I’m like the Energizer Bunny; if something needs to get done, I just keep pushing, even if I’m in over my head. Mike is the opposite—he needs downtime. I wish I could say I fully understood and supported Mike’s decision to step back once I switched to per diem work, but I didn’t. Beforehand, I had been so intentional that I still wanted his partnership. I felt betrayed, frustrated, disappointed, and angry—and I let him know it. My behavior didn’t alleviate or change the situation; instead, it just added another layer of stress. It wasn't long before I realized I had a profound choice to make: I could be bitter and take it out on our marriage or on Matt by doing less than he deserved, or I could be true to myself, find contentment despite the strain, and move forward. I made a conscious decision not to be resentful, nag, or complain. It wasn’t easy, and I wasn’t always successful, but I tried.

I handled Mom’s Boot Camp—the arduous, day-to-day grunt work of recovering physical, mental, and speech functions. Mike’s contribution, however, was quite distinct from what I had initially envisioned, focusing instead on rebuilding normalcy and connection within the rhythm of our home.

Mike’s approach was hands-on and practical, integrating Matt into daily life and leisure activities. He engaged Matt in essential chores, patiently teaching him to make breakfast on weekends, take out the garbage, and mow the lawn. Mike meticulously oversaw each task until Matt achieved proficiency, slowly restoring his sense of competence and self-governance.

Their experiences together weren't solely task-driven; they prioritized shared leisure. The two men practiced golf swings in the backyard and at the driving range, enjoyed reading and chuckling over the comics, and discussed current events while watching the news and weather. Their shared passion for multiple sports was an excellent springboard for conversations—bemoaning losses and cheering great plays. Eventually, after a day at work, Mike would consult Matt—who, despite limited short-term memory, could remember small details about the news, weather, and whether the Yankees had won.

Even during challenging shows like Jeopardy! Mike consistently encouraged Matt to try to answer questions. Although it took Matt two years to successfully give a response, let alone before the buzzer, Mike was quick to praise these small, tangible milestones—the undefined building supplies scattered on the cleared rubble of the life we once knew.

Yet, these signs of restoration were not a blueprint clarifying the grandeur or magnitude of what was to come, leaving Mike ensnared in an internal wrestling match. Meanwhile, wary of the gaze of Medusa, I renewed my resolve and turned away to keep from being petrified.

It was this silent tug-of-war between hope and worry that fueled our most persistent struggle. This push-and-pull dynamic was, and remains, a constant issue. Periodically, Mike has had to reel me in because the activities I have planned or my expectations are simply too ambitious, and I haven't accounted for his peace of mind. My proactive stance often sparked Mike’s anxieties, leading to questions like: Was it truly safe for Matt to stay home alone while I went shopping or to work? Could he walk independently around our vacation cottage on uneven rocks? Was he ready to get down into a kayak and paddle by himself?

For upwards of a year and a half, worry ebbed and flowed. Matt’s steady progress and improvements did not eliminate our concerns about his future. Sometimes, the anxiety hung like a heavy cloud in the house, forcing me to carefully guard what I said.

When Megan commented on it during one of her visits, I knew something had to change. I couldn’t tell Mike not to worry, but I had to ask him to contain his feelings or find another outlet so they didn’t affect the rest of us. Somehow, he regrouped, and the cloud lifted until the next bout or the next. I could see that he was trying, but he couldn’t always master his ingrained, worst-case fears, and he occasionally lost sleep because his worries couldn’t be quieted by counting sheep.

Since my vision was laser-focused on Matt, everything Matt, other than the basic needs for food, meals, and the household, there wasn’t room for much else. I was propelled steadily onward in my effort to forward Matt’s cause, no pause button, no brakes. Even if I wanted to, or when occasional wisps of desire to downshift crossed my mind, I simply couldn’t conceptualize how to take that breath. As a result, Mike was sidelined; often an afterthought.

Mike valued spending time together. He tried to tell me this was the glue that held him together, but until now, I hadn’t understood. Mike has always been the romantic, not me. With Matt at home, we didn’t have many chances to be spontaneous, cuddle on the couch, or go out as a couple. It took me far too long to fully realize how those expressions of love and intimacy reaffirmed Mike and allowed him to handle stress and decompress. Looking back, I wish I had made it a priority sooner, especially in the early months and the first year after Matt’s accident.

No doubt, we were in a tough spot. I was maxed out, and Mike lost out, which hindered his natural coping strategies—but what could or should I do otherwise, or strip away? And, how would “less than my all” impact my mental and emotional well-being? If I felt handcuffed, would my spirit or resolve falter? Would I fall into the trap of doing and settling for less because my internal motivation had slowly withered, and life was easier? Rhetorical as it was, an easier life was an illusion. Peace would remain out of reach until Matt was more self-sufficient, easing the 'what ifs' of our current anxieties and the looming question of our later years: who will carry the baton of oversight and care once we 'age out'?

Relying on God holds me together, lifts my spirit, encourages me, and keeps my focus where it needs to be. I take great strength from the promise in Matthew 6:34: "Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes." Like headlights, God gave me enough light to take the next step, across the permanent contours of our new landscape—one riddled with minefields. To move forward, we had to stop looking for the road we used to travel and finally accept the one we were on.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins