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I had a dream the other night that hasn’t left me.

In it, a man I’ve never felt fully comfortable around—someone who’s always struck me as shallow, even a bit narcissistic—was playing with a group of children, including my son.

They were all in a bathtub, laughing and splashing. And he was so present—so gentle. So attuned.

It caught me off guard. This wasn’t someone I’d expect tenderness from. And yet there he was, sitting next to something innocent and chaotic, holding it well.

That image—of water, of a man caring for children—took me back to a moment from early childhood. I was three. My father was giving me a bath, and at some point, he started crying—about my mother, about pain I couldn’t name yet. I needed containment, and though I had it in the tub, I also had to be the container for him. We were both exposed in our own ways.

A couple of nights before that dream, my partner and I had an argument. He told me he loved me—more than he’s ever loved anyone—but that he couldn’t sleep next to me that night. It was without a doubt still tense between us. His anxiety was too high. His body couldn’t settle. And I was angry. He was leaving town the next day for two weeks, and I told him leaving in the middle of so much tension wouldn’t help the relationship—it was already in a fragile place.

He said, “I need to think about my own needs sometimes.” And I told him, “Do what you need to do. But I’m usually the one who runs—and for once, I’m trying to stay, to show you I’m in this.” Things escalated. He started to get sharp again—guarded. So I said, quietly but firmly, that I needed space. That I needed him to leave. He said “okay,” almost as if he had been waiting for me to say that very thing.

I lay in bed for about 30 minutes, wrapped in silence. Angry. Sad. Confused. But something tugged at me. I got up and walked into the other room. There he was—on the small couch, legs hanging off, clearly uncomfortable. He hadn’t left. He had stayed. Sat in his discomfort. Stayed in proximity to mine. In that moment, in that spot, he tried to be contained and exposed at the same time.

We’ve only been together a year and a half. The honeymoon phase faded right around a year and now we’re seeing each other more clearly—without the glow. Without the protection of newness. The reality of our differences is setting in. And while part of me wants to believe we’ll last, there’s another part that’s afraid to trust that. I’ve been disappointed so many times. I’ve held on too long. I’ve stayed in fantasy before just to avoid facing what was real. I don’t want to do that again.

I kept thinking about that moment—him staying, even when it was hard. I didn’t know what it meant. But I held onto it anyway, like I always do.

I have this odd little habit—I pick up black ponytail holders off the ground. I find them everywhere: parking lots, sidewalks, gas stations. I don’t know when it started. I just know I see them, and I take them. I use them. I don’t like waste.

It’s strange, maybe. But it also feels familiar. Because I think I do that with moments too. With dreams and memories and conversations that didn’t go the way I hoped. I carry things others might discard. I notice what’s easy to overlook. I gather what still has use—what still knows how to hold.

I want to say I carry him when he falls apart. That I hold the tenderness he forgets is there. And that’s true. But he carries me too. He cooks for me. He shows up for my son when he doesn’t have to and stays patient with him when I can’t. He steadies me with logic when I’m caught in emotion. He challenges me when I need it. He rubs my back, strokes my hair, and reminds me I’m beautiful—almost every night we’re together.

His capacity has limits. So does mine. And maybe that’s not failure—maybe it’s humanity. The real question is: Can we both allow each other to be human here? Can we honor the different ways we hold what the other cannot?

I still feel disappointment. There’s fear and sadness, too—the wondering if he’ll ever fully meet me in the way I need. And maybe I won’t always be able to meet him either. Maybe neither of us will ever have full capacity, all the time. And maybe that’s okay—even if part of me isn’t okay with it. What matters is that I can learn to hold that complexity with compassion.

What I’m learning now, more than anything, is how to hold myself. To hold all of it—the contradictions, the tenderness, the ache, the part of me that longs, and the part that already knows. I’m not trying to make it tidy. I’m trying to make it honest. And livable.

Instead of expecting him to hold all of me, I’m learning to trust that I can. That I have to. And that if he’s going to grow, he needs to learn to hold himself, too. Not perfectly. But enough to stand beside me—not beneath me, not above me, but next to me.

The paint might peel. The storms might rattle the windows. But the bones of this house are strong.

And maybe the bones are this: My willingness to stay with myself. His willingness to stay with himself. And our shared choice, again and again, not to run from what’s real.

I don’t know how this ends. I’m learning to hold that, too.

I do know this: I’ll keep picking up the things that others overlook. The black rubber bands that hold nothing and everything. The little discarded things that still know how to hold.

Because maybe that’s what I’ve always done—gather what matters. Even when it’s messy. Even when it’s hard to hold. Even when the shape of it keeps changing.

Who knows what will happen. We’re all just human beings trying to figure it out day by day—maybe a little less wrong than the day before, and maybe just trying our best to hold ourselves through it.

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