What happens when the one thing you've wanted more than anything else in your life is to love and be loved, but you don't actually know what love is?

This Sunday Stroll is an emotional one.

I find myself remembering a morning during Sharon's cancer treatments when I woke up and discovered she wasn't in the lift chair where she'd been sleeping. The panic, the helplessness, and the anger at everything life had already thrown at us came rushing back.

Childhood abuse. Sexual abuse. My suicide attempt. The death of my infant son, Malachi. And now, watching my wife endure two cancers.

How much fucking shit was I supposed to carry?

But this morning, November 1, 2026, Sharon and I shared another moment of intimacy that reminded me how much my understanding of love has changed.

For much of my life, I allowed other people to define love for me. I entered marriages, adopted religious beliefs, and tried to become someone I thought another person could love. Eventually, I began asking what kindness, compassion, and love actually meant to me—and whether I was extending any of those things to myself.

I'm not suggesting that grief disappears or that we can affirm our way past painful experiences. I'm talking about an unfolding understanding of myself and a relationship that continues to surprise me.

I also share a song I wrote during Sharon's cancer journey, followed by some thoughts I hadn't planned to record about feeling unlovable, wanting to belong, and discovering a kind of love I once couldn't imagine experiencing.