Fate, Flow, and Falling on My Face
Deep down, I’m all about flow, trust, and surrender. But I also crave structure, purpose, and the illusion of control. The Taoist in me says, “Let go, Lisa. Flow with the current.” Meanwhile, the Stoic side crosses her arms and mutters, “Yeah, but did you pack a paddle?”
This tension between floating and steering has been the theme of my life.
When I was 27, my husband at the time, Tom, and I decided it was time to start a family. I thought it would be simple—romantic even. You know, candlelight, love, a little Celine Dion in the background. Instead, fate apparently said, “Cute plan, kid. Watch this.”
What followed was years of infertility treatments, doctor appointments, marital separation, and therapy sessions. At one point, I decided to get my Master’s degree—because nothing says “relax and let life happen” like taking out student loans and writing 40-page papers. Eventually, there was divorce, new love, another marriage, more infertility, a military deployment, a failed adoption of two Russian siblings, and—fourteen years later—the adoption of our two sons. Fourteen years. If fate were a delivery service, I’d be demanding a refund and a tracking number.
That’s the thing about fate—it rarely works on our timeline.
Take my marathon dreams. When I was 35, I decided to run one with a friend. I trained for months, bought new shoes, even learned to enjoy the smell of Bengay. Two weeks before the race, I injured my knee. No marathon, no glory, just a lesson in humility and the price of ambition.
Fifteen years later, for my 50th birthday, I gave myself another shot. I trained smarter, signed up for shorter races, and finally crossed that marathon finish line—five hours and fifty-six minutes later. I missed the six-hour time limit by four minutes, but I finished. Fate might be a prankster, but sometimes she lets you win—just not too easily.
And then there’s my recent tango with destiny and Door County pavement. I’d been miserable at my “golden handcuffs” job at Wally World. I begged the universe for an out, preferably one that didn’t involve losing health insurance or my sanity. The divine apparently heard me… but had a sense of humor about it.
Three days after declaring my intention to leave, I tripped over my own feet while walking my dogs with my sister. One second, I was mid-story; the next, I was face-down on the asphalt, wrist broken, pride bruised, and fate cackling somewhere in the distance. Eight weeks later, my wrist healed, but my motivation to return to retail did not. So I didn’t. I ghosted Wally World and started working on my own coaching business instead.
Maybe that’s what fate really is—a mix of free will and divine slapstick. The Stoic in me wants to call it providence; the Taoist just shrugs and says, “Flow with it.”
So I guess I’ll keep floating down this unpredictable river, trying to look graceful even when I’m tripping over my own feet. After all, maybe fate isn’t about control or surrender—it’s about learning to swim in the current, wherever it takes you.
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