12th letter from Mihai

Wed 30 Apr, 2025 Colmar, France

Dear Reader,

Cléo’s asleep. Aurélie’s upstairs in an online class. The house is quiet.

I took out the trash, did a quick tidy, poured myself a gin and tonic, and sat down with a thought: maybe I’ll write you a letter tonight.

So here I am. Cheers.

Before I tell you this story, let’s set the record straight—
I’m not some fatherhood guru on a mountain.
I mess up. I get triggered. I raise my voice.

This morning, I did.

It started peacefully enough. Cléo had slept with me, Aurélie in the other room (we trade off sometimes to get better sleep).
Around 6:30, Aurélie came in and took Cleo so I could rest a bit more. I thought it was all good.

When I finally came out of the room, she was already dressed, giving Cléo a bottle.
I kissed them good morning. I moved slowly. Thought we had time.

But pretty quickly—
​Boom.

“Mihai, I need you. I’m getting pissed. I feel like I’m doing everything. You’re not helping.”

And something in me snapped.
I lost my cool.
We went into blame mode. Accusation mode.
The kind of fight that makes you feel 2 inches tall and ten years behind.

I threw something.
I rarely do that anymore.

After the chaos, I went for a ride. Sat in the park. Meditated. Came back more grounded.

And then—this is the part I want to share—we did something that helped.

It’s a tool from couples therapy that’s saved us more than once:
We each told the story of what we saw and what we felt—
No “you always,” no “you never.”

Just:
“I saw this.”
“I thought that.”
“I felt…”

And it helped. It helped us both see we weren’t in the same story this morning.

I thought she was rested and had things under control.
She thought I was opting out of responsibility.

We were both right, in a way.

I had checked out a bit, assuming it wasn’t on me.
And she hadn’t asked for help—because, in the swirl of her emotion, it’s hard to even see what’s needed, let alone say it.

She later reminded me of something she’s been learning and teaching:
The feminine often feels first. Words come later. If at all.

It’s like the ocean—full of movement, full of emotion.

And the masculine, when it’s steady, can be the lighthouse.
Rooted. Still. Observing.

But this morning, I was not a lighthouse.
I was a buoy, ripped by the tide.

Still, we repaired.
We apologized.
We saw each other.

And tonight, as I sip this gin, I’m reminded:
Most attacks are self-attacks.
What stung most in what she said…
was the part I secretly feared might be true.

There’s still work to do.

---

If you’ve ever had mornings like this—
where your good intentions get lost in translation,
where the day unravels before breakfast—

You’re not alone.

And if your partner’s been a mirror lately,
showing you some parts of yourself you’d rather not see…
maybe that’s the work too.

Stay rooted,
​Mihai

Wake Up. Live Fully.

​

P.S. A few days ago, I shared a letter on how women are often mirrors for us. If you missed it, check it out here.

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