I'm a jerk.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes. More than I care to admit. I've hurt people, including the ones I love most, all while hiding behind a facade of arrogance and indifference. It's a defense mechanism, I guess—my way of coping with a past I don’t fully understand. I’m not making excuses. I do get very personal in today's post, so maybe sharing my story will help others see the cracks behind the mask, or at least shed light on why I am the way I am. Perhaps, even helping someone else in the process. But that's the end goal, isn't it? To share our life experiences that may benefit others?

Growing up wasn’t easy. Sure, on the surface, we seemed like a picture-perfect military family. My dad’s career gave us opportunities to travel the world, places most people only dream of. But those adventures couldn’t hide the chaos at home. There was love, somewhere, but it was hard to feel. Discipline, which we took for granted, would be seen as abuse by today's standards. Standing for hours in the middle of a room because it wasn’t clean enough. Getting hit with a Hot Wheels track because I wet the bed. Being called lazy or stupid because I struggled with spelling or couldn’t find the right words. That was my normal. For years, I thought that’s just how families were. If it weren’t for my wife, Meghan, I might have repeated the same mistakes with my own children.

The memories of my childhood are fragmented, like broken pieces of a mirror. I struggle to put them together, but some moments stand out more than others. Some of my happiest times were when my dad was stationed in Italy. The first time, in Brindisi/San Vito from 1976 to 1979, and later in Aviano from 1983 to 1984, right before my mom died. I was just a kid back then, and while I can’t remember all the details, certain things stick with me. I remember my teachers—Ms. Damuri and Ms. Anderson—and the way they tried to nurture us. I remember the food, the culture, and the innocence I still carried with me, at least for a while.

Meghan saw my past—the hurt I carried—but instead of shrinking from it, she gave me the strength to confront my dad. She helped me face him and finally say what I had buried for so long: how much his absence, both physical and emotional, wounded me, especially after my mom passed away when I was 14. Growing up too fast shattered my ability to navigate relationships, but Meghan showed me a different way. She was the one who began teaching me what love and connection were truly supposed to be.

I wasn’t a good husband, though. I failed Meghan in ways that still haunt me. I wanted to be better, but my selfishness, my inability to truly see her pain, got in the way. I didn’t take care of her the way I should have, and I know now that I let her down. Maybe my past shaped me into someone who struggled to love fully, but that’s no excuse. I was blind, slow to realize the damage I was doing. Even now, I struggle to express my emotions. I don’t know how to navigate relationships, and when it came to being vulnerable with Meghan, I failed miserably. She deserved better. Meghan was patient with me, more patient than I ever deserved. There were times when I fought with her instead of listening. I took her words as accusations, never fully understanding that she was just trying to reach me, trying to help me grow. More often than not, she was right, and I was too proud to admit it. But no matter how many times I messed up, she never stopped caring. I could see it in her eyes, even when I didn’t deserve her love.

I miss her every single day. The weight of my failures presses down on me, and I ache with the knowledge I could have done more, should have been better for her. But now, all I have left are the memories.? I've had two relationships since Meghan died. One hurt me and the other I hurt. I wish I should've listened more to what Meghan was trying to tell me and paid attention more to what she was trying to teach me.? Otherwise I might've ignored the one who hurt me and properly loved the one that I hurt.

In this post, I had planned to reflect on a few moments from my childhood that I once believed held the key to understanding my life's meaning. But I've realized something important: our past doesn't need to define who we are today. For too long, I let mine shape my self-worth and my relationships. It was a mistake, and I now see that the power to create meaning lies in the present, not in what has happened before. We are so much more than our past experiences. It is what it is.