The Quiet Joys: Chai, Track Practice, and Morning Light

Finding strength and stillness in routines, reconnection, and moments that remind us who we are

Image created with AI (via Substack’s built-in generator), and my imagination.

There has been a lot of chaos over the last eight years. In my case alone, we've had thirty-four court dates, with another attorney’s fees hearing coming up, and are heading into our seventh appeal. My husband's case has followed its own roller coaster of ups and downs; his valleys and hills have been unrelenting. Together, we’ve weathered a storm that has shaped nearly every facet of our lives.

You don’t fully grasp what you’re living through when you’re in the middle of it, especially when you’re still married. It’s only when you get out and look back that you begin to understand the truth. That’s when the mask falls away and you see the person for who they truly were. In my case, it felt like things even got worse after separation. I believe my husband would say the same about what he experienced with his ex-wife. The damage spilled into our children's lives, especially my stepdaughter's. There are many parallels between our situations, though they each carry their own painful differences.

And ironically, our exes have worked together, more than once, to try to destroy us.

Neither of us expected the abuse to continue this long, much less to escalate. What we’ve endured as individuals, as a couple, and as a family is more than just unfair—it’s criminal. Navigating court systems, surviving relentless harassment, and co-parenting with people struggling with severe mental illness has pushed us to our limits. We haven’t always shown up as our best selves. We’ve disagreed. We’ve argued. We’ve wrestled with financial burdens brought on by the constant need for legal support. At times, the emotional toll has been crushing.

But we’re still here, together, unwilling to give up on us. And what’s kept us going is learning how to find joy, especially in the quiet, simple things.

My mornings are mine. They matter more than I can explain. During the darkest season of parental alienation, we were cut off from my stepdaughter for nearly a year. We didn’t see her at all. When she returned, she was changed; angry, distant, and deeply hurt. We both fell into a heavy, prolonged sadness. At the start of this year, I finally said, Enough. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration—just a quiet realization that I couldn’t keep living so far from myself. I didn’t need to go back to who I was, but I did need to remember the parts of me that used to feel strong, motivated, and joyful. I could find my way back to me.

So I started with my body. I got back into the gym. Weekday mornings are now for early workouts, and I have an accountability partner to keep me honest. Weekends are different. They're for quiet reconnection with my husband. Over time, these walks have become more than a habit, they're a kind of recalibration. Sometimes we talk about hard things: parenting decisions, upcoming court dates, or just how exhausted we feel. Other times, we let the silence stretch as we notice little things, a new bloom on a tree, the way the morning light hits a familiar path, or a bunny sitting quietly in the dewy grass. Spring and fall are my favorites. Just last month, we noticed how the neighborhood was bursting with blooms and snapped a few photos as the sun came up. It was one of those mornings you want to bottle up and keep forever.

Another joy: chai. I make one or two cups every day. I steep it for about ten minutes, while I eat breakfast, then add just the right splash of creamer. I carry it with me as I stretch, shower, and ease into the day. Some mornings are quiet; others, I put on music. But either way, they belong to me.

Then there’s our kitten, who joined our family last year. A colleague of my husband’s found two tiny kittens abandoned in a woodpile. Another had already passed before they were discovered. They asked if we could take them both, since his wife was allergic. At the time, I was preparing to go on FMLA for the summer to care for my stepdaughter. She needed structure, and she couldn’t be left alone for long stretches, so I agreed.

I bottle-fed the two kittens myself; they were about six weeks old. When they were weaned, I gave one to a colleague of mine who had been looking for a kitten, and we kept the other. She turned out to be the most beautiful and loving cat we could have imagined, a perfect fit for our family. She’s spunky and affectionate, almost like a dog in a cat’s body. We even trained her to travel and walk on a leash. She joins us on walks, snuggles in our laps, and brings joy and laughter to every room she enters.

Then there’s the pride we feel for our girls. They’re all involved in extracurriculars: volleyball, cross-country, basketball, speech and debate, swim, and track. Watching them grow, compete, and improve is one of the greatest joys of our lives. Being active is something we’re proud to have passed on to them. I hope they carry that with them into adulthood. The lessons they’re learning—teamwork, discipline, communication, and leadership—will stay with them, not just in school or sports, but in their careers and future families.

In the midst of everything we’ve been through, it’s these everyday joys that bring us back to who we are. The other day, my youngest curled up beside me on the couch while I was trying to finish some work. I set everything aside and just sat with her. She fell asleep next to me, and I gently stroked her hair, something I hadn’t done in a long time. In that quiet moment, I was reminded of when she was little, of all the times I used to do the same. It gave me a rare moment of solace, especially given how hard things have been between us lately.

These moments remind us that no matter what chaos surrounds us, there is still peace to be found.

Every day when my husband gets home from work, I greet him with a kiss and ask how his day was. He always asks about mine in return. It’s such a simple ritual, but it means everything. It’s easy to lose sight of each other in the whirlwind of parenting, court, and everyday life, but we try not to. One day, the kids will be grown. The court dates will be over. The house will quiet, and it will just be us.

Over time, our love has changed. It’s grown in ways I didn’t expect. I loved the newness and excitement in the beginning, but what we have now is deeper. To be honest, we don’t make love as often as we once did, though that connection is still present and meaningful. But what we have now runs deeper; it's a love that has matured through hardship, rooted in trust, resilience, and quiet understanding. It’s steady, safe, and strong. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

All the little things... chai in hand, morning light on our faces, the echo of cleats on a track, that bring us back to who we are. These moments remind us that no matter what chaos surrounds us, there is still peace to be found. There is still love. And there is still us.

I'm still learning how to hold both grief and joy, stillness and movement. I still have days where I feel numb, or angry, or just tired. But more often than not, I'm finding ways to breathe through it—to notice the beauty that’s still here, right in front of me.

Recently, my boss had us watch a recorded talk from a conference he attended, where Hal Elrod spoke about the 5-Minute Rule. It's a strategy for managing negative emotions and setbacks by giving yourself permission to fully feel them for five minutes, and then consciously shifting into acceptance and forward movement. It involves setting a timer to acknowledge and process the emotion, and then choosing to focus on solutions and positive action. He also talked about the SAVERS method, an acronym for Silence, Affirmations, Visualization, Exercise, Reading, and Scribing.

It led me to watch The Miracle Morning, and although I’m already doing some of what it recommends, it inspired me to build on it. I want to implement more, to be even more intentional about how I start my days, and how I keep coming back to myself.

So much of life feels out of our control, but the little things we choose each day matter. They shape how we engage with the world, how we heal, and how we love. And for now, that’s enough.

Writing here has become part of that practice, too. I’ve been consistent, and it’s been cathartic. Sharing it and seeing that others can relate has been amazing. Putting these thoughts into words helps me process what we’ve lived through and see what’s still worth holding on to.

Please tell me what little things have been bringing you joy or comfort.