Second Chance Series: 7/7
Day 9: The Surprises of Starting Over
Welcome to The Second Chances Series, my 23-day writing experiment capturing the joy, mess, beauty, and meaning of my midlife wedding.
I recently got remarried at 57…
…to a widower….
…on a dangerously hot Midwestern summer day…
…surrounded by our seven grown kids and more second-chance energy than I could’ve imagined.
Every day from June 29 to July 21, I’ll post one unfiltered reflection based on moments and photos from our wedding day. I’m doing this to capture all the memories while they’re still fresh in my mind, and to reflect on all that I’m learning about love, grief, joy, and reinvention. And, you’re invited, as always, to share your own reflections on the day’s theme.
This series will also provide a behind-the-scenes look at how I think about and draft material for my upcoming book, co-edited with my husband, Eric, called We Began Again: Collected Essays on Second Chances.
Some portions of these wedding reflection posts will be free. Most will live behind the paywall to support this work. Thank you for being here.
SCHEDULE OF POSTS
6/29: We’ll Always Have To Start Somewhere
6/30: Beginning Again After Loss
7/1: Starting Over After Heartache
7/2: Fear of Reinjury
7/3: Courage to Start Anew
7/4: When Others’ Renewal Timelines Are Unlike Our Own
7/5: Looking More Forward Than Backward
7/6: The Importance of Acknowledging Loss
7/7: The Surprises of Starting Over
7/8: The Beauty of Beginning Again
7/9: Losing Black & White Thinking While Starting Over
7/10: The Magic of Embracing Stillness When Making a Comeback
7/11: Permission to Be Imperfect When Starting Anew
7/12: How a Community Grows When We Begin Again
7/13: Shock, Surprise, and the Hidden Impact of Starting Over
7/14: Hanging On When All Is Shattered, When All Your Hope Is Gone
7/15: Dealing With Disarray and Disharmony When Starting Over
7/16: Discomfort When Others Aren’t Ready to Begin Again
7/17: Allowing for New Dreams to Come True
7/18: Welcoming Unexpected Joy
7/19: Redefining Success the Second Time Around
7/20: Forgiving Yourself for the First Try
7/21: Final Reflection: Why We Begin Again
Day 9, July 7
The Surprises of Starting Over
Today’s Reflection: In with the “new”
I was just nine years old when my mother married my stepfather on July 7, 1977. My younger sister, Beth, and I were the only witnesses at their civil marriage ceremony in downtown Chicago, and I’ll never forget how the elderly judge — a WOMAN! — pronounced them “man and wife.”
Not long before the nuptials, Mom, Beth, and I moved from our stucco, bungalow-style house on Park Avenue in River Forest to our stepfather’s more modern, vinyl-sided, raised ranch-style home on East Nottingham Lane in Hoffman Estates.
I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
I now had TWO dads, a new house, a bunch of new friends on the block, and the promise of someday getting an ACTUAL DOG.
Mom registered us for the upcoming school year with our stepfather’s last name, but it wasn’t an easy one to spell, so I remember sitting with 7-year-old Beth at our new kitchen table in our new kitchen overlooking our new, fenced-in backyard, practicing how to write our brand-new last name that defied the grammar rule of “i before e except after c” before I’d even learned it:
C-I-E-S-L-A-K.
To be sure, my shiny new life served as a welcome distraction from my old existence, one that involved a father whose temperament wasn’t designed for marriage, fatherhood, or general social interactions. Though we’d continue to see our father on weekends for years to come, my new family unit felt hopeful and exciting.
Though I never let go of the “old” me, my father regularly argued that we’d forgotten who he was and that we’d left him behind. Even though he, too, had remarried and built a “new” family with his second wife and stepdaughter, his campaign was relentless: We owed him more attention, more respect, and more compliance.
During the first year we lived in Hoffman, all I wanted to do was integrate into my new surroundings. I was happy to forget my old life and just play with Ammie and Lori across the street… and hang out at Doug and Vicki’s house… and play with all the Chambers kids… and ride my bike to the White Hen Pantry without grownups… and swim at the community pool… and drive to Barrington Square Mall in our new stepdad’s bitchin’ blue Camaro… and let my bare feet get lost in the impossibly long shag carpet in our walk-out basement.
I spent little time thinking about my old friends or my old house or my first dad. Things were changing. I was enjoying the ride. There was no room to bring my old life into this new one.
Lefty
That summer, Mom signed me up for the pee wee cheerleading league through the park district, and I lived for those twice-a-week evening practices, learning our routines in the twilight field in front of a local elementary school and falling in love with Ricky Coakley. It was there that Ammie, who was allergic to everything to everything, including our scratchy, wool cheerleader uniforms, observed that I performed my cartwheels “lefty.” Everything about my life that year felt special.
Three years later, I was playing on Aimee’s swingset one night after dinner, swinging between the bars with all my pre-7th-grade might, feeling all the strength of my shoulder muscles as I propelled myself from rung to rung. And then, my grasp failed.
Airborne, I extended my right arm to break my fall. As soon as I saw the flash of bright white light, I knew I’d done something terribly wrong. Cradling my right wrist in my left hand, I ran quietly crying through Aimme’s yard and across the street to my house, where Mom took one look at me and just knew. Neighbors must have babysat Beth and our new, little sister, Mary, because I don’t remember them at the hospital as I sat in a wheelchair covered in warm blankets, shivering as I waited for my turn in the X-RAY room.
“She’s in a little bit of shock,” a nurse said, piling on more blankets to stop my shaking. Her tone – casual and unruffled – confused me. A little bit of shock? Is that even a thing? I’d seen enough episodes of M.A.S.H. and Emergency! to believe that shock is a dangerous thing. Turns out I had an uncomplicated, fractured elbow, but in my overactive mind, though I wondered if I was dying, I was certain I’d be a “lefty” forever.
First, we break. Then, we heal.
It’s been 45 years since my right arm – and so many other parts of me – have been broken and healed. In these past four (plus) decades, I’ve fallen and risen over and over, surprising myself every single time.
Whenever a problem crept into my life – no matter how minor – the struggle often felt insurmountable. Whether it was a bad grade, a sideways look by a friend, an outburst by my father, a fight with my sister, or getting (deservedly) punished (for sassing) by my mom and stepfather, I took my hard times to heart, certain each one would do me in. And then, a new day would appear, and I’d begin again, albeit slowly and tenderly.
As a deep feeler, the process of “starting over” always struck me as surprising and unexpected. Even though I’d listen to the iconic song “Tomorrow” from the musical Annie on repeat, it would never occurr to me that hard times might pass.
After years of therapy, I’ve learned how to recognize when I’m dipping into periods of hopelessness and despair. I’ve developed coping skills (including expressive writing). I’ve cultivated a community of lovely, sensitive, likeminded humans who support and even celebrate my highly sensitive nature. And I’ve done enough armchair sleuthing to suspect that my genetics likely predispose me to be a worrier rather than a breezy optimist who lets things roll off their back.
I’m not someone who defaults to ease—I default to overanalysis, to anticipating worst-case scenarios. But, finally accepting this about myself has been a game changer, allowing me to meet my worry with compassion instead of shame, and to build a life that honors my sensitivity instead of fighting it.
By the time my 26-year marriage ended in 2017, I felt like a roommate, a burnt-out den mother, and a first responder – rather than the cherished, appreciated partner or the strong, decisive, independent woman I’d always imagined I’d grow up to be.
How had I become this shell of a person? How had I become so prone to reacting instead of being decisive? How had I become so sad and pessimistic about everything?
A few years before I was divorced, I told my friend Sue that, for Lent, I was planning to give up negativity.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said. “That’s insane.”
“Why?” I’d laughed.
“No one can totally give up negativity,” she insisted. “We all need to vent sometimes.”
That year, I think I managed to stay 100% positive for one whole day, then nearly collapsed from the pressure of fighting against my very nature, and just gave up Diet Coke for the rest of Lent.
Fast forward to the days immediately after my then-husband moved out, when he cited me as the reason for his departure. I completely bought it.
After a therapy session with a court-appointed therapist to help us navigate parenting responsibilities, I asked my then-husband why he’d left, why he’d chosen to do it between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and why he hadn’t given me more warning that he already had one foot out the door.
I watched his mouth move but couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I heard him say he considered leaving 15 years earlier – around the time of our 10th wedding anniversary. After all this time, he said, he finally made the choice to leave.
Standing there on the curb outside our therapist’s office, the deeply familiar feeling of shock rising in me, I also felt something else: a quiet, unsettling clarity, as if a fog I'd been living in for years had suddenly lifted. The pain was sharp, yes—but so was the realization that I’d been waiting, unconsciously, for my own husband to choose me.
I didn’t yet realize that I was free to finally choose myself.
That feeling would eventually come, but first, I had to learn how to stop looking backwards, how to stop agonizing over what I’d done wrong… or not done… or could have done better at.
Working with a trauma therapist was the key for me. I’d already tried working with various mental health professionals. I’d already tried all sorts of medications to help me become the person everyone wanted me to be: more happy and relaxed, less anxious, less emotional, less sensitive, and my favorite: less dramatic. I’d even embraced radical acceptance and all the other skills and tools I could learn. But my trauma therapist – and EMDR – changed my life.
I went back to the beginning…back to before our dad left…back to the days in River Forest when Beth and I climbed up the hill behind our backyard, onto the train tracks, leaving pennies to be squashed. I went back to my father’s drunken rages, and to that time I sat on the landing listening – then watching – his flailing hands on my mother’s throat. I found that innocent little girl in me, the one who’d been worrying about others for as long as she could remember, and for the first time, I wept openly. I surprised myself with how much pain I’d been holding in, how unseen that pain had been, and how compassionate my therapist was as I apologized over and over again for using up all her tissues.
There were more sessions when we’d deconstruct other traumatic experiences in my life, including a catastrophic Amtrak crash and the sudden departure of my husband. By exploring these moments and giving them language, I felt burden after burden lift from my heart and body.
And it was shortly after I’d stepped into this period of deep, personal growth that Eric came into my life.
There you are
When I first met Eric, I was only beginning to understand what it meant to love myself—but that didn’t seem to scare him. He made space for me to talk about my past and the new, emerging sense of who I was becoming. In many ways, I felt like a little girl who’d just moved into a new house with a new family—still carrying the old version of myself, but grateful for the joyful distraction of a kind, funny, brilliant, and unexpectedly magical man.
Eight and a half years later, Eric is now my new husband. I don’t feel drained when I’m around him. I don’t feel ashamed about how I’ve evolved as a human or about asking for what I need. And, I don’t know if the right partner has the ability to change our brain chemistry for the better, but if I had a guess, I’d say yes. With Eric, I smile more, sleep better, go easier on myself, and find more joy. Yes, I still worry and fret. I still catastrophize. I still have my moments of mortifying insecurity. But, never once since I met him has he ever run away from the reality of who I am.
When I started over in love with Eric, I never expected to feel so calm in a relationship. I didn’t expect laughter to come so easily, or silence to feel so safe. I certainly didn’t expect that starting over could feel less like leaping off a cliff and more like stepping into a sunlit room that had quietly been waiting for me.
The real surprise wasn’t in finding someone new—it was in discovering who I could be when I no longer felt the need to adapt or shrink or change. I used to think starting over meant leaving parts of myself behind. But with Eric, I’ve learned it can mean bringing all of myself forward—and finally feeling at home.
Your Turn
How has a second chance surprised you?
Christine Wolf is a memoir coach, developmental editor, and author of Politics, Partnerships, & Power. She teaches workshops in Expressive Writing for Emotional Healing at Northwestern University and is the founder and principal of Writers’ Haven Evanston, a workspace for writers near Chicago. christinewolf.com
Eric Ronne is the founder and principal of Lumen Design (no, not “that” LUMON), specializing in web3 branding, web design, event design, custom illustration, and more.
They met on a dating site.
Call for Submissions
We’re collecting 750-word essays for We Began Again: Collected Essays on Second Chances through 11:59pm Central time on July 21, 2025.
We Began Again:
Collected Essays on Second Chances
Edited by Christine Wolf & Eric Ronne
We’re thrilled to officially announce our very first collaborative book project as co-editors (and newlyweds)!
This collection will feature personal essays from writers around the world—true stories of transformation, resilience, and hope when life took an unexpected turn — by writers who chose to begin again.
As a real-life second-chance couple, we’re so excited to begin our new chapter as wife and husband (see what I did there?). We invite you to share in our joy by sharing your story (or stories!) of reinvention.
Submission Window
Opens: June 21, 2025 at 9:00am CST (our wedding day!)
Closes: July 21, 2025 at 11:59pm CST
✍️ What We’re Looking For
We’re accepting personal essays (up to 750 words) on how a second chance impacted your life. A few examples:
A second chance at love after heartbreak or loss
A career pivot or unexpected professional reinvention
Starting over in a new place—a town, a country, or even just a new mindset
Returning to sobriety, or beginning a journey of recovery
Rebuilding trust with a friend, partner, or family member
Reinventing yourself after failure, burnout, illness, grief, or regret
Or any other moment where life gave you another shot, and you took it
If you’ve ever had to rebuild, reimagine, or begin again, we want to hear your story.
3 Top Tips for Success
Jump right into the action.
Don’t give us a ton of backstory. Instead, consider starting with the problem you faced and what the stakes were.
Embrace vulnerability.
Make sure readers understand what your struggle was. Let us sit with the discomfort of the unknown before telling us how you “solved” or “fixed” things. Bring us into your feelings of shock, indecision, pain, loss, or overwhelm.Tell us more than just what happened: Go deep and describe how the events made you FEEL.
Submission Fee: $10 per essay (but FREE to paid subscribers of this newsletter)
FAQs
1. Will contributors be paid?
Not financially, but here’s what you will receive:
A digital copy of the finished book
A chance to have your writing featured and promoted in a one-of-a-kind collection launched during a real-life love story
Interviews with us once the book’s published
Our deepest gratitude for helping us build something meaningful, lasting, and real
2. Can I submit more than one essay?
Yes!
3. Can I submit previously published work?
Yes, as long as you have the rights to the content.
4. Will I retain the rights to the work I submit?
Yes!
5. Can I publish under a pen name?
Yes!
6. Are you looking for uplifting stories? Vulnerable stories? Unresolved stories?
Yes. Yes. And yes.
7. How do I submit?
Paid subscribers, click here to submit your essay(s) FREE!
Use Discount Code SECONDCHANCE
Questions?
Drop your questions in the comments. We’re happy to clarify anything.
Know Someone With A Good Second Chance Story?
Please share this post with them and encourage them to submit an essay!
We can’t wait to read your second chance stories—big or small, joyful or complicated, typical or miraculous. They all matter.
With love and excitement,
Christine & Eric