53rd letter from Mihai

Sun 21 Sep, 2025 Colmar, France

It’s Sunday morning.

I’m back home for a couple of days after the first cycling trip. I wanted to start a family ritual, pancakes every Sunday, so I used my friend Linda’s healthy recipe and made some crêpes with Cléo.

We sat around the table with peanut butter and my mom’s jam, plus a plate of fruit. Cléo was dancing on her little table in front of us while we ate.

I watched her, maybe a little in my head. I don’t remember what I was thinking about. Probably I was in my nothing box, that place where nothing feels urgent and the mind just drifts.

Then I looked at Aurélie. Something was off.

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I asked what was going on.

She said, “I’m trying to get comfortable with silence, but I’m really struggling.” A pause. Then: “I’m questioning my life choices.”

That landed heavy.

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Some context.

I grew up in a small Romanian village where meals were quiet. Sometimes the TV was on, sometimes not. You focused on your food, and if you spoke, it was after. Talking with your mouth full was rude, so meals weren’t for conversation. Even today, with my parents or brothers, it’s the same. For us it isn’t strange, it’s normal.

Aurélie grew up in France, where meals are long, alive, full of exchange. On Friday, the last day of my cycling trip, I had dinner with the group that lasted five hours in a two-star Michelin place. That felt unusual to me, but it reminded me that in Aurélie's culture it isn’t strange at all. In her world, silence at the table means something is wrong.

This difference has come up before. In the past, I blamed myself. I felt guilty for not filling the silence, for not noticing her signals.

But this morning I saw it differently.

I am 100% responsible for my 50% of the relationship.

That means, in that moment, I was present. I was eating, watching Cléo, letting my thoughts drift. I wasn’t making up a story about the silence. For me, it was fine.

For Aurélie it wasn’t. And when she told me, I engaged. I asked questions. But she had already withdrawn. The silence had already taken on a meaning for her.

In the past I would have made that my fault. But I am learning that while my actions might trigger something, I am not responsible for what someone else feels. That is their story.

My part is to stay with myself and not take over hers. To notice the guilt when it shows up and not collapse into it. To resist the urge to retreat and stay present instead.

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After breakfast she went to bed, curled under the covers. My first instinct was to pull her out, change the scene, maybe suggest a walk. But she didn’t want that. So I stayed.

I didn’t explain or add my version. I asked a few questions, stayed curious, gave her room to move through it. Eventually she came back.

Then I stepped outside, did a bit of gardening, and let the morning settle in me.

The lesson for me is simple. I only need to carry my 50 percent. Silence can feel like peace, or it can feel like distance. The same moment doesn’t always mean the same thing.

Aurélie later said she felt disconnected at the table. But she also saw it came from her own thoughts, not from the breakfast itself. The scene was just the trigger.

I’m not responsible for her triggers. My part is to be here with her, to stay close, to listen, to hold her while she goes through it.

And that brought us closer.

That’s where I am today, still learning what it means to share life and keep my balance inside it.

Thanks for reading.

I am heading back to the garden now.

One dad figuring it out, same as you.
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P.S. These letters aren’t a broadcast, they’re a conversation. If something speaks to you, or even stirs you the wrong way, just hit reply. I read every message.

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