For the Man Living in the Space Between Staying and Leaving
This isn’t a place that tells you to leave or stay. It’s a place for restraint.
You’re not divorced. You’re not together – not in a way that matters.
You’re still showing up. Going to work. Making dinners. Getting kids where they need to be. Saying the right things when necessary and staying quiet when that feels safe.
From the outside, your life still looks intact. From the inside, something essential has gone quiet.
This point in your life can feel especially disorienting. You know this isn’t just a rough patch and you know you don’t want to live the rest of your life numb, resentful, or pretending.
This is what that middle space often feels like:
You’re trying not to pressure her and trying not to disappear.
You’re holding your emotions so your kids don’t have to.
You don’t want to be dramatic, but you’re exhausted from saying you’re “fine.”
You’re still loyal, still caring even as connection thins and certainty slips away.
You may be in therapy. Or avoiding it.
You may be working on yourself quietly, hoping it matters.
You may be terrified that doing nothing is a choice and equally terrified that doing something will break what remains.
This isn’t indecision. It’s restraint.
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.” -Rainer Maria Rilke
What This Place Is and Isn’t
This is not a place that tells you to leave.
This is not a place that tells you to stay.
This is not a place that reduces your marriage, your family, or your inner life to tactics, timelines, or diagnoses.
This is also not a place that pathologizes you for feeling what any man would feel in this position.
The Violin in Me exists for those who are still here, still trying to live with integrity, even when clarity hasn’t arrived yet.
Why a Violin
A violin doesn’t make sound by force.
It makes sound through contact — pressure applied with care.
Too much pressure and the note screams.
Too little and nothing happens.
There is also a moment before sound.
Before the bow touches the string.
A held breath. A readiness. A tension that hasn’t yet decided what it will become.
Much of this season lives there.
Learning when to speak.
Learning when not to chase reassurance.
Learning how to stay present without demanding resolution.
Restraint isn’t weakness here.
It’s skill.
If You’re Wondering Where to Begin
You don’t need to read everything. You don’t need to fix yourself before you’re allowed to stay.
If any of these feel familiar, you might start here:
- If the nights are long, your thoughts won’t settle, and sleep no longer feels restorative, read I Don’t Remember What a Good Night’s Sleep Feels Like.
- If you’re learning how to protect your inner world without becoming closed off, read Keeping the Circle Small and Who the Small (Vulnerable) Circle is For.
- If you’re resisting the urge to be seen, explained, or validated at all costs, read The Urge to Be Seen vs. the Discipline to Not Require It.
- If your life feels paused — not broken, not moving — read The Space Between Bow and String.
- If you’re carrying grief quietly while still showing up as a father, a partner, a man, read Becoming the Father I Wish I Still Had.
Each piece stands on its own. Together, they form a map — not of where you should go, but of how to stay intact while you’re here. You don’t need clarity tonight, or tomorrow.
You don’t need to decide anything yet. If you’ve found your way here, it likely means you’re already listening even if you don’t know what the music will become.
You’re allowed to stay a while.
