Morning in my house had a rhythm, a noise, and a feel to it. I could tell from a distance when the day had started and, in many ways, whether the day was off to a typical start. But sometimes, the sound of my wife in the kitchen doing her morning routine became an immediate source of anxiety for me.

I remember those kinds of mornings like they were yesterday—mornings when the tension in the air hit me before I even got out of bed.

I could tell something was wrong from the way the normal rhythm of the morning felt off. I’d hear the hurried clatter of dishes in the kitchen, accompanied by something that didn’t belong—noises that made it clear the activity wasn’t just about breakfast or making coffee. There was more going on.

On those mornings, the sounds carried a message: coffee would be served with an extra-large, heaping spoonful of frustration, anger, tension, and everything that had been left unsaid lately.

That familiar dread would creep in: Uh-oh… I’m in trouble. Here we go… again.

When I finally walked into the kitchen, it was like stepping into a heavy hailstorm on the verge of breaking loose.

She wouldn’t even look at me before launching into it, and I knew the storm wouldn’t start until I gave it a nudge. So I’d resort to one of my go-to lines—none of them particularly wise or helpful:

  • “What’s wrong?”
  • “Now what have I done?”
  • “What the f___ is your problem?”
  • “Why can’t I ever just have my coffee in peace?!”

No matter which approach I tried, the result was always the same. The deluge of anger, hostility, venom, rage, contempt, and disappointment would come pouring out.

I absolutely despised this.

“Why even bother asking… You never listen.”
“You don’t care. You just go about your business like nothing is wrong anyway.”
“When I want something, you’re always working. When you want something, you expect me to just drop what I’m doing!”
“Why can’t you just show up for me?”

Sometimes, the words cut even deeper:


“Do you even care about this family?”
“All you think about is yourself.”
“You just leave me to deal with everything on my own.”
“If you actually loved me, you’d do something about this.”

The words hit me like they always did—hard.

Frustration, resentment, exhaustion—they came rushing in every single time.

I wanted to shout back, “Do you even see how hard I’m trying? Do you know what it’s like to carry all of this?”

Sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. I didn’t matter. I got the same shitty results either way.

Eventually, I just started to bite my tongue, keep my mouth shut, deeply sigh, and walk away.

Later, I’d sit alone—sometimes in my car, sometimes just staring out the window—replaying the entire thing in my head. And the same flood of emotions would wash over me every single time:

  • Frustration, because no matter what I did, it felt like it was never enough.
  • Confusion, because I couldn’t understand why she was so angry all the time.
  • Hurt, because I felt invisible, unappreciated, and unseen.
  • Guilt, because deep down, I wondered if maybe it really was my fault.

And underneath it all? A single, unspoken thought:

Why can’t she just change?

I wanted her to stop blaming me. To stop being so angry. To be easier to talk to. To meet me halfway. I wanted her to see me and appreciate everything I was doing to make this marriage work.

But no matter how hard I tried—fixing the things she said were wrong, apologizing, giving her space—it felt like I was running on a hamster wheel. The harder I pushed, the deeper into the ground I seemed to sink.

I felt stuck.

And worse, I felt alone.


What Being Stuck Really Looked Like

That wasn’t the first time I felt this way. It was a pattern that had crept into my marriage over the years.

We’d have the same arguments over and over again—arguments that left me feeling like a failure and her feeling even more upset. There were days I’d stay late at work just to avoid coming home because it felt easier to drown myself in busyness than face the tension.

I’d lay awake at night thinking, Is this it? Is this what marriage is supposed to be? Is there something wrong with me? With her? With us? Isn’t there supposed to be more to life than this? Did I make a mistake? Should I end it?

I told myself things would get better if I just kept trying. But inside, I was burning out. I wanted peace. I wanted connection. I wanted to stop feeling like the bad guy in my own home.

But nothing I tried worked.

And the worst part?

I was beginning to lose hope.


What I Didn’t See at the Time

Looking back now, I can see what was really happening.

Both of us were stuck in a toxic cycle.

She was frustrated, carrying unmet needs she didn’t know how to meet—connection, love, assurance, peace, support, and rest. And because she couldn’t meet those needs within herself, she looked to me to fill the gaps, but not by some nice “I’m feeling ______ could you please ________”. Instead, it was with these kinds of hailstorms.

When I couldn’t (or didn’t) get it and meet the need, she blamed me.

And I?

I was doing the exact same thing.

I wanted her to stop being so critical, to appreciate and respect me, to make things easier. I wanted her to fix what felt broken. And when she didn’t, I started blaming her—quietly in my mind or passively through my actions.

Neither of us was taking responsibility for our own inner experience. Instead, we were waiting for the other to change, pouring energy into a bucket with no bottom.

The harder we tried, the worse it got.


The Turning Point

About six or seven years ago, I hit a wall.

I realized that I couldn’t live like this anymore. Something had to change.

And here’s the part that was hard to swallow: that “something” wasn’t her.

I couldn’t make her stop blaming me. I couldn’t make her easier to talk to. I couldn’t make her see how much I was doing or meet me halfway.

The only thing I could change was me.

It felt extremely unfair at first. Like I was the one carrying everything while she got to stay the same. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized:

This wasn’t about saving my marriage. This was about saving me. If she got hit by a bus, I’d still have most of the same problems and still have an empty bucket.

I had to stop looking to her to fix what I felt inside. I had to stop reacting, blaming, and waiting.

If I wanted to feel love, peace, connection, purpose, meaning, respect, appreciation, and clarity, I had to create it for myself.


What I Did to Break Free

Here’s what changed:

  1. I Stopped Reacting.
    When she lashed out, I stopped taking it personally. Instead of getting defensive or shutting down, I learned to pause and remind myself: Her frustration isn’t about me—it’s about her own struggle. I may play a role in that drama, but it’s not the lead role. That perspective gave me the space to respond with calm instead of anger.
  2. I Started Choosing.
    I realized that every moment gave me a choice. I could keep replaying the same arguments, or I could choose something different. I started making small, intentional decisions—choosing to care for myself, choosing to focus on what I could control, and choosing to lead with strength.
  3. I Became a Creator.
    Instead of waiting for her to change, I started creating the life I wanted from the inside out. I became the source of my own love, respect, appreciation, connection, peace, clarity, and strength. And in doing that, I started showing up differently in our marriage.

Where We Are Now

Next month, my wife and I will celebrate 30 years of marriage.

And here’s the thing: we haven’t had an argument like those in over six years.

That tension, that constant feeling of walking on eggshells—it’s gone. Completely.

Not because she stopped complaining. Not because she suddenly became “perfect.”

But because I stopped being a victim and I started being a creator.

I stopped letting her words dictate my sense of peace. I stopped waiting for her to meet my needs. I stopped looking at her to fix what was broken inside me.

And I became a creator.

That transformation changed everything. Today, I’m legitimately happy—not because my circumstances are perfect, but because I’ve learned how to lead myself and create what I want instead of waiting for it to happen to me.


Your First Step

Brother, if you’re where I was six years ago, let me tell you this: there is hope.

But hope isn’t what most people think it is. Most people don’t hope—they wish. They wish things would magically change. They wish for their circumstances to get better. But hope is not a passive, fleeting desire.

Hope is power.

True hope is built on a foundation of personal agency, self-confidence, and self-acceptance. Without those, it’s just wishful thinking. But when you root your hope in the belief that you can take action, that you can create change, it becomes a force that moves mountains.

This stage of marriage doesn’t have to be the end. It can be the beginning of something new—the start of a journey where you step out of frustration and into clarity, out of blame and into purpose.

But breaking free from this cycle isn’t something you do alone. It takes guidance, support, and a clear path forward. That’s why I created the Disconnection Detox Challenge.

This FREE 30-day challenge is designed to help you:

  • Recognize and understand the patterns keeping you stuck.
  • Harness the power of small, intentional choices to create real change.
  • Step into your role as a creator—not just in your marriage but in every area of your life.

If you’re ready to stop wishing and start hoping—if you’re ready to break free from the disillusionment and lead yourself and your marriage in a new direction—this is your first step.

Click here to join the Disconnection Detox Challenge now.

Brother, the choice is yours. And it’s one of the most important choices you’ll ever make.

I’ll see you inside,
Sven

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