Living in the “In Between”

I’m not writing this as someone who has figured it out.

I’m writing this as someone sitting right in the middle of it.

My wife and I have told our adult children. I’ve told my siblings. The truth is out there now, and yet… nothing is fully resolved. We’re still living in the same house, but not in the same way. We’re cordial, mostly. Sometimes we align, sometimes we don’t. Some days feel manageable. Others feel heavy, anxious, uncertain.

It’s a strange place to exist—this “in between.”

Not fully together.
Not fully apart.
Not sure what comes next.

And if I’m honest, that uncertainty is one of the hardest parts.

What This Phase Actually Is

I keep catching myself wanting to define this stage. To give it direction. To push it toward something—resolution, clarity, even friendship.

But I’m starting to realize this isn’t a phase you solve. It’s a phase you move through.

Right now, the goal isn’t to fix the relationship. It’s not even to fully understand it.

The goal, at least for me, is simpler and harder at the same time:

Don’t make things worse.

That sounds small, but it isn’t. It means slowing down when I feel reactive. It means not letting anxiety dictate my tone. It means choosing steadiness over being right.

Some days I do that well. Some days I don’t.

Wanting Friendship (and Not Forcing It)

I find myself wanting a version of friendship with my wife.

Not a forced one. Not a fake one. But something real enough that we can share space, talk, even enjoy moments without everything feeling tense or fragile.

I want that for us. I want that for our kids.

But I’m also starting to understand that you don’t get to force something like that into existence.

Friendship, especially after years of history, only grows in an environment that feels safe and unpressured. And right now, we’re not fully there yet.

So instead of trying to jump ahead, I’m trying to accept a slower progression:

Cordial → Cooperative → Occasionally Comfortable → Maybe, eventually, Friendly.

That’s not a straight line. And it’s not guaranteed. But it feels more honest than trying to skip steps.

The Weight of Guilt

There’s a lot of guilt in this space.

Some of it is earned. Some of it might be exaggerated. All of it feels heavy.

I’ve spent a lot of time sitting in that weight—replaying things, questioning myself, wondering what I should have done differently.

But I’m starting to see that guilt can go in two directions.

One kind of guilt leads to change. It points to specific things and says, “Do better here.” That kind is useful.

The other kind just sits on your chest. It says, “You’ve already messed this up beyond repair.” That kind doesn’t help anyone. It just keeps you stuck.

I’m trying—imperfectly—to shift from the second kind to the first.

Not “I need to feel bad enough.”

But “I need to be better, consistently.”

Because at the end of the day, the people around me don’t benefit most from how bad I feel. They benefit from how steady I can become.

Living Together, Separately

Sharing a space in this condition is its own challenge.

There’s no script for it. No clear rules unless you create them.

What does “cordial” actually mean day to day?
When do you give space? When do you engage?
What topics are okay, and which ones just lead to tension?

We’re still figuring that out in real time.

And the truth is, a lot of the anxiety comes from not knowing. From guessing wrong. From reading into tone or silence.

What’s helping, even a little, is trying to treat this less like a relationship that needs to be defined and more like a shared environment that needs to be managed.

Respect. Space. Basic kindness.

It’s not everything—but it’s something solid to stand on.

Rebuilding Without Spite

There’s also this quieter question running underneath everything:

What does my life look like now?

And maybe more importantly:

How do I rebuild it in a way that isn’t driven by anger, fear, or the need to prove something?

It’s easy to make reactive choices in a moment like this. Big changes. Sharp turns. Things that feel like movement but are really just escape.

I don’t want that.

I don’t want to build a life that, if I’m honest, is just a reaction to pain.

I want something steadier. Something I wouldn’t be ashamed for my kids to see clearly.

That probably means smaller steps than I’d like. Less dramatic. More intentional.

But also more real.

Managing What I Feel (Without Pretending It’s Not There)

There’s a lot that comes up day to day—anxiety, sadness, frustration, even moments of anger.

I’m not trying to deny those things anymore. That hasn’t worked.

What I’m trying to do instead is not let them drive the car.

Sometimes that looks like pausing before I respond.
Sometimes it means stepping away instead of engaging.
Sometimes it’s as simple as naming it: “This is anxiety. This is grief.”

That alone can take some of the edge off.

I’m learning that feelings don’t need to be acted on immediately to be valid. They can exist, move through, and pass—if I give them a little space.

What I Can Actually Control

There’s a lot I don’t control right now.

I don’t control where this relationship ultimately lands.
I don’t control how others feel.
I don’t control how quickly anything resolves.

That’s hard to sit with.

But there are things I do control:

How I speak
How I respond when I’m triggered
Whether I escalate or de-escalate
Whether I act in a way I can respect later

That’s where I’m trying to put my focus.

Not on the outcome—but on the version of myself that walks through this.

If You’re Here Too

If you’re in a similar place—living in that undefined middle—I don’t have a clean answer for you.

I’m still in it.

But I can say this:

This space doesn’t have to be destructive.

It can be a place where you learn how to slow down.
Where you learn how to carry difficult emotions without turning them into damage.
Where you start becoming someone steadier—regardless of how things end.

That doesn’t make it easy.

But it makes it meaningful.

And right now, that’s enough for me to keep going.

Antediluvian Man