When the Joy Left the Room
At first, there was still light.
It was softer than before — muted by responsibility, shadowed by sleepless nights — but it was there. Emily’s first smile. Her wobbly steps. The sound of her laughter in our tiny home. Those moments kept me going.
But marriage changes the air in a room.
Not overnight, but slowly.
By the time we moved in together in 2000, I thought the hardest part was behind us. We’d survived young parenthood, graduated with our associate’s degrees, and were finally building a life under the same roof. I believed that would make us feel closer.
Instead, the walls began to absorb the tension.
There were fewer easy conversations and more silences that lasted too long. The laughter we once shared seemed to stay in the corners, hesitant to fill the space the way it used to.
From my 1999 journal:
It feels like the fun has gone. We don’t laugh like we used to. It’s like we’re two people living side by side, not together. I keep hoping one day I’ll wake up and it will feel like the beginning again.
I told myself it was just stress — we were young, working hard, adjusting to everything all at once. But deep down, I felt something slipping.
It felt like I became the one holding everything together — the house, the schedules, the bedtime routines.
At the same time, he carried the weight of providing for us financially, especially after we left apartment life for a much larger house. That kind of pressure changes a person.
Looking back, I can see we were both stretched thin in different ways.
I thought that if I did more, maybe he’d feel lighter.
If I complained less, maybe he’d come back to me emotionally.
I tried so hard to be agreeable, to make our life easier for him, that I didn’t notice how much I was disappearing in the process.
By 2001, the cracks were harder to ignore.
The conversations that once stretched late into the night became quick exchanges about groceries or bills.
From my 2001 journal:
The house feels quiet in all the wrong ways. We’re both here, but it’s like we’re not. I don’t want to complain — I have so much to be grateful for — but I feel lonely in a way that doesn’t make sense.
When joy did show up, it came in brief flashes — Emily’s giggle, a shared inside joke — but it always felt fleeting, as if it couldn’t stay for long.
Then came 2002.
I was pregnant with our second child, and I wanted so much for this to be a fresh start. A chance for us to come together as a family of four, to reclaim the warmth that had faded. I pictured a house full of love and noise, the kind that spills out the front door and lets the world know you’re home.
From my 2002 journal:
I want this baby to bring us back together. I keep telling myself it will. But sometimes I’m scared we’ve already lost something we can’t name.
Even in the months leading up to Andrew’s birth, the air felt heavier. I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on tiny kicks and baby clothes, on Emily’s excitement about becoming a big sister. Still, the quiet between us grew louder, and I couldn’t shake the sense that joy had already begun to pack its bags.
On the day Andrew was born, I felt two things at once — overwhelming love for my son and an unspoken fear that I couldn’t name yet. It was as if I could already feel the distance between us widening, even as we stood side by side in that hospital room.
I didn’t know it then, but I was standing in the doorway of a very different chapter.
One where joy would become harder and harder to find.
If you’ve ever felt joy slowly slip from your life without one clear reason…
If you’ve ever looked around and realized the light in the room had dimmed…
If you’ve ever wondered when exactly the “us” you once knew became something else…
With heart,
Rebecca
