By Dr. Latasha D. McFarland (Harrison)
A New Season, Liminal and Unsettled
As adulthood unfurls in unexpected directions, I find myself living an experience I could not have anticipated—one which has quietly stirred the deep waters of empathy within me and unearthed a gentle grief I had assumed was long at rest.
Recently, I entered the sacred bond of marriage with my Boaz. As two people who have each traversed much of life’s winding roads, we arrived at our union bearing our own abodes—private sanctuaries filled with the heirlooms of memory and the echoed comfort of well-worn rituals. The hopeful glimmer of establishing a home together—a space that is unequivocally ours—thrills us. Yet, in the meantime, we inhabit a delicate, sometimes dizzying arrangement: I am living between two homes—staying physically in his space, but not yet fully settled, my belongings still elsewhere. Together, we are sifting through years of accumulated things in his home, making room and readying ourselves for the day we can step, hand in hand, into our forever home.
On its surface, the arrangement appears simple: two sets of keys jingling in a pocket. Two refrigerators humming quietly to themselves. Two closets, each brimming with the architecture of another life. But this division is not merely logistical—it is disorienting in ways I never foresaw. The most telling symptom is not the personal items left at the wrong house, nor the misplaced diamond ring or Apple Watch. It is the subtler ache of liminality, the sensation of never being quite at rest, never wholly landing. The toothbrush I need always sits in the other sink; the novel I’m reading rests on someone else’s nightstand. Familiarity, once seamless, now feels irrevocably split.
Recognizing My Children’s Experience
In a quiet moment, it struck me: I have walked this road before. More poignantly, my children once walked it, too. The state of living between worlds, which now unsettles me as a consenting adult, was for them a mandate—unchosen, pressing upon their young hearts in the aftermath of separation.
Back then, in the name of love and responsibility, I orchestrated calendars and doubled up on toothbrushes. I worked—sometimes frantically—to build havens at each address: favorite snacks in both kitchens, beds carefully made up, small comforts curated to soften the edges of transition. I truly believed these gestures might create stability. Yet, standing now in this tension—well-resourced, emotionally mature, and fully autonomous—I realize with piercing humility: it must have been so much harder for them.
They did not invite this arrangement. I am reminded of the tearful voice of my daughter calling when she forgot something she needed for school, and the quivering voice of my introverted son expressing his quiet need for something. Even now, the memory stirs a visceral response in me—a tightening in my chest, a pang of helplessness and longing. How often I tried to smooth the path for them, unaware that no amount of snacks or perfectly made beds could erase the fact that their lives were divided. They held no say in the rupture between the two people they trusted most, yet the burden of navigating that fracture rested upon their small shoulders. They became masters of adaptation, carrying the cost of survival in ways I am only now beginning to understand.
Reimagining Post-Separation Family Life
And here is what sits heavy with me now: if this arrangement were about our own comfort as adults, I imagine it would change quickly. Our selfish desires would dissolve into a soft cloud of this doesn’t make sense. And yet, somehow, we struggle to see this truth when it comes to our children. We expect them to shoulder, without protest, an arrangement we ourselves would quickly tire of.
This realization compels me to re-envision what it might look like to truly center children in the architecture of post-separation family life. What if, instead of requiring little ones to oscillate between spaces, we—grown and capable—embraced the inconvenience ourselves? What if the adults rotated in and out—negotiating the discomforts, the misplaced items, the awkward transitions—so our children could remain firmly rooted, surrounded by the familiar rhythms of their own belongings and memories? Might we discover, in shouldering this inconvenience, a quiet and sacred gift: stability for tender souls who most need the assurance that home is constant amid change?
I know this vision may strike some as utopian, perhaps even unworkable in certain circumstances. But I am convinced of this: children deserve wholeness. They deserve to be residents—not visitors—in their own lives. They deserve a world where beloved hoodies are never left behind, favorite books always remain within reach, and the terrain of their lives feels whole, even if their parents’ union does not.
A Wish for Gentleness and Compassion
This season is a bridge—joyful and tremulous, laced with anticipation, yet rich in reflection. Dwelling in this in-between space has revealed truths I once saw only in outline. My heart now stretches across time—a longing to create a home with my beloved, and a deep, belated compassion for the silent trials my children once endured.
May these words kindle compassion: for our children, for our parents, and for ourselves. May we persist in seeking gentler ways to navigate life’s inevitable ruptures. Let us endeavor, always, to fashion spaces—emotional and physical—where our children feel wholly themselves, securely rooted, even as the world around them shifts and divides.