There are moments in co-parenting that don’t just sting — they cut deep. Moments where you’re doing your best, holding the house together, protecting routines, planning time for your child, and then everything shatters in a single sentence:

“Why is he acting this way? I don’t do that so it must be You”

After sitting with the feeling for a minute, I realized this was actually an opportunity. Not to lecture. Not to shame him. But to teach him something he’ll need for the rest of his life: how to handle embarrassment, respect others, and understand faith without fear.

So tonight, after religious ed, I plan to talk with him gently.

We are living in a time where the family is not merely neglected—it is under direct assault.
And if you look closely, the same three weapons show up again and again:
violence, nudity/shame, and lies.

This is not abstract.
It played out in my own family story.
And the saints warned us it would.

There are moments in the middle of the day when a heaviness comes over you without warning. You’re working, parenting, trying to be faithful, trying to hold your life together with maturity and trust in God—and suddenly a sadness or anxiety slips in. It doesn’t always have a name. It doesn’t always make sense. But it’s real.

If you’ve felt this, you’re not alone. And you’re not weak. In the Catholic spiritual tradition, this has been recognized for centuries. The early desert fathers called it acedia, the “noonday devil” from Psalm 91:6—a kind of spiritual fatigue that tries to discourage the soul when it’s striving to walk with God.

The other day I stepped back and realized something unusual was happening in my home. No yelling. No tension. No slammed doors. My son did his homework without pushback. Bath time didn’t turn into a wrestling match. Even my co-parent apologized about the “ladder issue” — something I didn’t expect but quietly thanked God for.

And the strangest part? I wasn’t fighting for this peace. It just… came.

After weeks of prayer, self-discipline, resisting temptation, and trying to become a man who listens instead of reacts, suddenly the whole atmosphere shifted. The air itself felt different — light, almost fragile. And instead of relaxing into it, I found myself feeling nervous.

Like, “Is this real? Should I brace for the next crazy moment?”

If you’ve ever lived in long-term tension, you know that peace can feel more threatening than conflict.

But I’m starting to learn something:

This week, something happened that I’ve been praying about ever since. I want to share it—not to judge anyone, but to reflect on what it taught me and about how easily we drift from the anchors Christ gave His Church.

On the same night a fellow member spoke about a sudden vision she received, I was sitting in Adoration before the Eucharistic Lord.

And for the first time in weeks, something unforced happened:

I walked out of church filled with peace—the real kind, the quiet strength that settles in your bones after receiving the Eucharist. Mass had been clear, consoling, grounding. I felt God with me.

Then the phone rang.

My ex-mother-in-law needed a ride to the hospital. No one else was stepping up. My co-parent didn’t take the lead. The expectation silently fell on me.

My first reaction? A very human, very honest:

"What the heck… why is this suddenly my job?"

But grace was larger than irritation. Something in me shifted from Why me? to Maybe this is mine because God is handing it to me.