I sat my three kids down to give them the news. I was losing control, overwhelmed by the divorce. I felt my brain on overload and I was inches away from a breakdown. I needed their help. I needed them to take care of me while I rode out this storm. All three sat there stunned. In their early twenties, they were barely adult enough to care for themselves, and I was “the strong one,” the one parent they relied on, their tether while they tested their wings on their own. I had always warned them not to put me on a pedestal. My feet were made of clay. I was mortal and finite. And just as human as they. Right now, I was moments from slipping into a serious anxiety attack. I knew this because it wasn’t the first time I’d had one. Twenty years prior I froze in front of an auditorium full of educators who had come to hear me speak about the use of a computerized reading program. I was legally separated (from the same man) back then, so my mind was on more import