Two Paths, One Mountain

You don't have to agree on everything to walk toward the same thing.

Part 2 in The Tender Places Series

Here's something nobody tells you before you get married, start a business partnership, or commit to any long-term relationship: you will not be on the same page every day.

In fact, there will be mornings when you wake up and genuinely wonder if you're dealing with an alien.

At my son's wedding, I told them the truth: Dan will load the dishwasher in a way that defies all logic. Hannah will have her own ways of doing things that make perfect sense to her and none to him. And neither of them will be wrong—they'll just be different.

The room laughed. Because everyone in that room had been there. We all have our version of the dishwasher—those small, seemingly insignificant differences in how we approach everyday things that somehow feel enormous in the moment.

After 32 years of marriage, Dave and I have navigated countless versions of this. Not literally about dishwashers—though sure, we load them differently. But about all the ways two people can approach the same situation from completely different angles and both be absolutely convinced their way makes more sense.

The thing is: we're still married. Still building a life together. Still on the same team.

Not because we finally figured out the "right" way to do things. But because we're committed to the same destination.

The Mountain Metaphor

Think of it like two people climbing different sides of the same mountain.

You're both heading to the summit. That's the shared commitment—the life you're building together, the purpose you're walking toward, the thing you believe you're called to create. But you're taking different paths to get there.

Maybe one of you is methodical, mapping every step, checking the weather forecast, packing extra supplies. The other is intuitive, following the terrain as it reveals itself, trusting they'll figure it out as they go.

Maybe one of you stops frequently to take photos and appreciate the view. The other is focused on making progress, always looking ahead to the next landmark.

You might face different obstacles. Different challenges. You might even temporarily lose sight of each other because one of you stopped to examine something interesting or take a selfie or catch your breath.

But if you're both committed to reaching that summit together—if you both know where you're going and why it matters—those paths will meet. You'll find each other at the top. Or along the way. Or at the moments when it really matters.

What Common Ground Actually Means

Common ground isn't agreement on everything. It's not uniformity. It's not one person convincing the other that their path is superior.

Common ground is shared direction.

It's waking up and saying, "We might approach this differently, but we're building toward the same thing." It's knowing that your methods might vary but your mission is aligned. It's trusting that even when you can't see each other's perspective in the moment, you're still on the same team.

I've learned this through 32 years of marriage to a military officer. We've moved 20+ times. Dave's career took us places I never would have chosen, places that sometimes felt like the wrong mountain entirely. And I made choices—about parenting, about managing our household through deployments, about building my own identity outside of "military spouse"—that he didn't always understand or agree with in the moment.

But we were always walking toward the same summit: a strong family, a life of service, kids who knew they were loved even when their world kept shifting, a marriage that could bend without breaking.

The methods? Often completely different. The destination? Always shared.

When It Works (And When It Doesn't)

This works when you've actually chosen the same mountain.

Not when you're pretending to climb the same peak while secretly hoping to end up somewhere else. Not when one person is tolerating the other's destination while waiting for them to "come around" to your way of thinking.

You have to genuinely commit to the same summit. The same mission. The same "why are we doing this hard thing together?"

For my son and his bride, that summit is building a life together—a marriage rooted in faith, family, and mutual growth. They might have different ideas about career paths, money management, how to spend their weekends. But if they're both committed to that larger purpose, those differences become texture, not conflict.

In my business, the summit is helping people live authentically with courage and clarity. When I collaborate with others—coaching clients, business partners, the Heroic Tucson community—we might have different approaches, different strengths, different ways of seeing the work. But if we're all committed to that core mission, we can navigate the differences without feeling like we're pulling in opposite directions.

The key is naming the summit. Knowing what mountain you're actually climbing. Being honest about whether you're on the same peak or just standing close to each other on different ones.

The Question to Ask

So here's what I've learned to ask—in marriage, in business, in any relationship that requires sustained commitment:

Are we walking toward the same thing?

Not: Do we agree on how to get there? Not: Do we have the same personality or approach? Not: Do we see every situation the same way?

But: When we imagine where this is going, when we picture what we're building, when we articulate why this matters—are we describing the same summit?

If yes, then the dishwasher loading doesn't matter. The seventeen browser tabs don't matter. The fact that one of you wants to stop for photos while the other wants to push ahead—that's just different climbing styles.

What matters is that you're both committed to reaching the top together. That you trust each other enough to take different paths. That you're willing to wait, to circle back, to help each other over the rough patches, to celebrate when you catch glimpses of each other across the mountain.

Living It Now

I'm living this tension right now in ways I never expected.

Dave is retiring from military service after 30+ years. The mountain we've been climbing together for three decades—the one defined by service, duty, frequent moves, building portable identity—that summit is changing. We're figuring out what the next mountain looks like. Where we're going. What we're building now that the framework we've known is shifting.

We don't agree on everything. He's processing retirement differently than I am. I'm building a business he doesn't always fully understand. We're navigating uncertainty about whether to stay in Arizona or move somewhere new, and we have different priorities influencing that decision.

But here's what I know: we're still committed to the same summit. A life lived with purpose and courage. A relationship that honors both of our individual growth while strengthening what we've built together. A next chapter that's chosen, not just accepted.

The paths might diverge. The methods might differ. But the mountain? That's still shared.

The Both/And

This is the both/and that makes relationships work:

You can be deeply individual AND deeply connected. You can take different paths AND reach the same summit. You can disagree on methods AND align on mission. You can be your own person AND be fully committed to building something together.

It's not about giving up your path to walk theirs. It's not about forcing them onto your route. It's about choosing the same mountain and trusting that your different approaches will ultimately lead you to the same place.

Because at the summit, when you both finally arrive—maybe windblown, definitely tired, probably having taken wildly different routes to get there—you'll realize something:

The different paths made the climb richer. The varied perspectives made you both stronger. The tension of navigating differences while staying committed to the same direction? That's what made it worth doing together.

Next in the series: The Whole Self, Not the Highlight Reel—On the courage of vulnerability

What mountain are you climbing? And are the people in your life actually walking toward the same summit, or are you on different peaks entirely? I'd love to hear your thoughts.