My daughter on the day she was born.

Back in high school I’d curl up and read John Muir. I wanted to be like him, but with better food and a tent. I wanted to tramp in the wilderness and call it a job. I wanted to speak for things that couldn’t talk. I’d stare out the window at fragile clouds, filled with dreams of saving the world.

I had other dreams—or perhaps not so much dreams as expectations. I expected to marry a man who was tall, dark, and handy. I expected to have one dog, two cats, and three children. I expected to live a predictable middle-class life.

I’m not sure when those dreams and expectations began to unravel. Was it when I married my tall, handy, but gray-haired husband? When I decided to stop practicing law six years after graduation? The moment I realized I would never get pregnant? Or the day I met my daughter’s birthparents?

Katie was born at 1 a.m. in a torrential downpour. In a haze of fear, excitement, and sleep-deprivation, Michael and I stood in the hospital and studied her tiny, clenched fists. The rain washed away everything that might have been, leaving only her. We called the adoption agency and said yes. I was two months shy of my 40^th birthday, and once again I was filled with dreams.

Those dreams were short-lived. Katie was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder at 32 months. Michael was away on business, and when he returned, we had a single conversation. Three weeks later he was gone. “This isn’t what I signed up for,” he said as he threw shoes into a cardboard box.

For months I considered his apartment a temporary arrangement. How could he walk out on a marriage and a child? The roof leaked, I lost my job, the sewer line ruptured. The dog developed bone cancer; the cat’s kidneys failed. In a year my well-ordered life imploded.

When it became clear Michael wouldn’t (or couldn’t) return, I filed for divorce and began the process of dividing our former life. I lost my bedroom furniture, the kitchen table, and half my pots and pans. I lost a sofa, two cars, and most of the camping gear. The more I lost, the freer I became.

I hired a life coach to help me prioritize tasks. My to-do list ran twelve pages long. For the first time I stopped wondering what other people thought and asked what I wanted. I began treating time as a precious resource.

I gave clothes and baby gear to charity, sold items on e-bay. As I cleared away years of possessions, my new life took shape. When the dog died, I adopted another. Later I rescued a cat. I bought new furniture, made new friends. One of them started an adaptive horseback riding program. Ten minutes into her initial lesson Katie said her first word: go. As in, go horse, go. Barbara grinned and said, “I think it’s going to be fine,” and for the first time in a long time, I thought she might be right.

Five years later, I know she was. Welcome to my unexpected, unconventional, and totally unplanned life.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton