Opinion: After divorce, a miscarriage and career false starts, my L.A. life surprised me
At 46, I’ve made some sense of my life by thinking about it as a story of second chances. If my evil twin were the author, it would be a string of dead ends — of not being a good enough writer, mother, wife, daughter, friend, teacher, sister (the list is endless). But I see my life as an endorsement of second chances. Almost everything that defines me happened because I failed and then tried again. My first marriage was an early one. I was 23, lacking all confidence, and had moved to London for my boyfriend. At the Chelsea Old Town Hall I clutched a bouquet from my best friend, Lexy, the only person in my life who knew about the wedding. Afterward, we celebrated over coffee and Danishes at a nearby Starbucks before my new husband returned to work and I wandered the streets of Kensington, pressure building behind my eyes, the sky blooming dark gray. I hoped then that my charismatic spouse, who worked in finance, would protect me from myself, from uncertainty, from the world. Instead, we had months of fights