I used to think love was intensity. Now I know love is what remains.
For years, I defined my life by the high-octane hum of motion. If you’ve followed The Chaos Planner for a while, you know the vibe: five boys, ages 3 to 12, a whirlwind of grass-stained knees, wrestling matches in the living room, and a calendar that looked like a tactical military operation. We were the “adventure family.” We didn’t just go for walks; we conquered trails. We didn’t just play; we competed.
Papi was the engine behind so much of that movement. He was 100% there physically — active, involved, the kind of dad who kept the boys moving from sunrise to sunset. I thrived in that heat. I thought the sweat, the constant adrenaline, and the sheer intensity of our family unit was the proof of our strength. I equated the volume of our lives with the depth of our foundation.
Then, the world broke.
The past year hasn’t just been a “transition.” It has been a gutting. A horrible separation that didn’t just split a household but ripped the very fabric of our brotherhood apart. Today, I sit in a house that is too quiet. I move forward with MJ, Matthew, and Jack, but my heart is constantly reaching into the void for Jasper and Mateo. The loss of those two boys—the missing 9-year-old and 7-year-old who should be wrestling on this rug right now—is a mourning I don’t have words for yet.
But in this wreckage, I’ve had to look at the woman I was and the woman I am becoming. At 42, as an entrepreneur who has spent her life building empires and raising a small army, I realized I was an expert at intensity, but I was starving for devotion.
The Illusion of the Safe Space
In the height of our “adventure years,” I thought I was happy because we were productive. We were a team. But as I look back through the lens of this silence, I’ve had to face a hard truth: I never had a safe space.
When I reflect back on my most memorable relationships in my life, one thing flashes undeniably in my mind. Seeing their face, needing to feel safe, crawling into their arms and falling softly into their chest. Every moment of feeling held and knowing I was loved came from the memory of their smell, their softness, being able to lay there with my eyes closed and know that not a single bad thing could happen because I was theirs, protected, valued.
So when I look back at the chaos of the last 5 years, I am finally realizing that I spent those years being the pillar. I was the planner, the fixer, the one who navigated the chaos. And while there was so much movement, there was very little holding. I realized recently that I don’t have a single memory of truly curling into his chest and feeling the world disappear. I don’t have a memory of emotional steadiness that wasn’t contingent on how well I was performing or how fast we were all running. I don’t have a single memory of lying there with my eyes closed just knowing everything was going to be ok.
The absence of that safety matters. It matters more than the epic hikes or the business milestones. When the storm hit, I didn’t have a harbor; I just had more waves. I realized that while we were “doing” life at 100mph, I was emotionally white knuckling it the whole time.
I’ve spent my life being “the strong one,” but I’ve learned that a love that requires you to be “on” all the time isn’t actually love—it’s a high-stakes performance.
What I Require Next: The Shift to Softness
I am still reeling. I am still mourning the “amazing family” I thought we had built. I am not here to make Papi the villain; we were two people caught in a cyclone of our own making. But I am here to advocate for my future self. I am learning what I need to survive this chapter and what I will demand from the next.
If and when I ever open my heart again, the “requirements” have fundamentally changed. I used to look for a partner who could keep pace. Now? I’m looking for someone who knows how to be still.
Emotional Steadiness Over Adrenaline: I don’t need the “highs” anymore. The highs are exhausting. I need a love that is a flat line in the best way possible—consistent, predictable, and calm. I want a partner whose mood isn’t a weather vane. After the trauma of this separation, my nervous system is fried. I need a space where I don’t have to “read the room” before I speak.
Devotion in the Ordinary: It’s easy to love someone when you’re standing on top of a mountain or celebrating a business win. It is much harder to love someone when they are mourning the absence of their children, or when the 3-year-old is screaming, or when the coffee is cold. I want a love that doesn’t fade when the “newness” wears off. I want a devotion that finds its strength in the mundane—the Tuesday night laundry, the quiet moments of repair after a disagreement.
The Power of Being Held: I’ve spent 42 years holding everything together. My business, my boys, my household. What I need now—and what I will require next time—is the permission to be held. Not just physically, though a chest to lean on feels like a foreign luxury I’m finally ready to claim. I mean emotionally held. I need someone who says, “I’ve got you, you can let go now.”
Repair as a Love Language: We live in a culture that prizes “disposability.” When things get hard, we split. When the intensity fades, we leave. But as I move forward with MJ, Matthew, and Jack, I am teaching them (and myself) about the beauty of repair. True devotion is the act of coming back to the table. It’s the “softness” that allows for mistakes. And most importantly, it’s the accountability to just own the mistake so the family can move forward.
In the past, I think I was so afraid of the chaos stopping that I didn’t know how to ask for any of these requirements. I just kept moving. Now, I see that the most “future-focused” thing I can do is build a life where vulnerability is the strongest thing in the room. And that knowledge finally brings me so much peace: When I am ready to try again, it’s not my job to be the strongest thing in the room anymore. Whoever he is will allow our foundation, our intimacy, our love, to be the strength that guides us both forward.
Where To From Here?
I am still a career-driven entrepreneur. I am still a mom who loves the rough-and-tumble life of her boys. That part of me isn’t gone—it’s just being tempered. I am learning that I can be hardworking and “soft” at the same time. I can be a leader in the boardroom and a woman who needs to be tucked in at night.
To my sisters out there who are “Chaos Planners” by trade or by nature: don’t mistake movement for progress. Don’t mistake intensity for intimacy.
I am rebuilding my life on a new foundation. It’s a foundation of steadiness, of quiet devotion, and of the radical idea that I don’t have to earn my rest. The loss of Jasper and Mateo is a hole in my heart that may never fully close, but I am learning to carry that grief with a gentleness I never allowed myself before.
I’ve spent so much of my life being the one who keeps up. I thought that was my value. But I’m realizing that the right kind of love doesn’t ask you to run faster. It asks you to stay.
I’m not looking for someone who can keep up with me—I’m looking for someone who can hold me.