The first of June arrived quietly.
Unexpectedly light.
I began the day with a long, grounding walk — a double round through the fields, the trees, the early air.
Just me, my breath, my pace.
My beloved husband held space at home —
gave me time, gave me silence, gave me support.
And in that moment of stillness, I felt something subtle rise:
the tension of joy.
The strange discomfort of actually feeling okay.
But of course, life is layered.
And I remembered that this wasn’t just the first of the month for me —
it was also his beginning.
His month to finish writing his thesis. His turn to dive deep.
We had agreed:
This time, I would be the one behind him.
Holding, cheering, organizing.
He trusted me with his words.
And I responded with structure. With care.
I built a plan for him — clear, energizing, balanced.
Something to hold onto when the pressure builds.
And still, I questioned:
Did I give too much? Push too far?
Could I really play professor to my own husband?
Our rhythms are different.
This is his first thesis. It’s my fifth.
Our standards, speeds, sensitivities — they don’t always align.
And yes, it triggered something in me.
A small conflict followed — one I own.
One that reminded me of my own shadows: my intensity, my striving, my urgency to help.
So we did what we do best:
We walked.
This time together.
Through the woods, through the edges of silence,
through the softness of just being side by side.
And in the afternoon, we gathered the children again.
The little one with us already, the middle one freshly returned from grandma and grandpa,
and the oldest arriving from her dad.
We met at the bakery.
No big ceremony. Just a moment.
Three sweet hot chocolates. Two almond lattes.
One shared almond croissant.
Mini welcome party.
Mini ritual.
Maximum meaning.
By evening, we were all back in the house — each of us slowly recalibrating.
Everyone still in their own space.
Everyone beginning to find the rhythm of a new week.
And while the house settled, I sat down and built the writing plan.
For him. For us.
And it felt good.
Not controlling. Not too much. Just… supportive.
The day ended without noise.
No Netflix. No escape.
Just tea. Just presence.
A slow descent into sleep.
And only just before bed,
I glanced at my step tracker and froze.
25,000 steps. 17 kilometers.
And not just in distance — in growth, too.
Power of duality.
Body and mind.
Stillness and stride.
Structure and softness.
June began not with fireworks —
but with quiet courage.
And that, I think, is exactly what we needed.