Venting, Boundaries, and Brick Walls:

Co-Parenting, Recovery, and the Mess You Don’t See

Let me take you back. We were at the park—the kids, their dad, and me and the husband all trying to act like we could pass for “normal.” The sun was out, everyone almost pretending that life hadn’t been messy for years. Then, as suddenly as a clap of thunder, their dad was gone. Just...gone. No warning, no real goodbye. One second he’s there, the next, I’m sitting there like WHAT?!?!, wondering if I’d imagined he came at all. That’s how fast it goes from hope to heartbreak with him. It’s quicksand: just when things start to look solid, you’re sucked under.

It would be easier if I could be emotionless about it—just say “he left, again,” like reading a weather report. But that’s not real. What’s real: my youngest standing frozen in the lake, deer-in-the-headlights, not understanding why his dad keeps slipping through his fingers watching him drive away. My oldest, who’s autistic, doesn’t even bother asking anymore. The coping, the compartmentalizing—that’s his shield. Sometimes I envy that numbness. Sometimes I mourn it, too.

Here’s the part I hardly ever say out loud: Sometimes, I want to pick up my phone and text my ex with every ounce of frustration I’ve spent years collecting. Literally, just type out:
What the fuck is wrong with you? Why can’t you get your head out of your ass? Stop being such a dick. These kids are moving on, with or without you. The world doesn’t pause for your denial. Grow up. Be a parent. For once in your life, show up like a goddamn adult.

God, that would feel good, wouldn’t it? Once—just once—to hand back every ounce of chaos he’s ever dumped in my lap. Slam the door with words and make him hear what it feels like to be the last one standing, holding everything together with gritted teeth and trembling hands.

And yet…I never send THAT text. I stop myself. Not because I don’t mean it—oh, I do—but because I am so, so tired of fueling fire that never warms anyone. Because while I’d love to finally say what I think, that would just become another blaze for my kids to walk through. Because somewhere, under all the anger, I know what matters isn’t whether I get to “win” or be “right,” but whether my boys see me model what it means to stay steady when other people choose chaos.

So instead, I write out the message in my head, I scream it in my mind, then I delete it before it can become another community bonfire. I remind myself, again, to be the parent who doesn’t pour gasoline on the kindling—because I know, deep down, that the only people getting truly scorched are my kids. I will say I do write the honest and point bank texts, a long with the ones that almost beg him to just be human.

I want to vent, because honestly, carrying all this is relentless. I’m tired of pacing parking lots, tired of feeling my heart in my throat every time the kids’ dad says he’s “trying this time.” I’m tired of armoring up for visits—packing snacks and pep talks, running risk assessments in my mind, never letting myself settle into the role of “mom sitting at the park.” Always alert. Always braced. Because sometimes, your whole afternoon can get up and leave without warning—and you’re the only one there to sweep up the aftermath.

The hardest part is what comes next: the fallout. The questions, the tears, the half-hearted explanations that sound fake even in my own ears. I hate that “He’s just having a hard time right now” is a refrain in our house. I hate that my youngest still wants to believe, that he’ll fold a drawing and leave it on the table for a dad who may or may not ever show up. And I hate that every time their dad fails, it’s me piecing these boys back together while trying to keep myself from shattering.

So let’s get honest: there is deep, primal anger under all this. I didn’t sign up to raise kids on my own while explaining away someone else’s chaos. I didn’t ask to be the adult who makes all the calls and holds everyone together, getting seen as “controlling” only because I refuse to let my boys slide into the same mess I crawled out of. Some days, I want to scream loud enough for the whole system to hear: THIS IS NOT FAIR. And you know what? That’s healthy. It’s true.

But then—because this is real life and not a Netflix special—I still have to move forward. So here’s how I get through:

I let myself vent. I talk to my journal, my therapist, sometimes a steering wheel in a deserted parking lot. I let the bitterness out, because there’s no room for infection in a wound that has to keep healing.

I set boundaries and hold them, even when it means being the villain. I don’t let my kids become collateral damage in someone else’s tornado. I refuse to let the world guilt me into “giving one more chance” when chance after chance turns into pain.

I remember I’m not alone. I connect with other parents holding up their families with nothing but stubbornness and duct tape. I let their stories remind me—not all the bricks are on my shoulders.

I fiercely protect my children’s ability to be just that: children. My youngest isn’t a caretaker. My oldest isn’t a mediator. They are not responsible for anyone else’s recovery, and I remind them (and myself) daily.

Here’s the counselor side: What would I say to someone sitting across from me, confessing this mess?

“I see you. You are not failing. You are stuck with impossible choices. Sometimes loving your children means disappointing the adults. Sometimes it means living with old shame, or feeling like a brick wall when you want to be a hug.”

I remind myself—again and again—that boundaries are love in practice, not punishment. That validation is not the same as enabling. That taking time for myself isn’t selfish, it’s survival.
I get outside, even if it’s just to breathe behind the car with the music on and the heat off, and I let the anger shake loose until what’s left is tired hope.

Most of all, I hang onto community. I reach out. I share, even when it feels risky. Because if I don’t name this craziness, it’ll eat me alive.

If you’re living this—if you are picking up the pieces someone else keeps smashing—please, don’t sit in your car and scream in silence. Drop a comment. Tell me your worst park day, your hardest boundary, the reason you want to quit and the reason you won’t.
Let’s scaffold ourselves together. If you need resources, start with SAMHSA’s National Helpline, lean on family groups (Al-Anon, Nar-Anon), and above all, find a therapist who gets it.

Progress is progress, I always say. Sometimes progress is a mile, sometimes a stubborn millimeter past where you wanted to quit. Sometimes, it’s simply standing at the empty park, holding your kids, and choosing again—today—to be their safe place, even when you don’t feel safe yourself.

If that’s you, you’re doing enough. You are the hero, messy and exhausted as you are. We keep going. Even through the days when “goodbye” comes before you’ve even realized someone left.

Stay stubborn. Love hard. Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for being the wall your kids need.

– Belle