August 7, 2019

On this trip, I made a quiet decision: we would bring Christ with us.

Each day, we read scriptures together and talk about them. It’s simple, but it’s something—something steady, something light. I’ve needed that light more than I want to admit. Lately, I’ve felt detached from my own family, like I’m present but not really seen.

Today we combined yesterday’s reading with today’s. One thought stayed with me: *Satan is real.* He works quietly, pulling us apart, convincing us we’re alone, that we’re failing, that we’re unworthy. But Christ—He does the opposite. He calls us forward.

I pictured life as a race. Not one of competition, but endurance. And at the finish line, Christ stands waiting—not impatient, not disappointed—but cheering. Encouraging. Wanting us to make it home.

That image stayed with me.

Because most days, I don’t feel like someone worth cheering for.

Even so, I pray. Every day, I pray. I tell my Heavenly Father everything I don’t say out loud. The loneliness. The confusion. The quiet ache of feeling unwanted. I don’t hold anything back.

Sometimes the impressions I get are gentle corrections—*be patient, you’re overreacting.* Other times, they feel like small instructions.

Today, it was simple: *Hug Ava.*

That shouldn’t feel hard, but it does. I didn’t grow up with affection. Hugs weren’t natural, and because of that, they don’t come naturally now—not even with my own children.

Still, I listened.

I wrapped my arms around her and told her I loved her. She stiffened immediately, her body resisting mine, like I had crossed some invisible line. For a moment, I almost let go.

But the thought came again: *Keep going.*

It will feel uncomfortable at first. Then it will feel normal.

I’ve heard that before. Years ago, my aunt told me the same thing. Maybe this is how change begins—not with big moments, but with small, repeated acts of love that feel unnatural until they don’t.

Not everything feels that hopeful.

With Marissa, I feel like I’ve already lost. There’s a distance there I don’t know how to cross. Maybe it’s because of Anthony—because they’re close, and whatever he feels seems to echo in her. I don’t know. I just feel it.

I try to count what I *do* have. The boys love me. Aubrey and Charlotte do too. Six out of nine.

But even surrounded by them, I feel alone in a way I can’t explain.

I tell myself to focus on the kids, to pour into them—but somehow that seems to pull Anthony and me even further apart.

And that’s the part that hurts the most.

I am always the one reaching. The one trying to close the distance. The one offering affection, hoping it will be returned.

It isn’t.

And it’s starting to wear me down.

There’s a quiet truth I can’t ignore: when someone is in love with you, they want to be near you. They choose you.

I don’t feel chosen.

Today at the lake, I swam toward him more than once. Each time, he drifted away, creating space where I was trying to close it. It was subtle, almost invisible—but I felt it every time.

Rejection doesn’t always come in words. Sometimes it’s in movement. In absence. In silence.

We’re in San Antonio now, staying in a low-budget hotel. The little ones swam for over an hour, their laughter echoing through the pool area. The older kids stayed in the room, absorbed in video games.

Life keeps moving around me.

But inside, I feel stuck.

I sat next to Anthony for twenty minutes today. Just sat there, waiting—hoping he might say something, reach for me, acknowledge me.

Nothing.

It felt like sitting beside a stranger.

And I realized something I don’t want to admit: I feel more alone sitting next to him than I do when I’m actually by myself.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to our marriage.

Every time I think about divorce, it makes me physically sick. My whole body reacts. My spirit feels like it’s tearing. The thought of ending our family—of unraveling everything we built—hurts more than I can put into words.

But staying like this hurts too.

Slowly. Quietly. Constantly.

We have eight beautiful children. We built something real. We tried.

But what if trying isn’t enough?

All I want—what I’ve always wanted—is simple.

For him to reach for me.

To hold me.

To kiss me.

To tell me he loves me—and mean it.

I don’t know how to make someone fall back in love with you.

So tonight, I go back to the only thing that has felt steady.

I pray.

I pray for answers.

For clarity.

For strength to face whatever comes next.

Because right now, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of my life, not knowing which direction leads home.