deeply. He’s accused me of things I’ve never done, twisted my intentions, and lashed out in ways that leave me feeling hurt and helpless. In those moments, my instinct is to pull away, to protect myself from the pain. But then I remember that he’s not lashing out because he wants to hurt me-he’s lashing out because he’s hurting.

Maintaining boundaries has meant setting limits on how and when I interact with him. I’ve had to learn to step back when his behavior becomes too destructive, even though it breaks my heart to do so. Loving him doesn’t mean sacrificing my own well-being or allowing him to harm others. It means finding a way to offer support while also protecting myself and the people I love.

Holding Onto Hope While Setting Boundaries

One of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make was to block communication with my son. It wasn’t a choice I came to lightly, and it still weighs on me every day. As a parent, every instinct I have tells me to stay connected, to keep the lines of communication open no matter how strained they might be. But when his paranoia and delusions began to escalate, the interactions between us became not only unproductive but harmful-for him, for me, and for the rest of my family.

Blocking communication doesn’t mean I’ve stopped loving him. In fact, it’s the opposite. It was an act of self-preservation, yes, but also one of love. Continuing to engage with him when he wasn’t in a place to trust me, to hear me, or even to recognize my intentions only deepened his paranoia. Every call ended in accusations or arguments, leaving us both more broken than before. It became clear that, for now, the healthiest thing I could do-for both of us-was to step back.

This decision hasn’t been easy. There are days when I feel like I’ve failed him, like I’ve given up when he needed me most. I question myself constantly, wondering if there’s more I could have done or should have done. But I also know that staying in a cycle of toxic interactions wasn’t helping either of us. Sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is to set a boundary, even when it feels like the last thing you want to do.

I still hold onto hope that this is temporary. I hope that with time and the right help, he’ll begin to see things more clearly and reach a place where communication can be healthy and constructive. I hope that one day, we’ll be able to talk again-not as adversaries, but as father and son. For now, that hope is what keeps me going. It’s what reminds me that this distance, painful as it is, doesn’t have to be permanent.

In the meantime, I’m learning to accept the things I can’t control. I can’t fix his paranoia or change his delusions. I can’t force him to trust me or see me differently. But what I can do is take care of myself and the people who rely on me. I can create a foundation of stability in my own life, so that if and when he’s ready, I’ll be in a place to welcome him back with open arms. Fixing our relationship may not be possible right now, but the love I have for him remains as strong as ever. And that love is what I’ll hold onto, no matter how long this journey takes.

Coping with the Separation

The Weight of the Decision

Blocking communication with my son was one of the most agonizing choices I’ve ever made. As a parent, the instinct to stay connected is almost primal-an unspoken promise to be there, no matter what. To break that connection, even temporarily, feels unnatural and wrong. The decision came with an overwhelming sense of guilt, a nagging voice in my mind whispering, "You’re abandoning him." But I knew in my heart that continuing our toxic cycle wasn’t helping him, and it was actively harming me and my family.

The first few days after I blocked him were the hardest. I found myself checking my phone out of habit, half-expecting a message or call that I knew couldn’t come. I replayed our last conversations in my mind, dissecting every word, wondering if I could have handled things differently. The silence was deafening, filled with doubts and "what ifs." But as difficult as it was, I also felt a strange sense of relief-a break from the constant tension and the emotionally draining interactions that had defined our relationship for so long.

Accepting the necessity of this boundary hasn’t erased the pain. It’s an ongoing struggle to reconcile the choice I made with the love I have for him. But I remind myself that this separation isn’t about giving up; it’s about creating the space for healing-for both of us. That understanding, as fragile as it sometimes feels, is what keeps me moving forward.

Leaning on My Support System

One of the most important ways I’ve been coping with this separation is by leaning on the people who care about me. My wife has been a pillar of strength throughout this process, offering me a safe space to express my fears, frustrations, and sorrow. She listens without judgment, reminding me that I’m not alone in this journey. Her patience and understanding have been invaluable, especially on the days when I feel overwhelmed by guilt or despair.

I’ve also opened up to a few close friends, people who know me well enough to understand the complexity of the situation. Sharing my struggles with them has been cathartic. They’ve helped me see the bigger picture, reminding me that setting boundaries doesn’t mean I love my son any less-it means I’m protecting both of us from further harm. Their perspective has been a lifeline, pulling me out of the isolation that often accompanies difficult decisions like this.

Another source of support has been my extended family. While not everyone fully understands the depth of my son’s struggles, their presence in my life has been a comfort. Spending time with them-whether it’s a casual family dinner or a call to catch up-helps me feel connected to something larger than my pain. These moments of normalcy remind me that life goes on, even in the midst of heartache.

Finding Strength in Reflection

Coping with this separation has forced me to look inward, to confront my own emotions and the role I’ve played in this complicated relationship. I’ve spent hours reflecting on the past, not as a way to dwell on my mistakes, but to understand them. I’ve revisited the choices I made during his childhood, the ways I responded-or failed to respond-to his struggles, and how those moments have shaped where we are now.

This reflection hasn’t been easy. There are days when the guilt feels suffocating, when I wonder if I could have done something differently to prevent the path he’s on. But I’ve also found strength in acknowledging my humanity. I wasn’t a perfect father-no one is-but I did the best I could with the tools I had at the time. Recognizing that has been a small but significant step toward self-forgiveness.

I’ve also started journaling as a way to process my thoughts and emotions. Writing has given me an outlet to express the things I can’t always say out loud-the anger, the sadness, the hope that feels too fragile to share. Putting my feelings into words has been a way to make sense of the chaos, to find clarity in the midst of uncertainty. It’s not a solution, but it’s a way to cope.

Staying Focused on the Present

One of the lessons I’ve learned through this process is the importance of staying focused on the present. It’s easy to get lost in the "what ifs" of the past or the unknowns of the future, but neither of those places offers any peace. The only thing I can control is what I do today-how I show up for myself, my family, and the people who need me now.

I’ve tried to channel my energy into the relationships that are still within reach. My other children, my wife, and my close friends have become anchors in my life, reminding me that love and connection are still possible, even in the midst of pain. By investing in these relationships, I’m not only finding solace but also creating a foundation of stability for the future-one that I hope my son will be able to return to someday.

I’ve also found comfort in small, everyday routines. Walking my dog, playing music, or simply sitting outside and watching the world go by-all of these moments help ground me. They remind me that life continues, even when it feels like it’s standing still. These routines don’t erase the pain, but they offer a sense of normalcy that has been crucial in helping me navigate this difficult time.

Slow Progress: Personal Growth and Family

Growth Doesn’t Happen Overnight

Personal growth is a journey, not a destination-and for me, it’s been a particularly slow one. In some ways, it feels like I’m trying to undo years of ingrained habits and coping mechanisms that no longer serve me. It’s not as simple as deciding to change; it’s a process of relearning, rethinking, and sometimes stumbling before I can move forward again. There are moments when the pace of this progress frustrates me. I want to be better now, to have already become the person my family needs me to be. But I’ve come to understand that growth, real growth, takes time.

What I’ve learned is that it’s not about perfection. It’s about effort. Every small step, every tiny victory, is a sign that I’m moving in the right direction. It might not be as fast as I’d like, but it’s steady. And that steadiness is what matters most. I’ve also learned to forgive myself for the pace of my progress. Change isn’t linear, and there are days when I slip back into old habits. What’s different now is that I don’t stay there. I recognize the slip, learn from it, and try again.

For me, personal growth has meant focusing on the small, daily choices I make. It’s about showing up, even when it’s hard, and being willing to do the work, even when it feels like the results are far away. Whether it’s taking time to reflect on my actions, reaching out to family members I’ve been distant from, or simply choosing to respond with patience instead of frustration, these small acts add up. They might not feel transformative in the moment, but over time, they create a foundation for real change.

Family as a Mirror for Growth

My family has been both my greatest motivator for growth and my greatest challenge. In many ways, they hold up a mirror to who I am-the good, the bad, and the parts I’d rather not see. My wife, my children, and even my grandchildren reflect back the ways I’ve grown and the areas where I still have work to do. It’s not always easy to face that reflection, but it’s necessary.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that family relationships are built on trust, and trust takes time to rebuild once it’s been broken. For years, I relied on the idea that my role as a father or husband was enough to hold those relationships together. I assumed that my love for them was self-evident. But love, I’ve come to realize, isn’t just a feeling-it’s a series of actions. It’s showing up, listening, and putting in the effort, even when it’s inconvenient or uncomfortable.

Learning to Be Patient with Myself

Patience has been one of the hardest lessons for me to learn, both in my relationships with others and in my relationship with myself. I’ve spent so much of my life trying to fix things quickly, to solve problems and move on, that it’s been a struggle to accept the slower pace of personal growth. But I’ve come to see that rushing the process only leads to frustration. Real change takes time, and it often happens in ways that are subtle and difficult to measure.

One way I’ve learned to cultivate patience is by focusing on the small wins. It’s easy to get caught up in the big picture, to feel overwhelmed by how far I still have to go. But when I shift my attention to the present moment, I can see the progress I’ve made. Whether it’s a calm conversation with my wife about a disagreement, a heartfelt text from one of my children, or simply the choice to respond thoughtfully instead of reactively, these moments are proof that I’m growing.

Another lesson in patience has come from understanding that setbacks are part of the process. There are days when I fall back into old patterns-when I lose my temper, avoid a difficult conversation, or let self-doubt creep in. In the past, these moments would have derailed me, filling me with guilt and shame. Now, I try to see them as opportunities to learn. Each setback is a chance to understand myself better, to recognize the triggers that hold me back, and to find new ways to move forward.

The Role of Forgiveness

Forgiveness-both for myself and for others-has been a cornerstone of my growth. For so long, I carried guilt for the mistakes I made as a husband and father. I replayed those moments in my mind, wishing I could go back and do things differently. But I’ve come to realize that holding onto that guilt doesn’t serve me or my family. Forgiving myself doesn’t mean excusing my actions; it means acknowledging them, learning from them, and letting go of the shame that keeps me stuck.

Forgiving others has been just as important. There are wounds from my own childhood, particularly from my relationship with my mother, that I’ve had to confront. For years, I held onto resentment, blaming her for the ways her narcissism shaped my view of love and relationships. But as I’ve worked to fix my own family dynamics, I’ve started to see her in a different light. She was a product of her own experiences, her own pain. Forgiving her doesn’t erase the impact of her actions, but it allows me to move forward without the weight of anger.

Forgiveness has also played a role in my relationships with my children. I’ve had to accept that they may not forgive me on my timeline-or at all. But I’ve learned that their forgiveness isn’t something I can demand or expect. What I can do is show them, through my actions, that I’m committed to being better. Forgiveness, I’ve realized, is as much about giving as it is about receiving.

Celebrating the Journey

Personal growth and family healing are slow, deliberate processes, but they’re also deeply rewarding. The more I invest in this journey, the more I see the ways it’s shaping not just my relationships but also my sense of self. I’m learning to be kinder to myself, to celebrate the progress I’ve made instead of focusing on how far I still have to go. And in doing so, I’m creating a stronger foundation for the future.

The moments of connection with my family-whether it’s a shared laugh, a heartfelt conversation, or simply sitting together in comfortable silence-are what keep me going. They remind me why this work matters, even when it feels hard. They show me that growth, slow as it may be, is worth the effort.

This journey has taught me that there’s no finish line, no point where I’ll say, "I’ve finally arrived." Growth is ongoing, a series of choices made every day. And while the pace may be slow, the direction is clear. I’m moving forward, one step at a time, and I’m grateful for every opportunity to keep growing.

Growth in Progress

The journey of personal growth and family healing is not linear, nor is it quick. It’s a path filled with moments of reflection, setbacks, and small victories that, when added together, create a meaningful shift. For me, this process has been humbling and, at times, deeply painful. It’s required me to confront the ways I’ve hurt the people I love, to sit with the discomfort of my mistakes, and to take responsibility for creating a better future.

Through it all, I’ve learned that growth isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence. It’s about showing up, day after day, even when the progress feels too slow or the challenges feel too big. It’s about choosing to love, to listen, and to learn, even when it’s hard. And it’s about understanding that every small step forward is a step worth celebrating.

With my family, I know there’s still a lot of work to be done. Relationships don’t heal overnight, and trust doesn’t rebuild itself without effort. But I’m committed to staying the course, to being present, and to creating a foundation of love and stability that can support us all. Even with the uncertainties-like my relationship with my son-I hold onto hope that time, patience, and continued effort will make a difference.

Above all, I’ve come to see that growth is a lifelong process. It’s not something you achieve once and for all; it’s something you work at every day. And while the journey may be slow, it’s also deeply rewarding. It’s shown me the power of forgiveness, the importance of vulnerability, and the strength that comes from choosing to fix what’s broken, even when it feels impossible.

As I move forward, I’m carrying these lessons with me. I know there will be more challenges, more moments of doubt, and more opportunities to grow. But for the first time in a long time, I feel ready to face them. Because growth, while slow, is always worth the effort. And the relationships I’m working to rebuild-with my family, my children, and myself-are the most important work I’ll ever do.