Toni Lynn

The other night, I lost it.

I flipped out at my officer—not my proudest moment, but I’m committed to keeping things raw and real here, so I’m owning it. It was late. The middle child was struggling to wind down, and I was trying to carve out a little one-on-one time with our oldest. It was my husband’s first night back home after a string of shifts, and he was helping with bedtime. Only, he wasn’t doing it the way I normally do it—the way I have to do it, solo, the other four nights a week.

That small shift in routine? It unraveled everything.

And while it might seem like a minor thing, bedtime is sacred ground in our house—especially for a kid who thrives on consistency. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it wasn’t the first time I’d brought it up. I don’t naturally crave structure; I’ve always leaned toward spontaneity. But after years of parenting mostly alone due to shift work, I’ve come to depend on the rhythm of routines. They’ve become my survival tool. And when that rhythm is disrupted, it feels like everything I’ve worked so hard to maintain starts to crumble.

So, yes. I snapped. I let him know just how frustrated I was. We both went to bed angry.

By the time I woke up the next morning, he was gone—off to a previously scheduled golf outing. And if I’m honest, I wasn’t mad about his absence. In fact, I welcomed it. The house felt calmer. I didn’t have to face the conflict or take responsibility for what I’d said. I didn’t have to apologize. At least, not yet.

Later that morning, I joined a group coaching session for first responder and military spouses. The topic? Resentments and boundaries. Couldn’t have been more on time. I shared about the night before—how overwhelmed and angry I’d been, and how I had even started to wonder if staying in this marriage was worth it. Because honestly? Sometimes being a single mom sounds easier than constantly navigating the emotional whiplash of solo parenting, only to have everything disrupted when he returns.

Then my coach asked a question that stopped me cold:
“Are you more hurt that he messes up the routine—or are you jealous that he gets to leave and do his thing?”

I sat with that.

And then I answered:
“It’s both.”

I’m frustrated that I pour myself into creating stability for our kids while he’s gone, and I’ve voiced how deeply I need that routine to stay intact. When it’s ignored, I feel unheard, unappreciated, and dismissed.

But I’m also envious.

Envious that he can go to the gym hours before his shift starts. That he can take a day off and go golfing without having to arrange childcare. That he can go to a doctor’s appointment alone—without bringing a child along or planning the logistics days in advance.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the front porch, trying to stay mentally present in a coaching session—clinging to this small sliver of time for myself—while also being on high alert, knowing I might have to pause at any moment to deal with the kids or respond to the next urgent “Mom!” I’m not truly alone. I’m never fully off duty. Even in the spaces meant for me, I’m bracing for interruption.

That’s the truth of it.

In Silent Warriors: The Guardians Behind the Badge, I write:

“In these moments, I’m reminded that boundaries are essential. Sometimes, I’m simply worn out from holding the line at home. I may have been up all night with a sick child, managing the chaos of daily life on little sleep, stretched thin and carrying everything. And there are times when he, too, can’t hold what I’m carrying emotionally because he’s had to carry too much already. This give-and-take, this back-and-forth of support, requires grace—grace to know that neither of us can always show up perfectly. And that’s okay. But without open communication, we risk feeling overlooked and undervalued in the spaces we hold together.”

That’s where we are. Living in the tension between two very different roles and responsibilities, each carrying its own kind of weight.

But here’s what I’m learning: Boundaries aren’t about punishment. They’re about preservation—of peace, of connection, of emotional sustainability. So while I do appreciate his willingness to help, maybe bedtime isn’t the best place for that right now. Maybe the better boundary is finding other ways he can show up fully—ways that don’t undo what I’ve built just to keep things steady.

And none of that makes him a bad father.

It just means we’re navigating the messy middle between burnout and grace. Between showing up for each other and showing up for ourselves. Between the chaos of shift work and the desperate, necessary craving for consistency.

We can’t do this without boundaries. We can’t do this without honesty. And we sure as hell can’t do this without space for each other to be imperfect and still worthy of love.