Who Will Catch Me When I Fall?

I was divorced for the first time in July 1995. My former wife was given custody of our three-year-old son. Within three months of her announcing she wanted a divorce, I had moved into an apartment, and her lover moved into my house.

When the house was sold six months later, we lost $32,000. We had bought the house two years prior at the top of the market, a market that had since plummeted.

I didn’t have $32,000. I was working at a small Episcopal school in Little Rock, making less than $25000, and could not begin to afford a loss of that magnitude. My former wife’s lover was a millionaire, but he wasn’t going to pay off the mortgage.

She had someone to catch her - I did not.

I knew that we would ultimately split that $32,000, so I “only” had to fork over $16,000.

I also didn’t have the money to hire the lawyer that a good friend had recommended to protect my rights during an emotionally devastating time. The lawyer’s retainer was $8000.

And I didn’t have the security deposit and two months' rent to move into my apartment either. That came to about $4000.

So there I was, trying to move into an apartment I could not afford, separated from my child, facing a divorce I did not see coming, a $16,000 mortgage payoff, and another $8,000 in attorney expenses.

All total - $28,000.

Maybe you’ve been there too, trying to hold your life together while everything around you seems to be falling apart. Maybe you’ve faced a moment where the math just didn’t add up, and the emotional weight was heavier than the financial one.

I swallowed my pride and reached out to my parents for help. I, too, needed someone to catch me.

They gave me the money, but the emotional price I paid for that gift was excruciating. I thought I knew what shame was before asking for help, but that was nothing in comparison to what my mother heaped on me.

Some of you know this kind of shame-based assistance. The kind that arrives cloaked as help, but leaves you questioning your self-worth.

It’s the kind of shame that lingers—not because of what you did, but because of how you were made to feel after asking for what you needed.

Every single time I talked with her, my mother would begin by reminding me of the magnitude of my financial missteps, of my poor relationship decisions, and my irresponsible choice of profession (teaching).

I rarely called, and she never reached out to me. We were estranged well before I requested financial assistance.

After paying off the mortgage, paying the retainer, completing the divorce, and moving into an apartment, I began searching for a better-paying job.

I tutored after school every night of the week, including weekends.

There’s a strange power that arrives when your back is against the wall. You hustle, not because you’re inspired, but because survival doesn’t give you any other choice. Maybe you’ve had your back against a similar wall.

I had fought fiercely with my former wife about moving to Little Rock, where she wanted to accept a position as a church musician. She refused to listen, and I compromised my integrity by acquiescing.

At the end of the school year, I resigned from my position in Little Rock and accepted a teaching job in South Florida.

My son had a variety of severe developmental issues that required expensive care. I was held responsible for half of that expense. Over the next four years, those expenses came to $50,000. I owed half of that.

My former wife, had she remained in Arkansas, would have been able to pay all that sum via a state program for children with severe disabilities.

Instead, she moved to Texas and, in so doing, lost that benefit.

I didn’t have $25,000, but my former wife made it clear that she would take me to court to garnish my salary if I did not cough up the money. She had plenty of money to afford not just one attorney, but two. At that point, I did not have a lawyer.

I returned to my parents and asked for help. I remember the day I reached out with crystal-clear clarity.

My father and I were standing in the shallow end of the pool behind his million-dollar house. I got straight to the point.

“Dad, I need help again. I need to come up with $25,000 to pay my son’s medical bills. I don’t earn enough money or have enough assets to qualify for a loan. If I do not pay the money, I will end up in court.”

“That’s a lot of money, John, you recognize that, right? Together with what we have already given you, this will make it more than $50,000.”

Silence.

Then, more painful silence.

I climbed out of the pool and went upstairs to take a shower, assuming that the answer was no. I cried my eyes out.

If you’ve ever had to ask twice for help, for understanding, or forgiveness, you know it doesn’t get easier. The second request can hurt even more, because it makes you confront what hasn’t healed yet.

When I finished getting cleaned up and dressed, I walked back into the living room, where my father handed me a check for $25,000. He stared at me, said nothing, and walked into his study.

In retrospect, I ask myself if that is what silent love looks like.

All of these memories came flooding back to me as I sat next to my father’s unconscious body in a hospice facility.

Before my divorce, I had been the executor of his estate. Immediately after asking for the $28,000, he replaced me with my younger brother, stating that he no longer had confidence in my emotional stability. That stung. Actually, it was horrible.

I have no idea how much money my father had when he died, but I suspect it isn’t much. But I don’t care. I have already received my inheritance, and it had nothing to do with money.

The moment I stopped flogging myself for being a failure and for needing help ushered in the first experience of inner peace and self-acceptance I had ever known. It’s a moment that’s waiting for you, too.

As I looked down at my father’s face, his mouth agape and his breathing shallow and rapid, I realized that he had twice rescued me from financial and, perhaps, legal ruin.

I felt a resurgence of the shame. There I was, sixty-eight years old, and still feeling the aftershocks of shame. And right then, I was poignantly aware of three things.

One, I was the one who would need to catch me if I fell. Nobody was coming to rescue me. I was not in a relationship with anyone where that was going to happen. Full stop.

Two, I could still be a compassionate and vulnerable human being and a courageous one at the same time.

Three, I was entirely responsible for my financial catastrophes. I made the decisions that led to asking for a $50,000 bailout. But I also know that asking for help is not synonymous with not behaving as an adult. I made the best decisions I could at the time.

I am eternally grateful for my parents’ generosity. I am not thankful for the intense humiliation attached to that generosity.

Perhaps I should add a fourth insight.

It is human to want someone to always have your back, especially when things go wrong. But sometimes life has other plans.

In the days after my father died, I kept asking myself: What does it mean to stand alone and still feel whole, to know that I am enough? What does it mean to catch yourself when you fall, and not lose the tenderness in your heart?

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s most enduring work is arguably the essay ‘Self Reliance,’ published in 1841. In it, he makes it clear that self-reliance is not synonymous with rejecting others. Instead, it is the refusal to sacrifice your soul’s compass in order to receive comfort.

While it is not a display of weakness to fall, it is when we reach for others at the expense of silencing our voice and our integrity. You can let a friend or loved one catch you, but only if there aren’t strings attached.

Emerson believed that self-reliance was the cornerstone of a meaningful life. Not self-sufficiency in an isolating sense, but as a sacred trust in one’s own inner voice.

Still, I wonder if he, too, must have known the ache that lingers just beneath our convictions—the human yearning to be held, not because we’ve earned it, but because we are hurting.

The courage is not in pretending we don’t need others, but in refusing to betray ourselves in the hope of being loved. That is too high a price.

"Nothing can bring you peace but yourself. Nothing can bring you peace but the triumph of your principles." Ralph Waldo Emerson

Would I like to have a safety net? Someone to catch me?

All I can tell you is that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a safety net, and I’m still standing. So the answer to those questions is no - I don’t need someone to rescue me.

I love myself as much as I love those I hold closest. I would never expect them to sacrifice their principles so I could sweep in and rescue them, so why would I expect anything different?

Have you ever felt like no one was there to catch you when you fell?

Or maybe you learned to catch yourself.

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