I bet you’ve been brave — in small and big ways.

Me too. Let’s keep going. Another step, then the next — even when it’s scary and messy. Let’s be brave. 

The day I turned 35 was my last day working at a secure job with a regular paycheck, benefits and a cubicle. That evening I flew from Portland, Maine, and landed in the dark, late spring night at an itty-bitty airport smack dab among the fields and forests in the middle of Pennsylvania. 

The next morning, I signed all the papers to buy a second house — kind of a big risk when you’ve just quit your day-job.

I was in the midst of three huge life changes: Getting married, moving five states away from where I had built a good life and career, and making a major professional move to a freelance (aka self-employed) writer.

All that within a few weeks. Crazy.

I’d been strategically marching toward my dream of being an independent writer. It was time to leap. I longed for family, probably more than I realized. I wanted to build community. I knew how out-of-whack we as a species are with our natural world, and wanted my work to be help us find some kind of sustainable balance.

My fiancé and I talked a lot about a life supporting each other as we each pursued our life’s work.

The next step for him was graduate school at Penn State. We’d need a place to live, so I signed all those papers to buy an adorable, folk Victorian house. Petite. Narrow and tall. Dark grey with sharp white trim and a tall peak. A second-floor porch off the back, looking into the tree tops and over the back yard.

I pictured writing every day in that house.

Signing Up

Ten days later, back on the coast of Maine, a dear friend zipped up the back of my ivory dress with its lovely, flowing white lace train and pinned a veil and magenta sweet pea blossoms into my hair. A few days later, instead of honeymooning, we were packing a U-Haul.

There’s a reason we’re not supposed to sign-up for multiple life changes at once. It’s a crazy-wicked-hellish-brutal amount of stress. No single word describes it. Ridiculous? Insane? Even … foolish? 

Maybe so. 

But every day when I must be brave, I remember taking these steps — both exhilarating and scary. And I remember how I recovered when some things didn’t work out.

What I most remember is my faith: I knew I’d be OK, just knew and trusted.

Now, I’ve committed to telling my story of making peace with my dad and within our family. I believe I’m supposed to.

Last month, that meant standing up on stage before hundreds of people and telling a story about some of the most painful stuff in my life. That was hard and scary — and now it’s done. Phew.

This month, that work turns to researching a book pitch — and that means facing those gnarly fears of rejection. Ugh. 

Leaping is hard. Idealism and faith propelled me through those big moves at 35.

Now, my faith remains solid. Idealism is gone. Hope? Yes, still. Perhaps wisdom from my resilience, recovery and re-inventions was the greatest gift.

Again, I feel the call to leap. I’m committed to seeing this father-daughter story through, because I think it can help people. Lots of women don’t get what we need from our fathers. So then what happens? What do we do?

To fully reach our potential as women, to make healthier families for ourselves and our children, I think we need to better understand and find ways to heal these relationships — whatever that means exactly and whatever those details may be. 

When Life Goes Off the Rails

After those big steps at 35 — the wedding, the move, the career change — lots went off the rails, because there are your plans, and then there is life. Life is not linear, but more like a beautiful, messy ink blot.

Turns out I married the wrong guy. We were sincere — and yet the wrong people for each other.

Turns out freelancing, especially through the Great Recession, is way harder than I thought.

I misplaced my mojo for awhile, but I found it.

It took a lot of grit and spit, and support from friends and family, to hang onto that sweet little house. Yet, I did.

Sure, I had anxiety before that wedding in Maine and the move — but I thought it was because I was a child of divorce just scared of getting married. (Because, you see, I knew one way to never-ever get divorced is to never get married! Yet living out of fear is not really living.)

In those weeks leading up to those big steps, I discussed all this with the wise woman and ordained minister who would officiate our wedding ceremony.

“What is there to be afraid of?” she said. “You’re a child of God. You can’t fall off the earth.”

OK, I thought, somewhat comforted. That’s tough to argue.

If I had that moment back, I’d say:

“Well, yeah, but clinging to life on this rock as it circles the sun can be pretty damn painful.”

We were both right.

I’ve been through the fire — and I know you have, too. Every one of us has a story. 

And I’ve been really lucky, too.

The Right Mistake

I would take that ivory dress with the hand-sewn beads and the beautiful, flowing lace overlay, down to the thrift store in my small Pennsylvania town, and hand it to the nice lady at the counter. Perhaps it became someone else’s treasure.

That first marriage was both a mistake — and yet, the right move.

Family was the greatest gift from those difficult, scary and painful moves. Funny, it had not been top-of-mind at the time.

Because as beautiful and nourishing to me as the coast of Maine still is — I still write about it and visit whenever I can — something was missing for me there. Not much else would have pried me out of Maine, and staying would not have fulfilled my soul’s deepest cravings for family. 

Those moves and mistakes brought me right here, to peace with my family-of-origin in Ohio and to the happy, healthy family my husband and stepsons and I have made together.

When my dad was fighting for his life, I could be at the hospital within hours, holding his hand. That brought us both immense, priceless peace.

A few weeks after my separation, I limped home to my mom and stepdad’s house. I crumpled in tears, into my mom’s embrace. She’s still my super-hero. My rock. Someday she might need me. I’m only a few hours away now.

And 51 weeks into my post-separation year of hunkering down, I had the good fortune to meet the love of my life. No anxiety when we got married. Not a bit.

So — yes — I’m grateful to my ex-husband, our mistake marriage and the big, bold crazy plans we made and started together.

Not at first, mind you. First, there was sadness and rage, and the gratitude was for the safety and sanctuary of my house, that adorable house, my dearest friends, my parents.

Gratitude for the mistake marriage came later.

I got the writing life I dreamed of, amazing support from my friends, family and husband — and have not had to go back to the cubicle.

I didn’t fall off the earth.

I still feel aligned with my life purpose. Quite.

I feel brave. I feel bold. To give more and to be more. To tell stories.

And I know, since I’m in alignment, I am not only a child of God who can’t possibly fall off the earth, I am untouchable. Unstoppable. Unbreakable.