There are a lot of things that get in the way of love.

When I was younger, I assumed they would be the big things. Betrayal. Distance. Illness. The kind of dramatic moments that make for great movies and terrible Tuesdays. As it turns out, love is usually interrupted by much smaller things. Dirty socks. Breakfast dishes. Laundry waiting to be folded. A text message we meant to answer. The story we begin telling ourselves before we’ve bothered to ask if it’s true.

Three years ago I became a step-parent, and I can say with complete confidence that it has been the hardest thing I have ever done. Before Leo, I thought I had a pretty solid résumé. I was the favorite aunt who showed up for birthdays and sleepovers. I adored my nephew. I had become “Aunt Molly” to my best friends’ kids. I had also fully embraced my role as a dog mom. When our boxer, Otis, came down with kennel cough, I slept on the bathroom floor beside him because somehow it felt wrong to leave him alone. I’ve survived potty training, chewed shoes, countless accidents, and one unforgettable emergency surgery after Otis quietly ate six pairs of my underwear. Six. Somewhere inside that dog was apparently a Victoria’s Secret outlet store.

I genuinely thought all of that had prepared me for parenthood.

It hadn’t.

The surprising thing about becoming a step-parent isn’t that children challenge your patience. Of course they do. It’s that they uncover parts of yourself you thought had been settled years ago. They have an uncanny ability to brush against old wounds without ever knowing they’re there. It can feel less like raising a child and more like wandering through your own emotional attic, opening dusty boxes you forgot you packed.

Leo is twelve, wonderfully neurodivergent, endlessly curious, and gloriously energetic. They leave socks in every room of our house as if they’re conducting some elaborate scientific experiment on textile migration. They borrow my markers, rearrange my Lego sets, and somehow manage to use every pen except the one I was about to reach for. On my best days, I laugh. I genuinely love watching them create. They take my Pride Lego figures, swap hairstyles, change outfits, invent entirely new families, and remind me that imagination is almost always more interesting than organization.

On my harder days, though, something else happens.

The missing marker isn’t really about the marker.

The sock isn’t really about the sock.

The cereal bowl sitting beside the sink instead of inside the dishwasher isn’t really about the cereal bowl.

I’ve begun to realize that those tiny moments brush against a story I’ve been carrying for a very long time.

Growing up, I was the only girl sandwiched between two brothers. My older brother needed a tremendous amount of attention, and my younger brother seemed to collect praise without even trying. Looking back as an adult, I don’t remember a childhood without love. My parents loved all three of us deeply. What I remember instead is becoming very good at waiting. Waiting my turn. Waiting until everyone else had what they needed. Waiting until there was enough room left over for me.

Children are remarkable observers, but terrible interpreters. We notice everything, then invent stories to explain what we’ve seen. Mine quietly became this: If I want to be noticed, I’d better earn it.

I don’t think I ever said those words out loud.

I just lived them.

I became helpful. Responsible. Easygoing. Independent. I learned that if I didn’t need much, life seemed to run more smoothly for everyone around me. As an adult, that story simply put on nicer clothes. It became degrees and certifications, books and keynotes, sermons and résumés. Every accomplishment carried the same quiet promise: Maybe now.

The problem with trying to earn your worth is that every finish line moves the moment you cross it.

Next week: A quiet morning, one bowl of cereal, and the conversation with Leo that changed the way I think about love.