On locating yourself in a world where luck takes and gives.
In June, when the doctor told me that it was just bad luck that caused an ovarian cyst to swell big enough that I needed surgery, I was not comforted.
I wanted a story that made sense. That had shape. I wanted a constellation, and she gave me a scattering of stars.
It’s not that I think I should be immune or excused from bad luck. I just don’t know how to relax around it. Bad luck lurks. It clings. It’s always at your heels. It’s not something you can fence in and comfortably walk away from.
* * *
Four weeks later, while he fished on the dock at my father-in-law’s Vermont camp, my 8-year-old’s khaki canvas hat blew off in a strong wind. My mother had given it to him, a souvenir from her trip to Namibia almost 30 years ago. He had worn it everywhere, and when he unsnapped the ear flaps, he looked like himself.
I jumped in after the cap, but it was too late. It floated, and then it sank into the wind-whipped pea soup of Lake Champlain, one of the largest natural lakes in the country. It would take luck to find it. We didn’t have any.
We searched for hours. I couldn’t sleep that night, replaying the moment the lake swelled over the hat. My mind sometimes glitched, and I could see my son sinking under the churned-up waves instead. Me, not saving him. Him, right there, yet impossibly far. Unfindable. How had I let it happen?
* * *
The next morning, I grabbed my son’s goggles and jumped back in the lake at the spot we’d last seen his hat. Looking. Looking. I wanted to do this thing, and I couldn’t.
It wasn’t my fault, my husband told me, standing on the shore in his woven pajama pants. It was just bad luck.
* * *
The water was cold, and I stood frozen in it. How could I move forward in a world where wind and water and my own body — where bad luck — can take precious things at any moment and for no reason, and I can’t stop any of it?
I thought of my son, who’d wake up soon. We would fly home in a few hours. I’d have to tell him we’d be leaving without his hat. He’d called out for an extra hug before bed last night. I could still feel his warm weight.
I already moved through a world where wind and water and my own body — where good luck — had given me precious things and for no reason.
The afternoons had felt hot during our week in the Champlain Valley. It was July, and the sun was strong. But the wind had licked my skin, keeping it cool while I sipped Vermont-made hard cider with my cousin-in-law. The water had cushioned my paddleboard as I glided toward bald eagles and ospreys. My own body had stitched together my son and his two brothers, still asleep inside the camp.
I didn’t want to put a fence around all that luck and walk away. I wanted to unlatch the gate, walk right in, and open my arms wide for a hug.
New Article Alert
Could magnets help stabilize cases of treatment-resistant bipolar disorder? New research suggests that magnetic therapy could someday be an alternative to ECT. I cover this scientific study and two more in my latest article for bpHope on new bipolar disorder research: Bipolar Research & Insights: Magnets, Blood Sugar Meds, and Thyroid Antibodies | July 2026 (bpHope)
Book Recommendation
Why Fish Don’t Exist: A Story of Loss, Love, and the Hidden Order of Life, by Lulu Miller
First, overall, I’m glad I read this book by Lulu Miller, of NPR Invisibilia fame, and I think if you follow suit, you’ll be glad, too.
And, if you don’t have time for the whole book, then honestly just flip to the end: I suspect one could read only “Chapter 13: Deus ex Machina” and “Epilogue” and come away with the best of this book. For me, that was the overlay of Miller’s self-development with what she argues is an ultimately Quixotic scientific quest to categorize and order living things.
Less compelling for me was just how compelling Miller found taxonomist David Starr Jordan, whose lifework she uses to make sense of a difficult period in her own life (and which takes up a lot of airtime in this book). Even in Miller’s glowing telling, Jordan always seemed like a jerkface to me, so I struggled to understand why she saw him as such a beacon of hope (and I was not surprised at all when her opinion changed).
Even with this big gap between the author’s perception and mine, I love that Miller explores an idea close to my heart: The utter imperfection of all human attempts to categorize…well…anything. Living into that truth, she suggests, can bring us to a peace that’s more complicated but stronger for it.
Browse more books on my Bookshop | Read more reviews on my Goodreads
Thanks for reading! You can make sure you never miss an original essay, new article, or book recommendation if you sign up for my monthly newsletter. Enter your email now to stay connected.
** I get commissions for purchases made through links in this post.