A Leap of Faith

Half a lifetime ago, I decided to take a huge risk that changed everything

A road sign outside Reidsville, N.C.

I’m not much of a risk taker, or I didn’t see myself as one for a long time.

As a child, I lived in the same house from age 4 until I graduated from high school. That stability was welcome but also confusing, because my sister and I lived with the uncertainty surrounding one chronically, often debilitatingly ill parent and another who was in a constant scramble to hold everything together. (Major props to my mom.)

I became afraid — terrified even — of making mistakes, which threatened to disrupt or topple the precarious ecosystem at home. My parents had enough on their plates between my dad’s illness and their own aging parents, all four of whom would die in a 10-year period starting when I was 16.

I looked for ways out. I became friends with adults much older than me and made choices that were both to my advantage and to my detriment. Nine days after graduation, I landed a journalism job as a summer “intern” at my hometown newspaper. That fall, 40 miles to the north, I walked into “The Daily Cougar” with my resume and clips on the first day of my freshman year at the University of Houston. I left that evening, hired as a staff writer for $75 a month after placing a front-page story in the next day’s issue.

At the time, the money didn’t matter. I was more interested in work than school, a fact made obvious by my GPA. The poor grades meant I had to go home, but I managed to land a full-time job at the newspaper at age 19.

I left my parents’ house for good at 21, hopping from apartment to apartment every 6 to 12 months. Always looking for the lowest rent and the best deals (free microwaves were big incentives in the late 1980s), I was determined to live on the pittance I made while working 60 to 70 hours a week and taking college classes on the side.

At 25, I married my now-ex and, in short order, finally graduated, moved into a newspaper management position, and had a child. Then, in 1993, a job opportunity came up in North Carolina, an unexpected twist for someone who’d rarely traveled far from home.

-30- TK

In journalism terms, -30- means “The End.” In the days before computers and desktop publishing, writers used the symbol to indicate the story was done before turning it into the editor.

These symbols — a form of shorthand — were all over the newsroom, misspelled or with extra characters on purpose so that you could catch them while proofreading. “Lede” stood for the lead-in to a story; “TK” meant more “to come.”

Given the dark humor of many of the writers and editors I worked with, it should come as no surprise that these symbols found their way into practical jokes, such as when my first boss knelt for the vows at his wedding. The groomsmen had painted -30- on his left shoe and “TK” on the right, leading to chuckles in the audience who read it as “The End to Come.”

When we moved to North Carolina, I recognized I was putting our marriage at risk. We were on seemingly opposite paths, our priorities not in sync, and I knew the relationship would either thrive or die once we were 1,200 miles from our families.

By the fall of 1994, four years into our marriage and seven years into our relationship, the fissures were deep and seemingly irreparable. The final straw was when I developed strong feelings that I could not shake for another person.

Jill and I had become friends soon after I spoke at her middle school career day earlier that year. From our first conversation, it was obvious we had a number of things in common, and we had an uncomfortable chemistry that persisted even after I learned she was engaged to someone else.

In late November, Jill asked if I would consider being the photographer for her wedding, which was scheduled for Dec. 11, 1994. I agreed, believing the event would bring a finality to this strange chemistry I felt. What better way to process it than to literally chronicle what was taking place?

Seeing her just before the ceremony, I wanted to say something. (“Don’t do it!” and “He’s not right for you” topped the list.) But I didn't, worried that doing so was transferring my unhappiness onto her. At the same time, I somehow knew in my soul that we would be good together if we had the chance.

I knew I could “make” my marriage work, but the foundation it was built on felt cracked beyond repair.

The Second Third

As my 30th birthday neared, I asked all the existential questions about life and my marriage. I had seen family members and other couples suffer through miserable marriages filled with strife, affairs, and mental illness and vowed never to find myself in that situation. Yet I was miserable.

On Christmas Eve 1994, two weeks after Jill’s wedding, I talked with my father about his relationship with my mom. I knew what they had — a relationship that continued to deepen in both the best and darkest times — was the standard I wanted.

Leaving the marriage, however, meant I had to live with the ramifications. I knew many of my family, friends, and acquaintances would not understand. I had to accept that others — specifically my ex and my son — would feel betrayed and hurt.

At the same time, I had to overcome my lifelong fear of taking risks, be mature enough to admit my mistakes, and move forward if I hoped to have what my parents had. In January 1995, days after turning 30, I walked the plank and didn't look back. Jokingly, I called it my “one-third life crisis,” noting that I fully intend to live to age 90.

The divorce was ugly. My ex, who is Catholic, sought to annul the marriage; I agreed, even though we had a child together. Almost every interaction we’ve had since has been tense, and we’ve spoken only a handful of times over the past 17 years.

I tried never to drag our son into our disagreements, even though his childhood was bifurcated between two very different families. Although we have established a strong and loving adult relationship, I still deal with guilt over how my decision affected him.

Jill’s marriage didn’t last. That gut feeling I had before her wedding — that she and her ex were not right for each other — quickly bore itself out. By the end of 1995 we were together as a couple. By the end of 1997, we were married and had three children together. (Our twins were born on Dec. 11, 1997, a conscious coincidence.)

Today, I turn 60, closing the second third of my story.

It’s hard to believe all those things took place half a lifetime ago, or that these last 30 years have flown by so quickly. It’s difficult to imagine that all of our children are now adults and that we have two grandchildren.

The relationship between Jill and me isn’t perfect, but our foundation continues to deepen and grow even after all this time. We still have that unspeakable chemistry, and I can’t help but feel blessed and grateful for our family and the experiences we’ve had together.

Sometimes, no matter how dire it seems, taking a risk is worth it. The alternative is standing on the sidelines and watching life pass you by.

Jill and me after our wedding in June 1996, and together in December 2024.