As we rang in 2000, we partied to Prince’s “1999,” wondering if the world would descend into chaos because computers wouldn’t know how to handle the year “00.” When our party didn’t plunge into darkness, and everything kept working, I thought we were in the clear. Little did I know that by 2001, my life would be upended.
My mom had been struggling with COPD—the result of years of smoking. She had quit later in life, but the damage was done. She seemed to be doing okay when I got a call at 5 p.m. one day that she and my dad were heading to the ER. She was admitted immediately. We gathered the whole family, 3 daughters and 5 grandchildren, to give her the love and energy to heal. Understanding it would be a long night, most went home while I stayed with my dad. By midnight, my mom was dying. I knew her wishes—she didn’t want heroic measures—but my dad, her husband of 55 years, wasn’t ready to let her go. Being the adult child in that moment, having to remind my father of her wishes, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
She found peace in death, but it left a profound mark on me. Planning her funeral was straightforward. My Mom had asked my daughter, who had an incredible voice, to sing “Memory” from Cats whenever the time came for her funeral. At 17, no one expected her to follow through with it given the emotional weight, but she was so close to her Grandma and insisted on doing it. Unfortunately, her dad decided to go camping instead of being there to support his daughter and me.
My mom never saw her first granddaughter graduate from high school or qualify and compete in the Junior Olympics in her equestrian event, but life had to go on.
And then havoc visited us again. At 18, my daughter had a debilitating stroke. She was in a coma for eight days, and we didn’t know if she would make it. When she finally came out of the coma, she was completely paralyzed on her left side. I spent almost two months by her side, even sleeping in her room in the hospital. She couldn’t even turn herself over at night. I watched her struggle to learn to walk again, moving from a walker to a three-prong cane. Her left arm and hand never regained function, so she had to learn to live one-handed. On top of that, because of a heart defect, she had to have complex heart surgery. During her recovery, she experienced extreme tachycardia. I don’t know how I didn’t lose it when they brought in the crash cart to stabilize her. I had to be strong for her, hiding my terror of nearly losing my only child. But she was so brave, even though she was scared. The discipline she learned from riding horses gave her the determination to build a new life. She missed a semester of college but worked hard to adjust to her new reality.
Then came another devastating blow. Nine months into her recovery, her dad informed us that he was leaving. He told her that this was something he needed to do for himself, and she should understand. She sat there with her arm in a sling, her cane by her side, looking so confused and heartbroken. Once again, darkness descended.
The divorce wasn’t amicable. Untangling 25 years of a life together, including finances, was hard. But what made it even worse was his duplicity and involvement with another woman. He virtually forgot we existed. I was still grieving my mom, supporting my dad, dealing with my daughter who had gone from an Olympic hopeful to a young woman struggling with limitations, and now her father was ignoring her. It almost broke me, but I had to keep going. I couldn’t curl up and stay in bed. I had to fight for financial security for both of us. I also had to find opportunities for my daughter to grow. As she returned to college, I fought for the accommodations guaranteed to her under the Americans with Disabilities Act so she could succeed. I had to do this alone.
During this tumultuous time, I was so lucky to find a strong woman guiding me through the chaos, helping me find myself. I knew that if I didn’t find my own strength, I wouldn’t be able to confront the challenges my daughter and I were facing. For three years, I split my time between supporting my daughter through her rehabilitation and learning about myself, becoming stronger and more in tune with who I was.
In the end, despite the trauma, the emotional upheaval, the shame of divorce, and all the deception, both my daughter and I survived—and thrived. I learned to say yes to new opportunities. I even lived in the Maldives for two months, creating a voter education program for their first democratic presidential election.
Before all of this, I’m not sure I really understood resilience. I’d always worked hard and trusted that life would just work out. It wasn’t until this period of adversity that I truly understood life’s lessons.
No one gets through life unscathed. The key is to learn from adversity and use those lessons to make positive changes. Self-reflection was a powerful tool for me, helping me figure out what motivates me and what gives me joy. As someone once said, “Life is not a dress rehearsal.” I started looking for the opportunities my challenges presented me. Before 2001, I doubt I would’ve gone back to school and gotten my Master’s at 57. But I saw it as a way to pursue my dream of working with women internationally.
Luck isn’t just about chance—it’s about recognizing opportunities when they come.
Resilience is the ability to withstand, adapt, and bounce back from adversity. I’ve learned to trust myself and be a lifelong learner. I take risks now, saying yes to new challenges. Some things work out, and some don’t, but every experience brings lessons and growth.
Here’s what I’ve learned: Know who you are and what you value. Trust that self-knowledge to guide you—you have what it takes to create the life you want. When challenges arise, look inside and figure out what is in your control and what isn’t. Take control of what you can. Take risks, and say yes. And find gratitude in what experiences teach you. And, life presents opportunities even during our darkest moments – seize them.
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