Reflecting on Another Trip Around the Sun
It's my party and I'll cry if I want to
Today is my birthday.
New Year’s Eve birthdays have always felt a little different. The world is busy closing tabs and opening champagne while I’m usually doing something quieter. Looking back. Taking stock. Letting the year and the life overlap for a moment.
It feels less like a celebration and more like letting the dust settle.
I’m turning 47 today. And this year, more than most, feels like one long lesson in learning how to stay present instead of preparing an exit.
Lauren and I have been together for three years and change, now. Long enough that the beginning feels far away, but not so far that I’ve forgotten how uncertain it was.
Early on, as we were just starting our relationship, something surfaced that caught me off guard. I was scared to get more serious even though the relationship felt great.
By that point in my life, I wasn’t new to inner work. I had already spent years circling my own patterns. Retreats where phones were off and emotions weren’t optional. Long stretches of meditation that made it impossible to outrun my own thoughts. Group work where other men reflected parts of me I couldn’t see on my own. An ongoing men’s group that’s kept me honest when it would’ve been easier to stay comfortable.
I had language for my wiring. I understood my tendencies. I knew where I armored up and where I disappeared.
What I didn’t yet know was how all of that understanding would show up in real time, with someone I was just beginning to care about.
As things started to feel real, I noticed the familiar shift. Not panic. Not fear exactly. More like ambivalence. The subtle tightening in my chest. The mental organizing of reasons. The reflex to get ahead of things before they could get complicated.
I’ve learned that my defensiveness doesn’t arrive loudly. It shows up as logic. As calm. As restraint. It looks reasonable. Even responsible.
And then something broke open.
Before I could shape it into words, my body got there first. Tears came. Not dramatically. Not cleanly. Just real. The kind that don’t ask permission or follow a plan.
I remember feeling exposed. A little embarrassed. A little relieved. Aware that part of me wanted closeness while another part wasn’t sure it was safe yet.
That wasn’t the only time I cried early on in our relationship. Emotion moved through me more freely then. I was closer to the deeper wells I’d been digging into for years. I hadn’t rebuilt all the old scaffolding yet.
Over time, as life layered in, some of those defenses returned. Not fully. Not all at once. But enough for me to notice.
That’s been one of the quieter lessons of this relationship. Vulnerability isn’t something you unlock once and keep forever. It’s a practice. Something you return to. Especially when the road starts to feel familiar and you slip back into old habits.
For most of my life, crying felt like something to manage or avoid. Especially as a man. Especially in places where strength looks like composure and control. But I’ve come to see tears as a kind of clear signal. The body saying, slow down here. There’s something worth noticing.
Letting myself listen has changed the shape of my relationship. It’s made repair less threatening. It’s softened moments that used to harden quickly. It’s allowed closeness without the constant urge to brace.
That work didn’t start with Lauren, but it’s been refined with her.
It’s also changed how I show up as a father. Henry and Hawk are eight and ten now. Which means they’re endlessly curious and remarkably skilled at finding every tender edge I have left. I don’t always stay open. I still get frustrated. I still feel the pull to shut down.
But I notice it sooner now. I pause more often. I recover faster. That feels like progress, even when it’s imperfect.
Two divorces will give you plenty of data if you’re willing to study it. What I’ve learned is that patterns don’t disappear because you understand them. They soften through repetition. Through reflection. Through choosing to stay when it would be easier to retreat.
This year, another trip around the sun, I don’t feel finished. But I do feel steadier.
Less performance.
More presence.
Less running.
More staying.
That feels like a good place to be at 47.
There’s more road ahead. More signs to notice. More pauses worth taking.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere else.
P.S.
As part of my own staying work, I continue to meet regularly with a men’s group that’s been grounding and quietly transformative. This year, we experimented with a simple, fun gamification of intentions and resolutions. Less pressure. More honesty. More play.
If that kind of container is something you’re curious about heading into 2026, you can reach out. No pitch. Just conversation.
Happy New Year 🍾