In May of 2010, I dropped out of grad school. On a stormy spring morning, I left a Separation from the University form in my departmental administrator’s mailbox, said goodbye to the University of Notre Dame one last time, and drove my battered Ford Focus westward on I-90, Seattle-bound.
I had no job prospects and not much of an idea what I was going to do when I got there. But for the last eight years, I had an abundance of certainty: an idea where I wanted to go over the next thirty years, how I was going to get there, and what I was going to do along the way. Maybe I needed the exact opposite to get things right again.