At the end of my marriage, I didn’t immediately go looking for a new relationship—or even a new social life.
Most of my energy was going toward something more fundamental: learning how to thrive in the life I now had.
There was so much to figure out. Who was I? What did I want my days to look like? What would make this new life feel like a life I had chosen, rather than simply the one that remained after everything else had ended?
I had read a line in a book that stayed with me:
You will go in the direction you face.
I kept it in my back pocket during those years. I couldn’t always see where I was going, but I understood that I had to choose something to face. I needed a direction that belonged to me.
And in that direction was Thomas.
Thomas is my horse. When I bought him, I didn’t know that my married life would end in the next month, and I didn’t know that a pandemic was going to shut the world down. He gave me somewhere to go, something to care about and a reason to keep moving forward—even when the rest of my life still felt uncertain. Loving him required me to leave the house, enter the world and keep showing up.
But Thomas gave me more than that. Through him, I began finding other people.
There were people at the barn who understood why I worried over a slightly uneven step, celebrated a good ride or could spend an entire conversation discussing weather, footing, feed and horses. We didn’t have to search for something to talk about. We already shared a language.
Over time, those connections grew into friendships. These people became sources of encouragement, laughter and companionship. They noticed when I was struggling. They celebrated when something went well. Our lives might have looked very different outside the barn, but we had this one meaningful thing in common—and sometimes that is all a friendship needs in order to begin.
One of the underestimated benefits of living on your own is the freedom to take your interests seriously. You can choose what receives your time, money and energy. A hobby does not have to be squeezed into whatever space remains after everyone else’s priorities have been met.
It can become part of the structure of your life.
For me, riding was never simply something to do. It gave my weeks a rhythm. It gave me a community. It helped me become stronger and more confident. It gave me a reason to keep looking forward.
Once my life felt more stable, I began teaching music again. Initially, the decision was partly practical: I needed the extra income. But the more I taught, the more I realized that something else was happening.
I was returning to myself.
Music was my first real passion. It carried me through childhood, high school and scholarships to college. It became my first career as a band director. For a long time, music was not simply something I did—it was my ecosystem. It shaped my friendships, my education, my work and the way I understood myself.
Then life events forced a change in career, and I gradually moved away from that world. Music never disappeared completely, but it no longer occupied the same place in my life.
Teaching again has allowed me to reclaim part of that identity. It has also opened another avenue for connection. My students and I already share something important: we understand what it means to care about music. We know the frustration of trying to make something sound the way we hear it in our heads—and the joy of finally getting it right.
Music gives us a place to meet.
That has become increasingly important to me because I don’t have children. So many adult relationships are formed through children—at school events, sporting practices, playdates and activities. Parenthood creates its own network and its own collection of shared experiences.
When you don’t have children, you may find yourself standing just outside many of those conversations. You can care about the people involved and still recognize that their lives are organized around experiences you do not share.
It doesn’t mean that a life without children is empty or disconnected. It means that connection may need to be built differently—and often more deliberately.
For me, hobbies have become part of how I build that connection.
They put me in rooms with people who care about some of the same things I do. They give relationships a natural place to begin and time to develop without being forced. We don’t have to arrive knowing whether we will become close friends. We can simply ride together, make music together or work toward something that matters to us.
Maybe that is what choosing your people looks like in adulthood.
It isn’t always a dramatic decision. Sometimes it is choosing the direction you want to face and continuing to show up there. It is returning to the barn. It is picking up the flute again. It is allowing the things you love to lead you toward people who might understand you.
Thomas helped me move forward when I needed a direction. Music helped me find my way back to myself. Both have led me toward people who make my life fuller.
The people I chose began with the life I chose.
And perhaps that is how we find one another: we face toward the things that make us feel most alive—and see who is standing there beside us.
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