A Reflection on Heartbreak and Resilience

It’s nearly midnight. The world outside is quiet, but inside me, there’s a storm. Today wasn’t just another Sunday—it was a reckoning. One that began with errands and purpose, and ended with questions I can’t yet answer. I’ve just returned from a three-hour meeting with the BNP EXCO team, a commitment I sometimes struggle to justify. But I keep showing up. Because leadership is rarely about status—it’s about stewardship. If my presence helps steady one leader, that steadiness may echo into the lives of 200 others. That’s how compound impact works. Quiet. Invisible. Real.

But tonight, I’m not steady. I’m frayed.

The Rope and the Climb

Marriage is like a long climb up a rope—beautiful, painful, full of tension. You grip with your whole being, trusting your partner is climbing with you. But sometimes, the rope burns more than it lifts. Sometimes, the weight of unspoken wounds makes your hands slip.

Today, something in me cracked. Words overheard, dynamics observed—subtle shifts that felt like betrayals. I don’t want to get into specifics, not to protect myself, but to protect the people I love. Because this isn’t about blame. It’s about reality. Perception. Patterns.

What do you do when the person beside you on the rope seems to pull in a different direction? When partnership feels more like positioning? When service is met not with gratitude, but silent expectation?

Then I remembered the best marriage advice I’ve ever received: “Choose to love each other even when you struggle to like each other. Love is a commitment, not a feeling.” Not poetry—truth. This isn’t 50/50. That’s divorce math. This is 100/100. Some days I carry more. Some days she does. But the rope only holds when we both grip it fully.

The Philosopher’s Mirror

Ecclesiastes says, “There is a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak.” I don’t know what time it is for me yet. All I know is that pain brings clarity—if we don’t drown in it.

Earlier today, I did what I always do. I served. I supported. I ran errands, repaired tech, and made sure life flowed smoothly. I arranged a phone replacement, timed our trip to town to fit in a haircut, and spent the morning with my youngest, Evan, while the older two were with friends. In the barber’s chair, I caught up with a hairdresser I hadn’t seen in a month—his absence had been due to illness. That small conversation brought unexpected joy. A reminder that presence—even in barbershops—matters.

I later met up with Ryan, and we had a good conversation about growth and purpose. Moments like these anchor me. They remind me that even when life’s rope frays, there are knots of grace holding me up.

Guarding the Wellspring

“Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.”

Today, I saw what happens when my heart isn’t guarded. The tension inside me leaked out, touching the people I love most. Aden, my eldest, bore the brunt of it. He just wanted help with his project. I snapped. Not because of him—but because I couldn’t hold the pressure anymore.

And my wife, she noticed I was off, but didn’t know the storm inside me. Or maybe she did. Maybe we’ve both grown so used to masking that we forget what it means to reveal.

This is the hidden danger of leadership—when your core is injured, your presence still echoes. You hurt even when you’re trying to serve. You carry responsibility with bleeding hands, not realizing your blood stains the people you love.

And yet, I’m reminded—give your best to each other, not your leftovers after you’ve given your best to everyone else. I failed at that today. But failure doesn’t mean finality. It means returning to the wellspring, drawing water again, and choosing to serve with softness—not just strength.

Reverse Leadership: When Strength Looks Like Silence

Leadership isn’t always about raising your voice. Sometimes, it’s about lowering it—especially when you want to scream. I could retaliate. I could weaponize pain. But I won’t. Not because I’m noble, but because I believe in servant leadership. The kind that let go of pride to protect peace. The kind that forgives before understanding. The kind that leads not by position, but by posture.

Ecclesiastes says there’s a time to embrace and a time to refrain. Today, I refrained—from fighting, from judging, from assuming. Not perfectly. But intentionally.

In every argument, there is no winner or loser. We either rise together or fall together. And when trust fractures, healing begins with: “I love you. I forgive you. Let’s move forward.”

Rebuilding the Inner Altar

BNP’s meeting today reminded me that the work we do may never be fully seen, but it matters. Every decision we make affects not just the room, but the ripple. One strong EXCO leader can influence dozens of other volunteers. And those volunteers serve hundreds. It’s a quiet ecosystem of impact.

So I sat through the meeting, even when my heart wasn’t in it. Because sometimes leadership is showing up—even when you feel like leaving.

Love in the Age of Imperfection

My wife is carrying our fourth child. That alone is worthy of honor. She’s been showing up in her own way—tending to the children, managing the house, carrying both life and fatigue. And I must show up too.

She comes from a home where gratitude isn’t easily expressed. I’ve seen her mother rarely thank her father. I see echoes of that silence in us. But what if I could be the interruption in that generational rhythm? What if our sons saw affection, grace, and protection modeled consistently? What if our daughter saw not just love received—but love reciprocated?

I used to think connection was built on grand gestures. But it’s built in ordinary moments: answering her calls. Turning off my phone when we’re together. Making laughter the soundtrack of our home. Holding back when tempted to speak sharply. Saying, “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

A strong marriage doesn’t mean two strong people at the same time. It means taking turns being strong when the other is weak. Choosing not to keep secrets. Choosing not to lie. Prioritizing not just the kids—but each other. Especially now. Especially when it’s easier not to.

Marriage isn’t about perfection. It’s about persistence. About never quitting. About modeling the kind of marriage that makes your children want to build the same.

The Rope of Reflection

I write because it’s my rope. These reflections don’t fix everything—but they keep me climbing. They remind me that leadership is often lonely. Often painful. Often unacknowledged. But also deeply worth it.

Today, I saw the cracks. I felt the fracture. But I also saw the possibility … of healing, of growing, of leading through love, not ego.

Aden will forgive me—children are masters of grace. My wife and I—we’ll find our footing again, if we both choose to. The rope is still there. Frayed, maybe. But strong enough.

A Day Worth Climbing

The day ended with photos—my wife glowing in her final pregnancy, the kids radiant. Dinner was warm. The house, full. On the surface, everything looked whole. Beneath, much to heal.

But I’m still here. Still climbing.

Because love, like leadership, is never about avoiding pain.

It’s about walking through it—eyes open, heart guarded, rope in hand.

Good night.