Even When It Doesn’t Make Sense: Choosing Love Anyway

By Chris “Yellow Owl” Albaugh

I’ve come to learn that walking the path of love, peace, and understanding—especially in the face of confusion and injustice—often doesn’t make sense to the outside world.

As I reflect on the shifting dynamics in my life—especially around my ex-wife of 22 years getting remarried—there’s a bittersweet harmony moving through my heart.

I’m genuinely happy for her. She deserves peace, love, joy… another chance at creating something meaningful. But within that acceptance, there’s a quiet ache—not from attachment or resentment, but from the space that’s formed between myself and my son.

When we separated, it wasn’t because of lack of love. It was because we were called to live in different ways. She was the realistic one—rooted in stability, safety, and tradition. And I’ve always been the dreamer—drawn toward expansion, growth, the exploring the unknown.

For most of our marriage, those polarities danced in harmony. We made it work through unimaginable experiences. We endured together. And through that, I cultivated a deep trust—a faith in our bond that I thought would always remain. But faith is not forged in comfort—it is tested, tried, and made true in what we choose after things fall apart.

We once spoke of co-parenting beyond conditions. Of raising our son with transparency, mutual respect, and unity.

And yet, years later… I still don’t know where my son lays his head at night. I don’t know the names, faces, or energies that shape his day-to-day life.

He hasn’t been kept from me. But the information—the access to presence, the ability to share in the moments that matter—has.

His mother and stepfather—perhaps out of fear, comfort, or control—have chosen silence. There are events I’m not invited to. Details I’m not told. Spaces I’m not welcomed in.

And it’s not because I’ve done wrong. It’s because his stepfather has struggled to regulate himself—his emotions, his words, his reactions.

And while I can see beyond that—past the immaturity, the insecurity, the pain—I still wonder:

What are the ripples created by these clashing states of being and believing?

I could force my presence. I could push for my rights. I could enter the scene like a storm.

But I’ve chosen another way. A quieter way. One that may appear passive to some, but is rooted in deep, radical love.

People have questioned that choice.

“Why aren’t you fighting harder?”
“Where is your fire?”
“Is this what fatherhood looks like now?”

But fire without aim only scorches. And I’ve been burned enough to know—it’s not the volume of your presence, but the purity of your intention, that heals.

This isn’t weakness. This is wisdom. This is devotion in its highest form.

Because this is how I’ve always tried to walk:
Not through control,
But through collaboration.
Not with demands,
But with shared experience.
Not with ego,
But with a longing to return to the heart—together.

That’s what I’ve desired. That’s what I’ve protected. And yes, sometimes that’s what I’ve improperly projected into my relationships—From fear, from longing, from hope.

That desire to be loved in return… to be met in the middle… to belong. To witness and be witnessed.

That’s the same love I was shown growing up.

I had grandparents who gave me treats, gifts, and surprises “just because”—their joy came from giving, from witnessing joy, from blessing without expectation. They showed me that love and gratitude can exist not just in words, but in presence—in the simple act of thinking of someone else’s joy as your own.

And I had other grandparents who handed me a coffee can and said, “Pick up acorns—25 cents a can.” They gave me the gift of earning, of effort, of becoming. They instilled in me the kind of gratitude that arises through growth—a thankfulness you feel in your bones because you’ve worked for it.

Both were love. Both were sacred. Both shaped how I give, how I guide, how I grow.

Because at the end of our days, it’s not what we’ve possessed that we leave behind. It’s what we’ve cared for. What we’ve nourished. What we’ve shared—even when it was misunderstood. Even when it didn’t make sense.

That’s the love I inherited from my parents and ancestors. We didn’t always understand each other. But there was always love. Always acceptance. Always a quiet desire to inspire—through their walk, not just their words.

I carry that now. Not perfectly, but purposefully.

Because this isn’t just about my son. Or my ex-wife. Or one fractured relationship.

This is about all of us—our capacity to heal, our willingness to grow, our return to love as a collective presence.

This is about how we, as human beings, move in and out of integrity with ourselves and each other—and still, somehow, find our way home.

We don’t have to understand it all.
We just have to keep loving.
Keep listening.
Keep softening.