The Map to Your Tender Places

Not the castle. Not the glass slipper. This.

Part 4 of The Tender Places Series

The Fairy Tale We're Actually Looking For

We grow up on fairy tales about love.

The prince. The castle. The glass slipper. The happily ever after where everything is perfect and effortless and nothing ever hurts.

And then we get older and we're told those feelings aren't real. That overwhelming sense of connection, that soul-deep recognition, that feeling of being completely seen and completely safe at the same time—we're told that's just infatuation. Hormones. Naivety.

The real relationships, we're told, are practical. Comfortable. Built on compromise and low expectations and accepting that the magic fades.

But here's what I've learned through 32 years of marriage:

They're both wrong.

The castles aren't real. The perfect circumstances aren't real. The idea that love means never hurting each other isn't real.

But that profound, overwhelming, soul-level connection? The feeling of being fully known and still fully chosen? That magic where two people see each other completely and it creates something neither could build alone?

That's absolutely real.

It's just not where we thought it would be.

The Power Exchange

That fairy tale connection—the one that's actually sustainable, actually transformative—it lives in something very specific:

In the exchange of power that happens when someone trusts you with their vulnerability.

When someone is fully vulnerable with you, they're not just sharing information. They're not just opening up or being honest. They're doing something much more significant:

They're handing you power.

The power to hurt them. To wound them in the places they're most tender. To use their insecurities against them, their fears as weapons, their confessed weaknesses as ammunition.

Think about what you actually know when someone has been completely vulnerable with you. You know what keeps them up at 3 AM. You know what they're ashamed of. You know the criticism that cuts deepest. You know which dreams matter so much that dismissing them would be devastating. You know where past wounds still ache.

You have the map to their tender places.

And that means you could—if you wanted to, if you were careless, if you were cruel—cause tremendous damage.

Where the Real Magic Lives

Here's what nobody tells you about this exchange—about giving someone the map to your tender places and having them hold it sacred:

It's where the fairy tale feelings actually live.

The overwhelming, powerful connection that happens when two people see each other completely and choose each other anyway. When you can be fully vulnerable and fully safe at the same time. When someone knows exactly where you're tender and protects those places instead of exploiting them.

That soul-level connection people dream about? The happily ever after that seems too good to be true? It's real.

It's just not what we thought it would be.

It's not perfect circumstances or effortless harmony or never hurting each other. It's two people who have handed each other the power to cause tremendous damage—and then spend their lives choosing gentleness instead.

It's knowing that this person has seen you at your absolute worst, knows your deepest insecurities, understands exactly how to wound you—and they protect you from that knowledge rather than exploit it.

It's the profound intimacy of being fully known and still fully loved. Not loved despite your tender places, but loved in a way that honors them as sacred.

When you get that right—when both people are brave enough to be vulnerable AND responsible enough to hold each other's vulnerability carefully—the connection that creates is more powerful than any fairy tale. Because it's real. It's earned. It's built on trust that's been tested and proven.

The castles aren't real. But this? This overwhelming sense of safety and passion and deep connection that comes from being fully seen and still fully chosen?

That's the magic. And it's absolutely worth protecting.

The Sacred Trust

This is where trust becomes everything.

Not blind faith. Not naivety. But the deep, fundamental belief that the person you've given this power to would never want to use it against you.

They're not holding your vulnerabilities as weapons. They're holding them as sacred trust.

At my son's wedding, this is what I needed them to understand: when you love someone fully, when they've shown you their whole self, you become the keeper of their tender places. That's not a burden—it's a gift. But it's also a profound responsibility.

Because here's the truth: they will hurt you sometimes. And you will hurt them.

Not because you want to. Not because you're weaponizing what they've shared. But because you're two humans trying to navigate life together, and sometimes we're clumsy. Sometimes we're exhausted. Sometimes we say the wrong thing or miss what the other person needed in that moment.

Hurt Doesn't Equal Intent

This distinction matters more than almost anything else in relationships that last—and it's essential to keeping that fairy tale connection alive.

Your partner can hurt you deeply without intending to hurt you at all.

They can say something careless because they're stressed, not because they're trying to wound you. They can forget something important because they're overwhelmed, not because it doesn't matter to them. They can respond poorly in a moment when they needed space, not because they don't love you.

The hurt is real. The impact is real. Your feelings are valid.

But the intent wasn't malicious.

This is where trust has to do its hardest work. When you're hurting, when someone just touched a tender place you trusted them to protect, every instinct says to defend yourself. To strike back. To assume the worst about why they said or did that thing.

But if you truly believe—deeply, fundamentally—that this person has seen all of you, loves all of you, and would never deliberately wound the places you've shared with them?

Then you can approach the hurt differently.

The Bridge Back

"Help me understand what you meant."

Six words that have saved my marriage more times than I can count.

When Dave says something that lands wrong, when I feel hurt by a comment or decision, when something he does touches a tender place—my first instinct isn't always generous. My first instinct is often defensive. Protective. Ready to assume intent that probably isn't there.

But we've learned to pause. To remember that we're on the same team. To ask: "Help me understand what you meant by that."

Not accusatory. Not sarcastic. Genuinely asking for clarity.

Because more often than not, what I heard isn't what he intended. The meaning I assigned to his words or actions isn't the meaning he meant to convey. He didn't realize that particular thing would hit a tender place because he was focused on something completely different.

"Help me understand" creates space for explanation without defensiveness. It assumes good intent even when the impact was painful. It says: I trust that you didn't mean to hurt me, and I need help seeing what you actually meant.

And then the other side of that bridge: "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that would hurt you."

Sometimes the bravest thing you can say.

Not "I'm sorry you feel that way" or "I didn't mean it that way, so you shouldn't be hurt." But genuine acknowledgment: I didn't intend harm, but I caused it anyway, and I'm sorry.

This is how you protect that soul-level connection. This is how the fairy tale feelings survive real life. Not by avoiding hurt—that's impossible. But by building trust strong enough to navigate hurt without breaking.

What Sacred Responsibility Looks Like

So what does it actually mean to hold someone's tender places as sacred trust? To protect the magic that's actually real?

It means you don't weaponize what they've shared. Ever. Even when you're angry. Even when you're having the worst fight. Even when you're so frustrated you want to say the thing you know will cut deepest.

You don't do it. Because that would be a violation of trust that's almost impossible to repair. It would shatter the very thing that makes this connection profound.

It means you handle their insecurities gently. When they've told you they're self-conscious about something, you don't make jokes about it—even lighthearted ones. When they've shared a fear, you don't dismiss it as irrational. When they've confessed shame, you don't bring it up casually later.

It means you remember what matters to them. The dreams they've shared. The losses they're still grieving. The boundaries they've set. The ways they've asked to be loved.

It means you give them the benefit of the doubt. When their behavior is confusing or hurtful, you assume there's an explanation rather than assuming malice.

It means you apologize when you accidentally hurt them. Not defensively, not with qualifications, but with genuine acknowledgment that your impact matters even when your intent was innocent.

It means you protect their vulnerability—even from yourself, especially from yourself—when you're tired or frustrated or hurting.

When Trust Gets Tested

The real test of trust isn't in the easy moments. It's when life gets hard.

When you're under stress and your capacity for gentleness is thin. When you're dealing with your own pain and your partner's needs feel like too much. When you're angry and the words that would wound are right there, available, tempting.

That's when you find out whether you truly hold their tender places as sacred.

I've been tested on this more times than I'd like to admit. There have been moments in our marriage when I was so frustrated, so hurt myself, so exhausted from 20+ moves and constant adaptation, that I wanted to lash out. To use what I knew would hurt Dave most. To make him feel as vulnerable as I felt.

And here's the truth: I haven't been perfect. I've said things I regret. I've been careless when I should have been careful. I've hurt him without meaning to and sometimes without immediately recognizing the damage.

But I've never weaponized his vulnerability. I've never deliberately used what he's shared in moments of openness against him. And he's done the same for me.

That's the foundation we've built on. Not perfection. But sacred trust that even in our worst moments, we're still protecting each other's tender places.

And that's how the fairy tale feelings survive decades. That's how you keep that soul-level connection alive through deployments and moves and career changes and raising kids and all the ordinary Tuesday mornings that make up a life.

Not by maintaining perfect circumstances. By maintaining sacred trust.

Both Sides of the Coin

This is the both/and that makes vulnerability sustainable—and that keeps the magic real:

You have to be brave enough to share your tender places AND trust the person you're sharing them with will handle them gently.

You have to be vulnerable enough to give someone power AND responsible enough to never abuse the power given to you.

You have to believe the best about their intent AND acknowledge when their impact still hurt.

You have to apologize for unintended harm AND accept apologies with grace.

Part 3 was about the courage to be vulnerable. This is about the responsibility that comes with someone else's courage.

When someone hands you the map to their tender places, you're being given something sacred. Something that took bravery to share. Something that could be used to harm but is being offered in hope of connection.

The question is: what will you do with that power?

Living It Now

I'm holding this tension right now in my coaching work.

When clients share their struggles, their fears, their places of shame or insecurity—I'm being given something sacred. They're trusting me with tender places they don't show most people.

My responsibility isn't to fix them or judge them or tell them they shouldn't feel what they're feeling. It's to hold what they've shared with the gentleness it deserves. To remember that their vulnerability is courage. To create space where they can be fully seen without fear of that visibility being weaponized.

The same is true in my marriage as we navigate Dave's retirement. He's shared fears about identity loss, uncertainty about what comes next, grief over ending a career that defined him for 30+ years. Those are tender places. My responsibility is to hold them carefully, even when I'm dealing with my own transition, even when I don't have answers, even when his process looks different from mine.

This is what love requires: not just the courage to be vulnerable, but the integrity to honor someone else's vulnerability as the gift it is.

And when you get it right? When both people are protecting each other's tender places with sacred care? That connection deepens in ways the fairy tales never captured. Because it's tested and proven. Because it's chosen daily, not just once upon a time.

The Real Happily Ever After

So here's what I want you to know about the fairy tale feelings, the soul-level connection, the overwhelming sense of being fully seen and fully safe:

It's real. It's possible. It's worth pursuing.

But it doesn't come from perfect circumstances or meeting "the one" who magically understands everything. It doesn't happen automatically or stay effortlessly.

It comes from two people being brave enough to hand each other the maps to their tender places—and then spending their lives protecting what they've been given.

It comes from choosing gentleness even when you're tired. From assuming good intent even when you're hurt. From saying "help me understand" instead of assuming the worst. From apologizing without defensiveness. From holding vulnerability as sacred even when it would be easier to weaponize it.

The castle isn't real. The glass slipper isn't real. The idea that love means never hurting each other isn't real.

But that profound connection where two souls see each other completely and it creates something neither could build alone? Where being fully known leads to being fully loved? Where vulnerability met with sacred trust transforms both people?

That's the real magic. That's the happily ever after that's actually sustainable.

And it's more powerful than any fairy tale. Because it's real. It's earned. It's chosen.

Every single day.

Next in the series: Your Best Self, My Best Self, Our Best Us—On growing together without losing yourself

How do you hold the tender places others have shared with you? Where have you experienced that soul-level connection that's more powerful than fairy tales? I'd love to hear your thoughts.