I didn’t think it would happen to me. People in books—the kind I write and read—always describe pivotal moments with a certain drama, like they were standing under a full moon, head thrown back, silhouetted against the universe in some cosmic melodrama of self-discovery. For me, though? It was Tuesday. My sink was full of dirty dishes, the kind that suggested I’d had cereal for dinner three nights in a row. It wasn’t picturesque. It was infuriating.

When my marriage ended after seven years, I thought I’d already survived The Thing. You know, the big, difficult, life-reforming event. I made peace with it—through a steady diet of folk songs that sounded like they were sung from an abandoned railway car and enough hiking to qualify me as a near-expert on poison ivy treatment. I’d even convinced myself that I was crawling toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Then I started dating again. Oh boy, was I wrong.

If you've romanticized the idea of dating post-divorce in your late 30s, let me stop you right there. It’s like returning to a high school you didn’t like in the first place, except now you’re also the new kid—and someone just parked a metaphorical bucket of slop over your locker. It’s a comedy of errors, really. That Tuesday, I was faced with one mistake that tested my patience, my humor, and my ability to not spin into a country song.

The Crisis: Cooking for a Perfect Stranger

It started innocently enough, with an idea that felt positively vintage: inviting someone over for dinner instead of suggesting a meet-up at some trendy gastropub. We’d been on a couple of dates—coffee, a walk, that kind of thing—and she said something along the lines of, “I miss people who actually know what to do with cast iron.” To which I, a Southern boy by way of West Virginia’s hollers, raised my hand like I was answering a pop quiz I’d been waiting for all semester.

“Come over,” I said. “I’ll cook.”

Here’s the thing: when someone says they miss cast iron, what they’re really saying is, “I want a meal that feels like you forged it with your own two hands, James.” I was ready. I had my family’s recipe for skillet cornbread, Appalachian trout with lemon and herbs, and wilted greens that would face down any memory of kale smoothies. This was no time to phone it in—or so I thought.

Things unraveled within an hour of her arrival, beginning with a confession: “Oh, I don’t really like fish.” She smiled so sweetly that sending her out of my kitchen wasn’t an option. If dating after heartbreak taught me anything, it’s that charm can soften blows, even when they hit hard. So, I smiled back, grabbed my backup steak, and shifted gears.

Halfway through dinner prep, the power went out, my stove blissfully unaware that this was supposed to be my comeback performance. This is the point where people might say that challenges build character, that adversity makes things sweeter. But honestly? As I stood there, steak thawed but uncooked, wine bottle open but barely touched, it felt more like one of those trials they used to put Greek heroes through. The gods weren’t going to let me off lightly.

The Turning Point: The Campfire Pivot

When life hands you lemons in the dark, you light a candle. Or, in this case, you turn your backyard fire pit into a romantic steakhouse. I ran outside with my cast iron, starter logs, and the determination of a man with something to prove—though I’ll admit it was less Taylor Swift’s “I’ll be fine” and more Survivor: Appalachia. She followed me, wrapped up in my plaid jacket because the coastal Maine air doesn’t play nice in the spring.

I want to tell you I cooked the best steak of my life, but the reality is it was slightly charred on the outside and medium-rare in that uneven way only real fire brings out. What saved the night wasn’t my cooking—it was failing together. She laughed at my frustration when the cornbread came out just this side of blackened. I figured out she was allergic to half the herbs I’d planned to use, so we bonded over a joke about antihistamines and survival instincts. The truth is, none of it was perfect, but there was an undeniable thrill in realizing that maybe it didn’t have to be.

Lessons From the Dark (Literally)

They say first impressions are everything, but sometimes it’s second chances that linger. Here’s what that trial by literal fire taught me:

  • Be Honest About the Stakes (Pun Fully Intended): Don’t promise perfection. Nobody really wants it anyway. What people want is to see you try—to know you’re willing to show up, hiccups and all.
  • Flexibility Is Sexier Than You Think: When you’re too rigid in the way something should go, you miss the magic that happens when life disrupts your best-laid plans.
  • Laughter Can Save Anything: Seriously. Spilled wine? Laugh. A missing ingredient? Laugh. Burned cornbread? You get the idea. Humor makes mistakes feel manageable and memories sweeter.
  • Simplicity Wins Every Time: I thought I had to pull out all the stops to impress someone. Turns out, being yourself—awkward, flustered, and messy—is kind of irresistible.

The Survivor’s Takeaway

The challenge I didn’t think I’d survive wasn’t the fire-pit dinner or the allergy near-miss. It wasn’t even dating again after being so thoroughly bruised by marriage. It was letting go of the idea that I had to control everything, had to juggle knives (metaphorically, though once or twice literally) to look like someone worth loving.

Here’s the thing about testing your limits: you usually survive. And sometimes, survival isn’t about being bulletproof. It’s about lighting a fire in the backyard when the power goes out. It’s about knowing that “good enough” is better than perfect when what matters most is showing up. Sitting by that campfire on a random Tuesday, I saw my own metaphorical bucket of slop for what it was—a small test. One I passed just by being present and willing.

Maybe life challenges don’t always look like mountain climbs or dramatic speeches under the moonlight. Sometimes, they look like half-charred steak, shared with a perfect stranger who may or may not text you back. But hey, at least you ate. And whether it’s a date or a relationship, that’s most of the battle: showing up and savoring what happens next.