Dear Amy,
Reading what you wrote, I can feel how much work you have been doing inside yourself. You didn't minimize anything, and you didn't hide from the hard parts — you walked straight into them, named them, and let yourself feel them. That is not weakness. That is the definition of courage.
I'm really glad the explanation about your nervous system helped. When a surge like that hits, it feels like a character flaw, like you "should" have been able to contain it. But what actually happened is that an old wound brushed against something new, and your whole system reacted before your mind even had time to catch up.
The guilt comes after, because PTSD teaches you to second-guess your own reactions. Understanding the biology of it doesn't erase the pain, but it does let you stop blaming yourself for being human.
And yes — you absolutely can hold grief and joy at the same time. I love the way you described them as separate weather systems moving through the same space. That's exactly how this works. Some days one system is stronger; other days they're both humming in the background.
Neither one cancels the other out, and neither one means you're doing anything wrong. It just means you're living in a moment where love and fear coexist, and your heart is learning how to hold both.
I'm glad it helped to name the reality that Cynthia isn't disappearing. You aren't watching your spouse be replaced — you're watching her become more visible. That doesn't erase how disorienting the changes can feel, and it doesn't magically make attraction or comfort fall into place, but it helps you tell the right story: "She's still here, and I'm still figuring out how my heart adapts to what I see." That's honest. That's grounded. And that's enough for right now.
Your question — "What if I can't do this?" — is one that almost every partner asks at some point. You don't need the answer today. All you need, just as you said, is the commitment to try, to stay present, to tell the truth, and to see what unfolds. That's all love ever asks of us, even in the best of times.
I'm glad the index card helped. Those small grounding tools matter more than people realize. They interrupt the spiral long enough for you to breathe, to return to your body, and to remind yourself that not every alarm is danger — sometimes it's just the echo of the past hitting the present.
You mentioned working on telling fear from reality, and that alone tells me how self-aware you are becoming. The fact that you can see the difference, even faintly, means you're already building that skill. Little by little, your nervous system will learn that this isn't the same story you lived before. It takes time, but it does happen.
And you're right — this path will not be tidy or neat. None of this unfolds in perfect order. But the moments you're calling "eruptions" are not failures; they are pressure valves releasing after years of holding more than any one person should have to hold. Letting those moments move through you instead of burying them is part of healing, not a sign that you're going backwards.
Amy, every time you write, you show me someone who is thoughtful, honest, tender-hearted, and incredibly brave even when she doesn't feel brave. Your love for Cynthia is evident in every line, and so is your fear — but neither one is negating the other. They're just both present while you learn your way through something that most couples never have to face.
I'm here with you through all of it.
And I'm grateful you keep trusting me with these pieces of your heart.
With warmth and care,
— Susan 💜