The kids and I spent the week in Zeeland, where five years ago a small family of three spent that same week together. Walking past the house this time met me with waves of memories. The time we spent together at the beach, the exhaustion. Yet this time it was a different kind of exhaustion. Carrying not only my own nervous system, but that of two young children as well.

Five years ago, my girl got her first tooth on that holiday. This time, she lost her first. A painful transition. Back then, the hope of our family was still alive. This time, that reality has shattered into something completely different.

This holiday marked the threshold of a new beginning. A new family structure. The three of us beginning again.

Still, grief follows me.

Grief for the family that could have been. The dream. The hope of a family who went on holidays together, tackled life together, shared closeness and unity. Shattered and forever changed.

A new story needs to be written, but I also recognise that we’re still standing at the edge of that beginning.

It hurts to think we could have had it all. That closeness. That safety. Yet it unravelled through choices that, from where I stand, never needed to happen. That thought makes me angry, yet I know carrying anger only places more strain on my own body.

So how do I let it go?

How do I grow into this new family while still holding everything together?

It hurts.

It hurts that he still can’t put down the axe.

The emails continue. Accusations. Being called a liar, even though I know I have spoken my truth. He’s incredibly skilled at reshaping reality into a story that supports his own narrative. Yet the story shouldn’t be about the past anymore. It should be about the children. About the life they’re living now.

Instead, I find myself constantly pulled into his emotional field, feeling the need to defend myself while already knowing that any defence falls on deaf ears. His conclusion has already been made. Nothing I say changes it.

It’s exhausting.

He is exhausting.

How much energy does someone have to continue living like this?

Just follow the agreements. Pay on time. Collect the children when you say you will. Respect the parenting plan. Leave the insults behind.

Yet I’m no longer waiting for that change.

I can’t suspend my own life in the hope that one day things will suddenly become different.

Five years have shown me that, for now at least, they won’t.

Real change requires sincere self-reflection. But if you don’t have the tools to look honestly at yourself, how would you even know what needs changing?

Sometimes I wonder whether life requires a Tower moment. Everything falling apart so completely that you’re finally forced to ask different questions. To stop placing yourself at the centre of the story and instead put your children there.

Even then, nothing goes back to how it was.

Trust doesn’t simply return because someone decides it should.

Perhaps that’s one of the greatest lessons this experience has taught me.

Actions speak louder than words.

What you do creates the narrative. What you say is only meaningful when your actions consistently support it.

Time reveals character.

Consistency reveals intention.

But I no longer spend energy waiting to see if those things will appear. The responsible, emotionally safe and respectful person I needed simply isn’t someone I expect to emerge.

He still talks about this as though it’s a battle. References to Lord of the Rings. Enemies. Sides.

But this isn’t a battle.

It’s about two children.

Conflict doesn’t stop with the adults who carry it.

A stressed father creates two stressed children.

A hurting mother creates two hurting children.

I don’t understand why that isn’t obvious.

Then again, I’ve stopped trying to understand.

It’s no longer my responsibility to understand his choices. I don’t walk in his shoes.

Without boundaries, though, those shoes would simply walk over me until there was nothing left but dust.

Grief.

The old family has been laid to rest.

The new family is slowly emerging.

We’re still finding our rhythm. Learning together.

Every day I discover something new about my children. What comforts them. What overwhelms them. What works for one but completely fails with the other.

Any parent will tell you there isn’t one perfect approach.

It’s trial and error.

Experimenting.

Repairing.

Trying again.

All of that takes energy.

Energy that isn’t infinite.

Which is exactly why I’ve learnt that taking care of myself isn’t selfish—it’s necessary.

That’s why I put support systems in place.

People who help.

Activities that keep the children engaged.

Swimming lessons.

Creative projects.

Meal preparation.

Household help.

Small structures that make life with two young children flow a little more smoothly.

Yet the thought still appears.

What would life have been like with someone who truly shared the responsibility?

Someone who carried their part without needing to be asked.

Someone who became the anchor when life became heavy.

Perhaps that’s what hurts the most.

Not that I lost a marriage.

But that we never truly had the partnership our children deserved.

His needs always came first.

Mine don’t.

The children’s don’t.

I don’t really have that choice.

But neither can I abandon myself.

If I’m depleted, I have nothing left to offer them.

That’s why I write.

Writing allows grief to move instead of remaining trapped inside my body.

Words become movement.

Movement becomes release.

Perhaps self-reflection is one of my greatest resources.

The willingness to dig deeply enough to uncover what lies beneath the surface.

Sometimes that feels lonely.

Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one willing to look honestly at the parts that are uncomfortable.

I know I shouldn’t live in the past.

But I also know the past deserves space to speak.

Then it deserves permission to leave.

Looking back, I can see the illusions I once held. The pains that remained unspoken. Grief had always been there beneath the surface. Childhood wounds quietly shaping two adults who didn’t yet know how to meet them.

It hurts.

But I want to let it breathe.

Only then can I let it go.

I’m not perfect.

I’m not fully healed.

I’m still becoming.

Children don’t need perfect parents.

They need real ones.

Parents who can repair after rupture.

Parents who offer safety after storms.

Parents who allow emotions instead of fearing them.

Children need to see frustration, so they can learn healthy ways to move through frustration.

They need to see sadness, so they know sadness isn’t something to hide from.

They need someone who won’t abandon them in those moments.

Only then do they learn that every emotion is welcome, and that every emotion eventually passes.

Grief is walking this path feeling alone.

Learning about my children.

Learning about myself.

Becoming the stable parent I once wished I’d had.

Grief is feeling as though the world rests on my shoulders.

Yet, when I really look around, I also see something else.

People who have stepped forward.

People willing to help.

People who would put down what they’re doing to support us.

Perhaps that’s part of this new family too.

Not replacing what was lost, but allowing new forms of support to exist.

Grief is accepting that he wasn’t able to be the person we needed.

This writing is my attempt to stop waiting for him to become that person.

To let go of the hope that tomorrow will suddenly rewrite the last five years.

To accept what is.

And to begin building from there.

As I finish writing, dizziness comes over me.

My body quietly whispers what my mind has finally caught up with.

Enough.

For today, enough.