Unforeseen Paths: by Kristine Nance

Excerpted from Second Chances: Lives Change, One Story at a Time (The Birren Center for Autobiographical Studies, 2025)

Clear Colorado sunshine streamed through the two large bedroom windows, and my eyes ached from the overwhelming glare.  I dropped onto the bed, making room among the colorful circle skirts and satiny petticoats I was finally purging.  Holding one of my favorite square dance skirts, recognizable by its unique curved panels, my fingers wistfully traced the lace-trimmed seams.  I longed for that freedom of movement I’d experienced for nearly twelve years, my confident steps in sync with those of seven other dancers. 

I pressed the cool fabric to my tired eyes and the happy memories glided through my mind like dance shoes over polished hardwood.  With surprise, I registered the dampness and suspicious stickiness that stained the pretty garment in my hands.  With annoyance, I knew I’d have to re-wash the skirt and knew my normally stiff upper lip had apparently deserted me.  Instinctively, I sensed the tears were about more than just some frivolous dancewear or a physical pastime that was no longer feasible.  I mourned much, much more that day. 

Technically, I’d hung up my dance shoes several years earlier, mere months before the advent of COVID-19. My husband and I began dancing together soon after we met in 2006 and the loss of that shared passion did leave a huge void in both our lives.  But I knew my waning eyesight left us little choice.  The pandemic actually made our exit more palatable, as all dances were cancelled for nearly two years.  During that period of isolation, I focused on adapting physically, once again, to an ever-changing visual reality.  One in which I no longer felt safe in navigating on my own, and where I struggled to feel relevant, especially in social settings.  

Physically, I succeeded in cocooning myself within a smaller environment, one where I felt protected and in control.  If I’d learned anything from COVID, it was that I didn’t have to go outside my front door in order to survive.  Emotionally, however, I needed more.  I needed a creative outlet.  I wanted a new way to connect and share with a community that seemed elusive and always on the move.  Mostly, I craved interaction and a sense of belonging.

Months after that emotional breakdown, seemingly on a whim, my fingers Googled “blogs Retinitis Pigmentosa.”  I followed a virtual path that eventually led me to posts written by twin sisters, both of whom suffered from RP, as I did.  In their writings, I recognized shared experiences and feelings brought about by vision loss.  Impulsively, I subscribed to the blog and even replied to one especially powerful post.  I complimented their brave words and innocently shared my hope of finding an equally potent voice.  The reply was quick, brief, and momentous:

“Hello Kris, thank you so much for reading our blog!  If you are serious about writing, here is contact info for an online memoir-writing course we recently learned about.  Good luck!”

I hesitated but finally listened to my heart, contacted the referred instructor, and enrolled in her next class.  Surprisingly, I learned that two of the other class participants were also blind, and before I’d met anyone, I couldn’t wait to be part of this group.  I wanted to learn from writers, not only desiring to share unique insights, but also writers dealing with vision issues similar to mine.  

There were eight of us in the initial Zoom class, all women and all of a similar age.  Each of us were budding writers with a lifetime of stories to share.  I loved the format of the class and with renewed purpose, I tackled the suggested writing prompts each week, eager to reveal my newest effort at every session.  What I hadn’t expected was the camaraderie I soon felt with the other women in the class.  Week by week, story by story, their words painted vivid images of their own lives and their personalities.  I’d found a home as I listened to the pride, the strife, the wisdom, and the passion in those voices.

In the beginning, I had doubts as to whether I could faithfully describe my life and my feelings, or whether anyone else would even care to listen.  I was proud of my time spent on this earth, and so very grateful for the many blessings I’d been granted.  For sixty years, though, I’d silently battled fading faces, distasteful dependence, and perceived pity.  But I had three wonderful children, a devoted husband, my Golden guide dog, Odie, and was otherwise healthy and cared for.  Voicing the pain, the grief, and the sorrow, had always seemed selfish and unproductive.  

That opinion changed the first time I shared a story with the writing class.  Ironically, those initial words depicted the night my square dance career began.  I rewrote them a hundred times, unsure if I should broach the subject of blindness at all.  But that dance lesson was a turning point.  For the first time, I’d had to be honest about my vision with total strangers.  I admitted to needing help, and the real story was how that difficult truthfulness helped me succeed.  The positive feedback and welcome acceptance I received from the class showed me it was okay to acknowledge and explore a weakness I’d spent a lifetime de-emphasizing.  Just as in a square, I felt secure in reaching for those helping hands I discovered within the writing world.

As I look back at 2022, I no longer label events as either beginnings or endings.  My daughter’s joyful marriage that year represents a continuing chapter in her life story, just as square dancing and writing do in mine.  Memoir-writing is about tracing the tangled branches and twigs of our lives, teasing out the facts and emotions into a truthful tale, and perhaps inspiring others who share similar experiences or viewpoints.  Whether we are gardeners, cancer survivors, war veterans, or homebodies, we have stories to tell.  Writing gives us all the opportunity to leave a legacy and to let our voices be heard.

Kris graduated with a business degree from the University of Northern Colorado and has only recently devoted time to writing short stories.  She is a loving wife, mother of three, and guide-dog handler who lives in Greeley, Colorado, where she was born. Kris is a proud homebody and enjoys books, music, crochet, weekly live trivia, and solving crossword puzzles with her husband of seventeen years.