NAVEL GAZING: excessive absorption in self-analysis or focus on a single issue

Rift Resolution

When Nanny passed, Dad eloquently eulogized her life, praising his mom for her strength, determination, and commitment—praise she well deserved. Although not his intent, it felt as though he spoke directly to me, highlighting a lack of those same characteristics in my own recent actions.

As I sat there listening, I kept replaying our earlier conversation where he relayed Mom's wishes that I refrain from participating in communion because of my "not being in the state of grace," a reference to living with Nina before the finalization of the divorce from Samantha.

The stress of the situation—Samantha, Nina, my children, and most of our family gathered for the service—and the intense feelings of judgment kept me in my seat instead of taking my turn at the pulpit to honor Nanny, who died just shy of her 97th birthday. At the time, such judgments only deepened my ambivalence toward religion and made me question our professed family loyalty.

The breakup of my marriage ran contrary to my parents' hard-earned life lessons and the example they provided. Even though I was separated, being involved in a new relationship so soon made it hard for them to embrace. It hurt them, as if I had poured salt into their open-wounded pride.

My changed standing and how I chose to exercise it proved a harsh test of our family bond. My love for Nina and our relationship was doomed from the start—not from their lack of support, though its absence hurt. I willfully ignored reality; old habits die hard, and in the end, I see it for what it was—a necessary ending that came before the cost grew heavier. Still, that didn't absolve them of their reaction, though given our family history, it should not have been unexpected.

Dad tried to reassure me, telling me to give it time. "We just need time," he would say. But everything was falling apart around me. My time seemed consumed by fires erupting on all fronts. I tried to see things from their point of view, to be sensitive to their feelings, and to remember that Samantha had also been part of their lives.

Perhaps hypocritical, and likely seen as well-deserved, it was nevertheless heart-wrenching to experience actions that made me feel rejected by the family I love. The pinnacle was Mom's words: "...I'm disappointed in you as a man." Although hearing it wounded me, it had to have hurt her more to say it.

I was angry with the family I had always believed I had shown allegiance to. What of the revered family loyalty preached to us our entire lives? I felt diminished, as if my character had been replaced with a sad, besmirched substitute. My place in the family, earned over years, now felt like a revocable privilege—contingent on living a version they had grown accustomed to.

[I felt betrayed.]

Did they think it was easy for me to dismiss a lifetime of family values, or to ignore the guilt of what felt like disloyalty?

Those thoughts fueled the delusion that was my marriage, making it difficult to communicate honestly about the relationship.

What about my needs and the years of discontent? I know my parents sacrificed for us, but throughout it all, they had each other. Couldn't they understand how long I had suffered with loneliness? I wasn't the first to divorce in our family, so why did my situation seem so much more painful to them? Did they imagine I would forsake my children, be content as a part-time father, or worse, abandon them as my unknown grandfather had years before? Couldn't they see I wanted more for them as well? Where was their faith in me—and most maddening, why did it hurt so much what they thought?

Many questions remain unanswered, some probably better left unasked. Though the hurt can still sneak up unexpectedly, especially when I feel my considerations are undervalued, the intensity of those feelings has subsided.

Even when it wasn't their intent, I realized I had spent my life measuring myself against my mom's devotion to family, putting togetherness above my own desires. I tried to make my marriage work, believing it could be right. Once it became clear it wouldn't, I continued, even as I made choices that undermined it. I was held in place by the weight of not wanting to disappoint my family and everything my mom stood for. In the end, I wasn't a man making my own choices—I was a boy, contorting myself to avoid letting her down.

I wasn't just avoiding conflict; I was acting out a version of loyalty drilled into me since childhood. Every effort, every compromise, every day spent trying to make it work measured my worth—but in the quiet moments, I knew it was my own happiness paying the price. The weight of my mother's ideals didn't just shape my choices; it kept me bound to a life I felt I had to honor, even as it unraveled.

There's no doubt that, compared to their childhoods, my four siblings and I were raised in relative privilege—a debt owed to our parents that should allow us to forgive each other for the occasional flare-up or unresolved conflict from youth.

Those early hardships endured by my parents—a daughter given up by her mother, a son abandoned by his father, and an unbridgeable distance between siblings—served to strengthen the mettle of their resolve as they strove to form an unbreakable bond. I don't know what a perfect relationship would look like, but my parents' union served as a shining example of a successful one, where for a lifetime they shared love and an unwavering commitment. The family bond they created remains united.
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I spoke at my parents' 60th-anniversary celebration and wanted to make clear how much they are loved. I get nervous speaking in public and can easily become emotional. While speaking, my focus traveled from each parent to my own children. "In reflection," I told them, "being a parent allowed me to see my own parents differently."

I attempted to convey what it's like to be a parent: the second-guessing, the trials and errors; just wanting to do your best, and have them do theirs—a composition of successes and failures, but throughout it all, always love.

"...When you're a parent, you wish your kids to know of the endless reserve that exists for them, and that love is always present, even during those times when it does not seem certain."

In conclusion, as I struggled to keep my composure, I said to my parents:

"I see you...I really see you."

Hopefully, they understood the equal measure of love, reverence, and forgiveness I tried to express in that simple statement. And perhaps, a message to my own children: a wish to be understood. No necessity for agreement, just acceptance—and to be seen in entirety, for all that I am.