“With only enough child-support to cover her rent…” 

“With three young children to support…”

“When her husband left her with a pile of debt…”

You know the stories — the classic rags-to-riches, American Dream, seize the day, pull yer’ self up by the bootstraps sorta tales. The protagonist is a mom who finds herself divorced and penniless without a way to pay the electric bill or feed her kids. There’s the antagonist deadbeat dad who doesn’t pay child support.  Mom is desperate, motivated, creative. Using just the supplies under her kitchen sink, she invents a perpetual motion machine; she discovers the cure for bad fashion in MegaMarts; she creates a water filtration system that saves the world; she writes a novel about wizards. Now, she makes $3.5 billion annually and her children are recent graduates of Princeton and Stanford.

**Please insert a photo of your favorite, attractive, successful 40- 50- 60-something woman standing in front of a mansion, yacht or luxury car here.**

I read these stories with hope, with cynicism, with envy and, always, with tears. How does the mom go from sobbing on the floor in the repossessed house to CEO of a world-renowned company? What happened? Tell me! I need some insight here.

The tales seem to follow a pattern. She worked hard. She took the opportunities when they presented themselves. She showed up. She believed. She kept putting one foot in front of the other even when she didn’t know where it would lead. And, she kept her fear in check.

Ta-da — instant success. Just add water and stir.

This week I got a job offer — a big job offer. It’s money. It’s benefits. It’s full-time. It’s an office. It’s near my home. It’s doing everything I have been doing as a freelancer, only bigger. Much bigger. Multiple times bigger.

When I first submitted my résumé for the job, with little or no hope for getting it, the executive director asked me my salary requirement. I gave her the number. After a grueling interview process and an absolute certainty I didn’t get the job, the director offered me several thousand more than I asked for.

“Normally, we start this position at $$$,” she said. “But we’re offering you $$$$ to make sure your insurance expenses are covered.”  She reviewed the benefit package with me over the phone. I listened, trying to keep my heartbeat under 5,000 beats per minute.

“I’d like to take the weekend to review the offer,” I said, acting as-if there was something better on the plate and hoping my voice wasn’t shaking.

“Please do,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to accept immediately. I’ll email you the written offer.”

I panicked.

Since the phone call, my breathing has been shallow. My heart is still racing. I’ve spent sleepless nights, tossing and turning, convincing myself I can’t possibly be qualified for this type of position.

Are you sure you don’t want me to scrub your toilets or make your coffee? Are you really super-duper, absolutely positive you read my resume? Are you sure you want me and not one of the others you interviewed? Are you dialing the right number? This is Dorothy. The alcoholic. The loser who is divorced and scraping together nickels to pay the bills. The woman who hasn’t had a real full-time job in 15 years. You’re sure you have the right person?

My body aches. My shoulders are tight. There are dark circles and bags under my eyes.

“You are such a f***ing alcoholic,” my sponsor said. “Only an alcoholic would look like you do because of a job offer like this. What’s your problem? Get off the f***ing cross. I feel like smacking you. Really, I do. Accept the damn job. This is what you’ve been praying for.” Love and kindness oozed out of her words.

“I’m terrified,” I said.

“What are you afraid of,” she said. “You can do this. You’re not alone anymore. Call and accept the offer.”

I called. I accepted. It’s kinder and gentler than a sponsor ass-kicking.

Last night, I squished and pulled and piled pillows, trying to find one position where my shoulders and hips wouldn’t ache. My eyes drifted from the ceiling to the wall to the cobwebs on the lampshade.

I did it. I accepted a Big Job. There’s no turning back now. 

Then, it hit. The Big It. The Ah-Ha Realization. The Opportunity to Pause and Look at the Path I’ve Walked.

And I began to sob.

Everything — every little step, every seemingly insignificant movement forward, every no-pay-low-pay job experience I accepted — all of it has lead to this moment.

Right here.

Right now.

I’m doing it. I’m living this new life in recovery.

And this is only the beginning.

“You are relevant and worthwhile,” Chef Man said as he got into his car. He’d stopped by for a few minutes before heading to the restaurant.

“Thank you. Who knew?” I laughed, throwing out my arms in a grand gesture.

“I did.”