Emotions feel like waves—rising and falling, sometimes as gentle swells, other times crashing like storms you didn't see coming. For much of my life, I've tried to navigate them with instinct, often acting before fully understanding what I was feeling. Many times, that instinct led me to good decisions, moments where I trusted the current to carry me forward. But there were also times when excitement pulled me in too quickly or fear held me back. Over time, I've learned that the clearest answers don't come in the height of an emotional wave. They come after, in the quiet moments when the waters settle.
When my second marriage ended, it wasn't a clean break—it was a sudden and disorienting shift. My ex-wife moved into a new life, leaving me with no place in it. It was as if she had crossed a threshold I hadn't seen coming, and I was left standing on the other side, unsure how to move forward.
I fell into a pattern: dating quickly and impulsively, often choosing women who, like me, were broken in some way. At the time, I didn't fully understand why I kept gravitating toward these relationships. Looking back, I think it was a way to avoid examining my own pain. If I could point to their issues as the reason for leaving, I didn't have to confront my own struggles. Instead of giving myself time to process, I would fire up a dating app and repeat the cycle.
Relocating to Florida forced me to slow down. For months, I moved between two places, living in transition. Dating didn't feel fair to anyone I might meet, so I turned inward. In those months between places, I began to notice how the rhythm of my days changed. Without the constant pull of dating apps and the rush of new connections, I could feel my emotional tides shifting. The silence I'd been avoiding became a teacher. I threw myself into finding my community and deepening connections with friends. I focused on who I wanted to be at this stage of my life and how I wanted to show up—for others and for myself. For the first time, I wasn't chasing external validation or trying to fill a void. I was learning to be present with my own company and the stillness it brought.
By the time I had settled into my new life, I started dating again occasionally. A friend set me up on a blind date, and it seemed promising at first. But as the relationship unfolded, I saw how much I had changed. When conflicts arose, I addressed them directly, naming behaviors I couldn't accept. It wasn't just about setting boundaries—it was about trusting myself enough to act on them, even if it meant letting go. For the first time, I saw boundaries not as walls to keep people out, but as guideposts to protect what I had built within myself.
That moment was a revelation. It showed me the power of waiting—of allowing myself the time to ride out the emotional waves and find clarity in the stiller waters that followed.
The Quiet After
This experience taught me that clarity takes time—and that waiting isn't passive. It's active. It's about sitting with discomfort, trusting that the answers will come when they're ready.
I've learned that clarity rarely comes from rushing. It comes when we make space to sit with what's uncomfortable.
In a world of instant answers—same-day delivery, rapid-fire emails, swipe-right matches—this kind of patience can feel countercultural. There's pressure to decide quickly, as if hesitation is a sign of weakness. I've felt that pressure too. And I know how tempting it is to rush a decision just to escape the discomfort of waiting. But I've learned that clarity rarely comes from rushing. It comes when we make space to sit with what's uncomfortable.
Listening to the Waves
We're all riding emotional waves, whether we realize it or not. Some of us act on impulse, swept away by the intensity of the moment. Others suppress their emotions entirely, avoiding the discomfort of uncertainty. Either way, we miss the chance to learn from what our emotions are trying to tell us.
By the time my ex-wife and I reconnected, I thought I had clarity about what I wanted in a relationship. She was visiting after the end of her own relationship, and we agreed to talk honestly about the possibility of reconciliation. For a moment, it felt like a chance to rebuild something. I enjoyed the time we spent together, and I wanted to believe it could work.
But as the weeks went on, I began to see the gap between what was on offer and what I needed. She wanted companionship—someone safe to come back to when she wasn't traveling. What I wanted was a fully committed romantic relationship. Recognizing that gap was painful, but it also clarified my values. It wasn't just about knowing what I didn't want—it was about finally understanding what I needed to feel whole. When I saw how much our wants and needs diverged, it became clear that reconciling wouldn't satisfy either of us. That understanding freed me to let go of any lingering hope and continue forward on my own terms.
I've heard people say, "I don't have time for that." And I get it. It feels like a luxury to pause, especially when decisions loom or people expect answers now. But I've found that the time spent waiting is often far shorter than the time spent cleaning up after a rushed decision.
For me, tools like journaling and reflective conversations helped me tune in. Writing my thoughts down turned swirling feelings into something tangible. Talking with someone I trust gave me perspective—a way to see patterns I might have missed. And when the emotions felt overwhelming, something as simple as breathing deeply could anchor me, giving me the space to let the wave pass.
Through all these moments—the blind date, the conversations with my ex-wife, and the months of slowing down—I found myself showing up differently. I was more present, more grounded. I wasn't rushing to fill gaps with noise or distraction. That intentionality became a way of moving through the world, one that created deeper connections and a stronger sense of who I was becoming.
In learning to wait—to let the waters settle—I've found something I didn't expect: a reflection of myself I finally recognize.
We're all navigating our own emotional waters. Some days bring gentle swells we can ride with grace; others crash over us unexpectedly. But in learning to wait—to let the waters settle—I've found something I didn't expect: a reflection of myself I finally recognize.
In the stillness after the storm, when the waves quiet and the water clears, we can see beneath the surface. It's there, in that clarity, that I've learned to trust the rhythm of my own heart—and to let that trust guide me toward stiller waters.