I miss the me who used to write all the time. I feel like I’ve abandoned him. And I’m almost afraid to look for him.

Maybe because I’ve changed? Or maybe because I’m afraid he won’t be there? Or maybe it’s simply because the me who used to write all the time was more acquainted with himself.

Marriage is funny. It’s this beautiful, amazing, life-giving journey with someone who choses to walk next to you. And it’s also the single most difficult thing you’ll ever do.

I think when I got married, I walked away from the me who wrote all the time. Maybe because I was ashamed. Ashamed because the me who wrote all the time was comfortable with discomfort, was ok asking questions and not having answers. And maybe, just maybe, I bought into the lie that once I got married, once I had a wife who counted on me, that I needed to have all the answers.

She never expected me to have all the answers. No one expected me to have all the answers. I expected me to have all the answers.

I don’t have all the answers. I know I don’t.

But it’s this nagging doubt. This voice that whispers that I won’t be enough if I need to ask for help, that I’m somehow less of a man if I admit I don’t know how how to do something… and (gasp!) ask for help from someone else.

My wife sees it. She sees my struggle here. And she gives me grace.

But more than that, I need to face this. I need to be vulnerable, and ask for help.