Chapter 1 – Packing Up, Looking Back
It was May 12th. I was taping up the last few boxes in my one-bedroom apartment, preparing to set off on a solo road trip through the western United States, intent on living entirely out of my car.
What had once been a we had returned, once again, to a me, and I hated it.
This wasn’t the life I had imagined or wanted. As a teenager, I used to tell my older sister and my mom that by twenty-eight I would be married with kids. Two kids—maybe four. Never three. I couldn’t stand the idea of one child feeling left out.
My life goal felt simple then: to be a wife and a mother.
And suddenly, at twenty-nine, those plans had slipped back into dreams. The life I wanted had drifted out of reach, leaving behind another failure.
“Okay Kate, tell us what you want to be when you grow up.”
I remember sitting on the edge of the concrete raised garden bed, staring into the camera, trying to tell my future self what I wanted to be. It was the prompt of our sixth-grade graduating video, and I was twelve years old.
Even at that age, there was always something inside me that made me feel I was meant for something more—though I couldn’t quite define what that “more” was. It felt elusive and ambiguous, but it sat there like a quiet hum behind every thought—and never left.
“I want to be a track star,” I said, somewhat reluctantly and embarrassed, smiling as I spoke.
My face and eyes lit up at the thought of running and racing. I was on an elite track and field team that trained in Ojai, California, but even then, I questioned myself for ever saying something so ambitious.
I had always been competitive. There was something about being recognized for my natural athletic abilities that made me feel valuable. Being called a jack-of-all-trades felt like a compliment; I hated the idea of excelling at only one thing. I wanted to be good at everything.
I imagine part of my competitive nature came from my parents subconsciously fostering competition between me and my older sister, who was less than two years ahead of me.
My dad was our tennis coach and a director at a tennis club in Santa Barbara, California. He trained youth players into becoming top collegiate athletes. He was a master craftsman of tennis mechanics—able to observe the smallest details in a player’s form or footwork and instantly know what adjustments were needed.
He was meticulous. Obsessed.
He spent countless evenings studying pro matches on the Tennis Channel, analyzing every nuance in slow motion.
Working was my dad’s escape, and the tennis club was my second home.
Almost every day after school, I would end up curled up on an old red office chair watching Shrek on the VCR in my dad’s single-wide trailer that doubled as his office down on court 12. I could recite every line–scene by scene–because I had played that movie so many times.
There was something about the animation, the exaggerated characters, the warmth of the colors, that made me feel safe and at peace in a way the world outside rarely did. Even now, it remains comforting—a small, colorful sanctuary I can return to.
Like clockwork, my dad would come into the trailer after finishing his last private lesson and start preparing for the advanced youth tennis clinics.
I can still picture it clearly—6 p.m. on a Wednesday in December—him standing in the middle of the court, surrounded by his students, his voice carrying as he spoke:
“Remember the 6 P’s: Proper Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance. Play these practice matches as if you’re playing in a real match. Don’t create poor habits with bad footwork. Practice makes permanent, not perfect.”
Bundled up in three layers of sweatshirts and sweatpants, his breath puffing in the cold air, he commanded the space with an energy that was impossible to ignore.
My dad had a way about him when he taught—fun, energetic, positive, uplifting, inspiring, and challenging all at once. He made students want to push themselves harder, even when they were tired, cold, or frustrated.
Ball after ball flew from his hands, each one an opportunity to correct footwork or adjust positioning. You could see the frustration build when someone didn’t follow his instructions, and yet there was a rhythm to it—a kind of obsessive choreography that only he seemed to understand.
The balls bounced in rapid succession, thwacking against rackets and the fence, creating a constant, relentless pulse that filled the court.
I struggled to separate my emotions from my dad when he shifted into coaching mode, training my sister and me for tournaments.
Taking his direction became increasingly difficult, and the pressure I put on myself to be good only made it worse. His intensity, exacting standards, and relentless focus could feel overwhelming. Sometimes it was easier to rebel than to try to live up to his expectations of me.
Watching Lauren felt like looking at a blueprint for what he wanted; she absorbed his coaching, thrived under the intensity, and appeared to flourish in the very environment that drained me.
Their bond was solidified at a young age.
As a hyper-vigilant child, I couldn’t help but notice when a connection with a parent was stronger than the one I had—and I craved it. They spent long hours on the court after school and in the early mornings. He took pride in her progress and achievements, and watching it left me with an insatiable need to prove my own worth in the same arena where their love and respect seemed so effortlessly intertwined.
I wanted to feel the warmth and attention he gave to her reflected back on me.
Every swing I took, every drill I attempted, felt like a test—not just of skill, but of whether I could earn that approval. That unspoken acknowledgment that I mattered. That I could be enough.
It wasn’t just about tennis. It was about being seen. Being valued. Being worthy in the eyes of someone whose standards I could never fully satisfy.
That craving—quiet, persistent, and sometimes painful—followed me long after the balls stopped bouncing and the courts emptied.
I don’t recall my dad yelling or speaking to my sister the way he did to me. But I’ll never forget the first time he—a man—broke my heart.
I was eight years old, standing on the tennis court after his lessons, ready to head home. If he didn’t have billing or paperwork to finish, he would usually leave through the side gate rather than going through the clubhouse.
The fence around this particular court was roughly twelve feet high, with a double-drive gate that was typically locked during the day. My dad would exit through it and lock it behind him at night—meticulous about every detail, as he always was.
He was incredibly particular about people being aware of their surroundings—a vigilance I suspect was a survival mechanism from his own childhood.
His stepfather had been an angry, verbally and physically abusive man, lashing out at him and his older brother until they were big enough to stand their ground. My dad was one of six children but was closest with his older brother, Paul.
Paul and my dad had a competitive relationship, much like the one I had with my sister. My dad rarely spoke of Paul, but when he did, he spoke fondly of him. I always wanted to ask more, to understand that part of his life.
Their closeness came with tragedy. Paul died of alcoholism at twenty-seven. My dad was twenty-five at the time.
I can’t imagine how much that loss shaped the way he navigated life, control, and attachment.
“Hey, grab the lock while I open the gate,” he commanded, handing it to me.
My small hands fumbled with it. Before I could react, it slipped and fell onto the court.
“God dammit, Kate, you idiot!” he yelled. My heart immediately sank.
The words weren’t just loud—they carried a weight I couldn’t escape. All I wanted was to help. To be useful. To earn a sliver of approval.
Instead, I felt the sting of failure.
I bent down, picked up the lock, shoved it into his hand, and ran—throwing myself into the front seat of the car, sobbing.
I remember the argument. The invalidation. The logical reasoning behind why he reacted the way he did—that I had grabbed it incorrectly.
I argued for a while, then shut down.
The silence stretched, tense and heavy, all the way home. Eventually, we sat together in the driveway, and he apologized.
Even at eight, I understood the pattern. Mistakes weren’t just mistakes—they were proof that I wasn’t good enough. Intensity followed by conflict. Conflict followed by apology.
It was a foreshadowing of the dynamics I would later find myself repeating in my own relationships. That mix of fear, need, and love became a rhythm I’d carry with me far longer than I realized.
Watching Lauren thrive under the intensity made the ache of not measuring up even sharper.
She knew the instruction manual like the back of her hand.
I was still figuring out the rules.
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