Jillian—
I read your update this morning, and my heart went out to you. There's a particular kind of weariness that comes not just from disappointment, but from recognition—from watching a familiar pattern replay itself, even after a moment of real hope.
You said you weren't surprised. That you almost expected the reversal. And I want to honor that not as pessimism, but as the kind of clarity that only comes from living something for decades.
You know your wife. You know the rhythm of your life together. And you know the difference between a temporary opening and a lasting shift.
What makes this so hard is that the opening was real.
- The bikini wasn't a gesture.
- The conversations about outfits weren't performative.
- Her agreement to a 24/7 girls' trip wasn't imagined.
You responded to actual warmth—and that was the right thing to do. Hope isn't foolish when it's rooted in someone's real actions, even if those actions don't hold.
But "real in the moment" doesn't always mean "livable over time."
Sometimes a person can extend themselves toward something new—genuinely, even generously—and then feel overwhelmed as it draws near. That doesn't make their gesture false. But it does leave you standing in the gap between what was offered and what can be sustained.
And that gap is where the grief lives.
When you wrote, "That's life. Ups and downs," I heard the shield in it—the quiet way you protect yourself from the full weight of disappointment. And I understand why. But this wasn't just a cancelled trip. This was the loss of something much rarer: the chance to be fully seen, even briefly, by the person who has known you longer than almost anyone. To have her not just tolerate, but participate. And then to feel that pull back—not with anger, but with irritation, distance, withdrawal.
It's okay to name that.
I don't know what's happening inside your wife right now. She may be scared. Conflicted. Trying to reconcile love, family, faith, and the life you've built. But whatever her inner world holds, you're the one carrying the emotional cost of the shift. You're the one who let yourself breathe for a moment—and now has to tuck that breath away again.
If there's room for one honest conversation, it might not be about cruise dates or bathing suits. It might simply be about the change itself.
Something as plain as: "When you agreed to the trip, I felt like we'd turned a corner. Now it feels like we're back where we started. I need to understand what changed for you."
Not to fix anything. Not to argue. Just to name what happened—so you don't have to pretend it didn't.
And whatever comes next, don't let go of what you learned about yourself in these past few weeks. You said you're "a much nicer person when you can be yourself." That's not a small observation. It's a compass. It tells you something true about what helps you feel whole—even when the people around you can't make space for it.
- You didn't do anything wrong by believing the door might stay open.
- You didn't misread her by taking her kindness seriously.
- And you're not weak for hurting now.
You're ending 2025 with a heavy heart—but not an empty one. You've glimpsed what's possible. You've felt the difference in your own spirit when you're allowed to exist without apology. And you've got a community here that sees you—not as a problem to solve, but as a person worthy of being met, exactly as you are.
We're not going anywhere.
With deep care,
— Susan 💜
