A few weeks ago I took my daughter to the park.

We played "the ground is lava" until my chronic pain forced me to lie down to catch my breath.

From the ground I watched other fathers kicking soccer balls and throwing footballs with their kids.

I wanted to do those things with my little girl, and I could feel the throbbing fear that my pain would rob me of the chance to give my daughter the fun and laughter that I desperately want to share with her.

Sometimes I feel like the only thing I'm good for is taking up space in my bed while life passes me by.

Trapped in a body that doesn't work the way I need it to.

The other day I was talking to a mom about the all-consuming nature of parenthood.

"What do you do to relax?" she asked.

"I honestly don't know what I would do," she admitted, "even if I somehow found the time."

Just like me, she was stuck in her own trap.

I wanted to run and move in a way that my body didn't allow.

She wanted to relax in a way her schedule didn't permit.

It's something I see in a lot of marriages too.

When a husband pulls away, his wife's world starts to shrink.

She's stuck reading his moods and managing the house, schedule, and family activities based on how he feels.

So she starts to feel more like his roommate than his wife. Like she's the only one still trying to work on their marriage.

Meanwhile, her life gets put on hold.

Vacations, family dinners, and conversations that go beyond logistics. None of it feels possible with a husband whose walls are always up.

A while back my physical therapist reminded me of something I keep having to relearn.

"Don't compare yourself to what you could do a few years ago," he told me. "You're never going to see your progress that way."

"Look at where you are now," he said, "and then take a half-step past your comfort zone. You're going to have setbacks but if you keep pushing just a bit then eventually you'll notice things changing."

And he was right.

Nothing ever changed when I stayed in bed.

But when I pushed myself a little every day, I could slowly do more.

Now I can cook "green" mac and cheese (it has spinach), and read The Chronicles of Prydain with my daughter.

I might not be able to throw a football with her, but we can still go on walks together.

And we can hunt dandelions for her collection.

The half-step for you might not look like much either.

It's remembering one thing you've been wanting to do, and then doing some manageable version of it.

Like spending an hour in the garden, or reading a few pages of the book that's been sitting on your nightstand.

Something you can do without anyone else's permission or cooperation.

You might feel as stuck as I did, lying down at the park while everyone else ran around.

Filled with the sense that nothing you can do will change anything.

A lot of husbands feel trapped like this too, especially when they feel like they're letting their families down.

Your husband might not have the words to say all of that, but he could be going through something like me, even if it doesn't look like that from the outside.

And maybe you can recognize what he's going through because you've gone through something similar.

So when he pulls away, you can see that it's not proof that he's stopped caring.

It's a sign that he feels just as stuck as you.

The half-steps I take these days don't always look like much.

It's walking a few minutes on the treadmill, and washing the kitchen countertops at night.

It never feels like enough.

But it adds up over the weeks and months.

I'm not sure when I'll be able to kick a soccer ball with my daughter.

Maybe that will never happen.

But I also know that the only way I'll find out is if I keep taking those steps.