When I’m overwhelmed—resentful about the laundry, the trash, the dogs—I’m usually not just mad about tasks.
I’m telling myself a story: If I don’t do it all, everything will fall apart.

The house, the life, the dream—we’ll be buried under mess and bills and unmet expectations.
The Money Pit but queer and exhausted.

So I go into overdrive.
I get caught in a loop of doing everything and enjoying nothing.
And then I wonder why I feel so disconnected.

Last night, I was fuming. I’d walked the dogs, taken out the trash, and was about to water the lawn.
Leo had been sick and couldn’t help. Kelly was inside. I felt invisible. Alone.

As I plotted how to ask Kelly to “do more,” I paused and asked myself: What can I own here?

That’s when it clicked.
I hadn’t been doing the things I love—running, drawing, guitar, movies, meditation.
Not because anyone told me not to… but because I stopped choosing myself.

It stung to realize it. I felt embarrassed, even ashamed.
But also… relieved. Because if I was the problem—I could be the solution.

I came inside and apologized—not for being bad, but for abandoning myself.
Kelly held me as I cried, and in that moment, I felt my softness return—like blood rushing back into cold fingers.
The weight lifted. The resentment loosened. The warmth came back.

Then she said, “There’s only one person you need to apologize to—yourself.”
And she was right.

That night, after Leo went to bed early, we sat in our “Adult Swim” room on the new double reclining couch.
The sun was setting, casting golden light across Kelly’s face.

We built a rough weekly rhythm: time for art, quiet, movement, admin, house projects, and a movie date with myself.

I felt peace.
Not behind. Not burdened.
Just… home.

At 5:30 the next morning, I laced up my shoes and went for a run.

Just two miles. And it felt like a win.

I came home sweaty, legs burning, dogs panting—and saw Kelly on the deck in her pajamas, her calendar open.
The birds were singing. The sun rising. The world humming with enoughness.

And I realized:

It starts with me.

When I judge, it’s because I’ve abandoned something in me.
Joy isn’t on the other side of a clean house or a completed list.
It’s right here—in choosing myself first.

This is queer joy.
This is holy

.

This week, I’m starting with what lights me up.
Not because I earned it.
But because I’m worthy of it.

So are you.