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Camille
Life didn’t get easier. It just got fuller.
Hendrix’s cries filled the nights, the twins’ personalities continued to blossom, and Zeke’s chatter remained endless. Our home was loud, messy, chaotic. There were days when dishes piled high, homework clashed with diaper changes, and sleep felt like a rumor.
But I never carried it alone.
Hunter was there, steady, present, consistent. Therapy had given him tools, but love gave him purpose. I remember one specific lesson he shared with me from his sessions: the ‘grounding technique.’ Whenever anxiety crept in, he would focus on his five senses, naming things he could see, touch, hear, smell, and taste. This simple exercise helped anchor him to the moment. Every time he grounded himself through a moment of panic, every time he bent down to meet Hendrix’s curious eyes, every time he showed the kids something new. And every time I fell asleep on his chest, his hands tangled in my curls, I saw the proof of what it meant to keep choosing each other.
We weren’t perfect, but we were real. And that was more than enough.
One evening, I stood on the back patio watching Hunter with the kids. Zeke was showing him his newest soccer trick, while Avery and Chloe ran around in circles, and Hendrix sat on his shoulder. He caught my eye and smiled, soft and sure, the kind of smile that saidhome.
I thought about the weight we’ve carried. The love we’ve found. The second chances, the healing, the nights we thought we’d lost each other. And I knew that whatever came next, whatever chaos, whatever storms, we’d face it together. Because this wasn’t just survival anymore.
This was family.
This was love.
This was ours.
