If someone asked me to paint a picture of my life (why ever would someone do that?), I'd go straight to metaphor. I'd paint a roaring waterfall. But not one where the water rushes over a ledge and free falls into the abyss. One where stone shelves jut out from every angle—an endless cascade of rock bottoms. There would be no frame because it's obvious the edge of the canvas is only the beginning of the bumpy ride. Once, in an effort to talk me through the end of a marriage that was a disaster of impressive proportions, my dad told me I was in a good position. He said, Well you're at rock bottom, kid. You can't get lower than the bottom . And I took a lot of comfort in that at the time. I couldn't have imagined a life more difficult (or humiliating) than trying to finish grad school while living in my parents basement with my brand-new (to me) daughter's crib in the closet. It was a generous closet—my parents are the kind of rich that means even your guest