Welcome to Grace Over Guilt. I'm Dan Kaufman, and it's New Year's Eve 2025.

Something is fitting about recording this episode today. New Year's Eve is all about transition. Looking back at what was. Looking forward to what could be. Standing in that uncomfortable space between the year that's ending and the year that's beginning.

And that's exactly what today's lesson is about. How do you maintain relationships when you're at rock bottom? When you have nothing to offer? When you're standing in the wreckage of your old life trying to figure out how to keep the connections that matter from slipping away completely?

Because here's what I learned the hard way: rock bottom has a way of revealing who's really in your corner. And it has a way of testing whether you have what it takes to stay connected even when every instinct tells you to disappear.

THE DISAPPEARING ACT

When I got out of jail in 2022, I expected certain things to happen. I expected some people to distance themselves. I expected awkwardness. I expected judgment.

What I didn't expect was the disappearing act. The people I had considered friends for five, six, seven years. Gone. Not dramatically. No big confrontations or declarations. They just... faded. Stopped returning calls. Stopped reaching out. Stopped including me in things.

And look, I get it. Sort of. When someone goes to jail, people don't know how to act. They don't know what to say. They're probably worried about what their association with you says about them. It's uncomfortable. Easier to just let the relationship quietly die than navigate all that awkwardness.

But understanding why people disappear doesn't make it hurt less. When you're at your lowest point, when you need your support system the most, watching it evaporate is its own kind of devastation layered on top of everything else you're dealing with.

The first lesson I learned about relationships at rock bottom is this: you're going to lose some. Maybe a lot. And you have to let them go. Chasing after people who have decided to distance themselves only makes you look desperate and makes them more uncomfortable. Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do is accept that some relationships weren't built to survive your worst moments.

WHO SHOWED UP

But here's the other side of that coin. Some people showed up. And not always the ones I expected.

My parents. They showed up. When I got out of jail this fall with nowhere to go, they opened their home to me. A grown man, in his parents' basement, trying to rebuild a life from scratch. That's not where anyone wants to be. But they gave me a place to land when I had nothing.

And then there were a few friends. People I had casually stayed in touch with over the years. Not my inner circle. Not the people I saw every week or talked to every day. Just people who existed on the edges of my social world. They reached out. They checked in. They didn't make it weird.

That surprised me. I would have bet money on who would be there for me at my lowest point. And I would have been wrong about most of it.

Here's the second lesson: crisis reveals character. Not just your character. Everyone's character. You learn very quickly who has the capacity to show up when things are hard and who only knows how to be around when things are good. And honestly, both of those are useful pieces of information.

THE ONES THAT MATTER MOST

But let's talk about the relationships that mattered most. For me, that's my daughters. They're the relationships I fought hardest to maintain. The ones I still fight for every single day.

After everything fell apart, after the divorce, after jail, my relationship with my girls was hanging by a thread. And unlike friendships where you can just accept that some people leave, I wasn't willing to accept that outcome with my daughters. I couldn't.

The challenge was figuring out how to maintain that connection when I was at my absolute lowest. When I had nothing to offer. When I was living with my parents. When I was dealing with depression, PTSD, and anxiety. When I felt like a shell of the man I used to be.

How do you show up for your kids when you can barely show up for yourself?

LESSON ONE: JUST BE THERE

The first thing I learned is that presence matters more than perfection. I couldn't be the dad I used to be. I couldn't take them on vacations. I couldn't buy them those things. I couldn't give them the stable, two-parent household they grew up in.

But I could be there. I could show up.

After I got out, we did activities together. Simple stuff. Nothing fancy. And I had to put on a strong face. Inside, I was struggling. Depression was pulling me down. The PTSD made being out in public hard. I was a mess.

But I showed up anyway. Because that's what they needed to see. Not a perfect dad. Not a dad who had it all figured out. Just a dad who was there. A dad who kept showing up even when it was hard.

If you're at rock bottom and you're trying to maintain relationships with people who matter, especially your kids, remember this: they don't need you to be perfect. They need you to be present. Just being there, consistently, over time, matters more than any grand gesture or perfect moment.

LESSON TWO: ACTIVITIES CREATE SPACE

When I first got out of jail, I didn't know how to be around my daughters. What do you talk about? How do you act? There's so much history and pain and awkwardness in the air that just sitting across from each other felt impossible.

Activities saved us. We played games. A lot of games. And something about having something to focus on, something to do together that wasn't just staring at each other and trying to have meaningful conversations... it created space for connection to happen naturally.

When you're playing a game, you're laughing, competing, trash trash-talking. You're having moments that don't carry the weight of everything that's happened. You're just being together.

Those game moments are still something I smile and laugh about now. Because in the middle of all the darkness, we had these pockets of normal. These moments where we were just a dad and his kids having fun.

Here's the lesson: when relationships are strained, when there's awkwardness or distance or pain, don't try to force deep conversations right away. Do things together. Create shared experiences. Let the connection happen through the activity. The meaningful conversations will come, but they'll come more naturally when you've built up some positive moments first.

LESSON THREE: COMMUNICATION OVER CONFRONTATION

Looking back at my time with my daughters after I got out, there's one thing I wish I had done differently. I wish I had communicated more. Really communicated. Had more conversations about real things.

The activities were good. They gave us shared moments. But I played it safe. I put on a strong face and focused on keeping things light. I was so worried about making things awkward or saying the wrong thing that I avoided going deeper.

Kids, even teenagers, even young adults, they're more perceptive than we give them credit for. They knew things weren't right. They could sense that Dad was going through something. And by not talking about it openly, by trying to protect them from the hard stuff, I probably made it harder for them to understand and process everything.

I'm not saying you should dump all your problems on your kids. That's not fair to them. But there's a balance between protecting them from everything and letting them see that you're human. That you're struggling. That you're working through things. Kids can handle more honesty than we think. And honesty builds trust in a way that protection through silence never can.

If I could go back, I would have had more real conversations. I would have let them see more of what I was going through while still being the stable presence they needed. That balance is hard to find, but it's worth striving for.

LESSON FOUR: CONSISTENCY BEATS INTENSITY

When you're trying to rebuild a relationship from rock bottom, there's a temptation to go big. Make grand gestures. Plan amazing experiences. Try to make up for lost time in one dramatic sweep.

Don't do that.

Consistency beats intensity every single time. Small, regular touches mean more than occasional big gestures. A text every day matters more than an expensive trip once a year. Showing up to their events, even when it's hard, even when you're struggling, matters more than any gift you could buy.

After I got out this last time, I went to all my daughters' cross-country events. Every single one. Not because I had figured everything out. Not because I was the dad of the year. But because I was there. Consistently. Reliably. They could count on seeing me in the crowd.

That kind of consistency, over time, is how trust gets rebuilt. It's not rebuilt in one conversation or one grand gesture. It's rebuilt in hundreds of small moments where you show up when you said you would.

THE HARD TRUTH ABOUT OUTCOMES

Here's something I have to be honest about. You can do everything right. You can show up consistently. You can communicate openly. You can be the best version of yourself that you're capable of being in that moment. And sometimes, it's still not enough. Sometimes, the other person isn't ready.

My youngest daughter texts with me regularly. We have a connection. It's not what it used to be, but it's something. It's a foundation we can build on.

My oldest daughter hasn't responded to my messages. I keep reaching out. I keep the door open. I keep trying. And so far... nothing.

That hurts. It hurts more than I can put into words. I'm her dad. I love her. And there's nothing I can do to force a connection she's not ready to have.

But here's what I've learned about outcomes: they're not entirely in your control. All you can control is your effort, your consistency, and your willingness to keep showing up. The other person has to meet you somewhere. And if they're not ready, you have to accept that while still leaving the door open.

Maintaining relationships at rock bottom doesn't guarantee you'll get the outcome you want. But not trying guarantees you won't.

DON'T ISOLATE

One more lesson before I close out. When you're at rock bottom, there's a powerful pull toward isolation. You feel like a burden. You feel like you have nothing to offer anyone. You feel like the kindest thing you can do is remove yourself from everyone's life and stop dragging them down.

Fight that instinct with everything you have.

Isolation makes everything worse. It feeds the depression. It confirms the negative voices in your head. It takes away the very connections that could help pull you out.

I know reaching out is hard when you're struggling. I know it feels like you're bothering people. I know it feels like you have nothing to bring to the table. But the people who really care about you don't need you to bring anything to the table except yourself. They just need you to let them in.

Stay connected. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard. The relationships that survive your rock bottom will be the ones that carry you forward when you finally start climbing out.

NEW YEAR'S REFLECTION

It's New Year's Eve. In a few hours, 2025 becomes 2026. Another year ending. Another year begins.

If you're listening to this and you're in a hard place, if you're at your own rock bottom, let me leave you with this: the relationships in your life are worth fighting for. Not all of them will survive. Some people will disappear. But the ones who stay, the ones who matter, they're worth the effort.

Show up. Be present. Be consistent. Communicate. Do activities together that create space for connection. And don't isolate, even when every instinct tells you to.

This year, my resolution is simple: keep the door open. Keep reaching out. Keep showing up. Even when it's hard. Even when I don't get the response I'm hoping for. Because that's all any of us can do. We can't control how other people respond. We can only control whether we're still standing there with the door open when they're ready to walk through.

Happy New Year, everyone. On Friday, I'll be back with a Moment episode about a specific memory with my daughters that still makes me smile. A reminder that even in the darkest times, there are moments of light worth holding onto.

Until then, remember: grace over guilt. Always.