It’s That Time Again…

Whew!  It has been a busy day.  Fortunately, I had the day off of work yesterday and I got to spend it hanging out with my adorable, precious mama who has been down with Shingles recently!  And so, today began the week of craziness more commonly known as “Orientation Week.”

It seems like just yesterday I was getting all kinds of excited about my own Orientation in the Creek, getting ready to meet Meredith for the first time, and looking forward to the opportunity to meet lots of awesome people [and maybe some cute boys].  Little did I know at the time, that weekend would be the weekend that changed my life.  Since that first time at CU as a student, finally graduated and really getting ready to begin as a freshman, I’ve grown in so many ways.  I’m more confident.  I laugh more.  I smile more.  I am more thankful for my wonderful family.  I’ve grown as a student and as a friend.  I’ve learned to care for my friends in a more genuine way.  Basically, let’s just say, I’m a heck of a lot better now.  

All of a sudden, this year I’m getting ready for the baby Camels’ first weekend here, and it’s going to be awesome!  I can’t believe it’s here… it means I’m getting old.  It also means that I’m going to have the chance to help people have a wonderful first full dose of orange and black and share with them what it really means to be a part of the greatest school on the planet.  They have no idea what they’re in for, but I know I am excited, and I’m hoping they are, too.

I wanted to take a second of my crazy-busy week to say a crazy-giant thank you to all of you who have followed this little slice of Internet in the past year.  You’ve followed the ups and downs, the heart aches, the giggles, and the confusion of a college freshman.  It means the world to me to know that strangers and friends around the world come together here to see what I have to say [or write] and support my coming-of-age story.  Y’all make my heart smile.  I couldn’t be luckier to have a better group of readers who I am blessed to call my friends.  I love each of you.  

If you’re headed to the Creek this Friday, I can’t wait to see you!  I’ve rolled t-shirts, I’ve packed cinch bags, I’ve attached lanyards, and I am ecstatic that you’ll finally be here to share in the fun that CU has to offer us all.  It really is the happiest place on earth.  Don’t be nervous, you’re going to love it.

Danny

I spent my junior and senior years of high school serving as a Peer Tutor for an hour and a half each semester. Most people do this to get an easy credit and not have to learn or study anything, but I did it because I wanted to help people. It seemed easy enough.

 The first day of junior year, when I walked into the Peer Tutoring room, I met Mrs. McLeod. She was hilarious, and I was excited to get to know her. We had to fill out some paperwork about which classes we would feel most comfortable tutoring. I listed English and History. Ranked dead last was Algebra. Early on, I got tasked out to different classes, one of which was an online course recovery group. While noble, I did not enjoy it. If we’re being honest here, I didn’t feel entirely safe in that room. When I shared this with Mrs. McLeod, she told me my only other option was to work with math students. I begrudgingly accepted this fate, and decided to make the best of it… at least outwardly. The next morning, two young men walked through the door almost immediately after the bell rang. I’d never seen either of them before. Turns out, I wasn’t just going to tutor math students. I was going to tutor math students with learning disabilities.

 Through the first few weeks, a variety of students from Mr. Guy’s Algebra 1a (less difficult than Algebra 1) came to work with me. The only constant was Danny. He arrived every morning with a smile, shoes matching whatever color shirt he was wearing, and a desire to learn. Danny took a while to warm up to me, but once he did, we formed a special friendship that helped me help him, and him to trust me. It was a “once in a lifetime” kind of thing. As I was tutoring Danny, I watched him become overwhelmed and frustrated with concepts I had once picked up without second glance, and it made my heart heavy. I researched in my spare time ways to teach algebra to students with learning disabilities. I was becoming highly disenchanted with the education system. Why was Danny, a student who spent several years trying to pass algebra, held to the same standards as me, the girl who had just been named a graduation marshal and third in her class?

The only days that Danny wasn’t with me in room 411 were when he was taking a test. Even then, he stopped by first for a good luck pep talk and a high-five. Those moments of solace I’d thought were what I wanted were often too quiet. I had no idea that working with Danny would teach me so much. Danny was teaching my patience, kindness, and perseverance. His trust in my ability to teach him was giving me confidence in my own math skills, which had always been a little shaky before. Danny’s faith in me helped me to have faith in myself. 

The afternoon before his final exam in Algebra 1a, Danny stopped by my mom’s classroom after school for a final pep talk. I honestly didn’t know what to say, being that it was likely he wouldn’t be able to pass. Though he knew the material, sometimes he struggled to understand what the directions were asking for, and that’s when he would get most frustrated. That’s when I had to be the calm, patient tutor that I never imagined myself being. That’s when I had to be Danny’s person the most. I told him that afternoon to do his very best and that I would be so proud of him, no matter what.

Danny didn’t pass his test. He missed it by just a couple of points, and after he told me the news, I cried. I felt like I’d failed him. My mom and Mrs. McLeod assured me that wasn’t the case at all. They told me I was likely the first teacher who had truly pushed him and believed in him, and for that he would always remember me. Eventually, Danny did pass that test, and I have never been happier to receive a phone call regarding a test score in my life. I was so proud of him. I still am.

I write all this to tell you, friends, that Saturday is a very special day. My friend Danny will be graduating from high school with his diploma and his burgundy and gold cap and gown. Danny taught me so much about myself and about who I wanted to be, and for that, I will always be grateful. I am so proud to share this exciting news with y’all tonight… Danny is officially graduating as a member of the Class of 2014!

I say all of this to remind you to never give up on people. It doesn’t matter if they’ve failed before or if they fail after, it’s our job as humans, and as Christians, to love one another. We have to persevere and love others the way that Jesus loves each of us, and to have faith that they will make us proud, even if it doesn’t seem easy, or even possible. I encourage you today to have a little faith, and to share a little love. It goes farther than you think.

Let it Go

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m extremely Type A. I work best with a to-do list in hand and a pen to cross things off, I color code approximately everything, and I stress over breathing sometimes.  It’s kind of an issue.  When I was in the third grade, my dear ole dad was concerned that I was going to “settle.”  I was bored in class and I wasn’t trying my very hardest.  Oh, dad, I think I’ve proved you wrong on that one.  I can’t remember when exactly I found out that I was exceptionally good at remembering things.  I don’t know when it clicked that I really actually loved learning.  I do remember wanting to go to school on the weekends when I was in kindergarten, but that certainly didn’t last forever.  (I still would go to school on the weekends if I got to color and eat snacks.)  Anyways, somewhere along the way, it just clicked that I had a brain and I should probably use it.

When I was in 8th grade (I still am trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was in 8th grade SIX years ago?!), I got pretty good at school.  In fact, I won a bunch of awards at our awards night… so many that instead of having me sit down and go back up on stage repeatedly, they just made me stay there.  That was also the night I fell down the stairs of the stage when accepting the first award of the evening in front of about 150 people.  I was so cool in 8th grade.  

High school came and I obsessed.  School was important, y’all.  It was so important that I studied and read textbooks and read fun books and thought I knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life and who I wanted to marry and I was only sixteen.  HA.  No, but really, I did study.  And I did well.  I became focused on schoolwork even more after my injury, and I was named a junior marshal and was fourth in my class.  It was at this point that my dad began referring to me as “Four” around the house.  (Divergent reference, anyone?)

About halfway through my senior year, I found out I was first out of around 300 kids.  I cried.  I told my mama and I cried even more.  I couldn’t tell another soul, so I kept my mouth shut.  It was scary and nerve-wracking, and I had no idea I had ever had a chance.  As senior year continued, I got progressively more obsessed with my studies.  I was so focused on school that I couldn’t do anything else.  I could barely eat-my clothes hung off of me, I worked on projects until the point of getting tendinitis in my wrist, and I celebrated over every 100 I got.  I knew I was going to get it.  And then… I didn’t.  By a thousandth of a point (that’s .001 for those of you who weren’t visualizing), I missed it.  I still got a medal, and I was still happy, but it felt a hell of a lot like a consolation prize.  I got to talk at graduation, and that was redemption.  I was the underdog, and I was the person no one had seen coming.  I was totally okay with it.

I worked really hard to tell myself that it doesn’t matter anymore-an A is an A is an A is a 4.0.  Still, though, in the back of my brain, I hear my conscience who thinks I’m a genius, apparently, a 100 is much more acceptable than a 97.  I know it seems incredibly petty, but to me, grades matter a ton.  They probably always will.  

Last night, I sent my mom a message that said “I’ve done everything I can, and I’m just going to do my best and that will be enough.”  These are big words for me.  For as long as I can remember, I have obsessed, I have had stomach aches before tests, I have cried over A- grades, and I have freaked out over assignments piling up.  It’s just who I am.  I have decided, however, that college is a lot more than the 15.5 hours I spend in class each week.  College is spending weekends up way too late with my best friends at the lake, eating junk food a little too often, spending two hours at the gym to run off the extreme amounts of extra energy packed into my extremely little frame, and laughing so hard I lose my voice.  College isn’t just a 4.0 every semester, though that’s not to say I’m not going to get one.  Instead, I’m telling myself (and trying to stick to it) that I can be proud of myself for doing the best that I can and for being the best version of me that I can be.  That in itself is a major revelation.  

“You are too smart to be the only thing standing in your way.”

February Wrap-Up + March Goals

Hello, friends!  Just a few short weeks ago, I posted my goals for February 2014 in hopes of keeping myself somewhat accountable for these few “top” things to do during the month of love.  (Actually, I vote that every month be a month of love, so let’s just say the month of February.)  My goals for February are listed below.  Those I completed are emboldened.  

1. Keep up with my fabulous, completely-confusing-to-everyone-other-than-me color coding of my calendar.  It really is helping me keep up with the whirlwind life I lead at college.  Yep, this month, I color-coded, sticky-noted, and penciled in all my events.  Yay!
2. Take a career aptitude test and start figuring out what the heck I actually want to do with my life… not just what sounds smartical.  Yep, I just made smartical a word.  I took the test, if that counts!  My angel mom gave me the link to the test she provides her students with, and I accidentally took the shortened one.  College clearly teaches me things!  So, this one is only “kind of,” but I’m getting there.  So there’s a half yay!
3. Read a non-school related book.  (I’m open to suggestions if you have any must-reads!)  I didn’t get to this one.  Sigh.  College is busy.  
4. Blog about something inspiring at least once every two weeks.  Y’all deserve to be uplifted.  Check!  I wrote some stories, I wrote some thoughts, and I tried my best to uplift you in some sort of way.  I hope I succeeded.  I did my very best.
5. Make some fun plans for Spring Break.  Definition of fun:  staying at home, hanging out with Franklin, spending some time with Taylor, spending time with my family, and maybe going out with my fabulous grandma.  Not exactly what I envisioned when I wrote this post, but hey, fun comes in all shapes and sizes.  Yay!

February is wrapping up, and I must say, I’m proud of myself for accomplishing (most) of these things!  Below are my goals for the month of March.

1. Mail a card or letter to a friend.
2. Avoid negativity…that means no tweeting while frustrated, grumpy, or mad!
3. Embrace positivity…that means posting uplifting things for the world to see!
4. “Unplug” for at least an hour twice a week.
5. Hit the gym three times a week.

As you might be able to sense, the trend for March is positivity and cleansing the mind!  I’ve recently gotten on a health kick… well, kind of.  It all started when I was put on new medicine, which makes me really thirsty.  That means I drink four or five bottles of water a day.  That, coupled with a lot of encouragement from Meredith, Emily, Jaime, and Taylor, and I’m at the gym!  I just got back from a two-hour session.  If you’re not exercising, I highly recommend that you start, just a little bit.  I have found that it helps me get rid of a lot of excess energy, clear my mind, and focus on things once I get back from working out.  It’s more about the mind part of it for me than the “looking good” part, but hey, that’s a nice bonus!  I encourage you to get active in some capacity this month.  If you don’t have a fitness center at your fingertips like I do (college rocks!), I can tell you that Pilates rocks, and my aunt speaks very highly of yoga.  Coming from someone with a serious physical injury… if I can do it, you can, too!

The month of March is looking jam-packed with fun, hard work, and lots of memories.  I’ll be sure to take you guys along for the ride.  I’ll leave you with a quote I came across recently that is fueling all my work in all aspects of my life.

“Do something today that you’ll thank yourself for tomorrow.”

 

Seasons of Love

[Some moments are nice.  Some moments are nicer.  Some are even worth writing about.]

I am an overly nostalgic person.  It’s a part of my being-I love memories.  Some of my memories are good, others are less so.  The one thing that they all have in common is that in some way-good, bad, or otherwise-they have all made me the person I am today.  Whether that’s good or bad, I can’t say for sure, but I can say that every moment has impacted me enough to make me the personality that exists currently.  What are your memories triggered by?  Mine are triggered by smells, by shadows, by seasons, or by pictures.  Nostalgia pumps through my veins and carries me through every day.  For the most part, the memories I have are triggered by smells and by seasons.  I know-I sound like a crazy person.  Let me explain.

When I was a little girl, my Uncle David wore a certain type of cologne.  Every time I saw him, he smelled the same.  At the time, I suppose I was unaware that that wasn’t just his natural scent, but I loved it.  It wasn’t until just a few years ago that I smelled that smell for the first time since I was a young girl.  A wave of emotions and memories hit me, and I expected to see him standing there at any moment.  It turns out that the smell I always recognized as “Uncle David” was actually cologne.  Specifically Ralph Lauren “Polo,” a green bottle with a gold lid.  Basically, bottled Uncle David.  Every time I go into Ulta, I stop by the cologne section and spray a little of it in the air and breathe deeply, because I’m smelling a memory.  “Polo” in the green bottle is familiar.  It is love of freckles and strawberry ice cream (only when brought to me poolside by Uncle David) and Fourth of Julys in Asheville.  It is sunburns and short haircuts and walks to the park and learning to pump my legs on the swings.  It is the little castle play set and puppets in the basement and bathrooms that smell of cologne and aerosol hairspray.  It is love.

When the shadows start getting darker and the air gets a little more brisk, it is mid October.  In those few days of cool air that causes confusion when deciding on short sleeves or long, I am taken back to 10 years ago.  On a Friday night, I sat on the ledge between our kitchen and dining room and listened as my parents told me the news-Papa is going to be gone soon.  We don’t know when for sure, but we will be going to Virginia in the morning.  I wasn’t sure what “gone” really meant at 9 (almost 10) years old, but I knew it wasn’t good.  I cried.  The bright orange hues of mid October coupled with the cool breeze that carries summer away takes me back to the day my grandfather died, to his funeral, and to my 10th birthday.  I am taken back to not quite knowing how to act, what to say, or where to sit.  I reminded of the pain in my heart as the casket was lowered into the Virginia dirt and the salty tears that stained my freckled face.  I am reminded of the first time I felt loss.

When the sun beats down in the early warmth of June, I go back to the many summers begun with Mums and Aunt Kim and Christopher in Virginia with Uncle Paul.  I recall the splashes of the pool and the hints of a summer glow beginning and the return of shoulder freckles, kneecap freckles, and freckles all over everywhere.  I remember the bear hugs from my Uncle Paul and early morning snuggles with Christopher and bagels with strawberries for breakfast and a seemingly endless supply of grape sodas.  The first weeks of June take me back to some of the most special memories I have with my dad’s side of the family.

The cool but dewy mornings of summertime remind me of the morning my dad came into my room at 6:45am and told me my Granddaddy had died in the night.  I remember the hazy, sleepy feeling that so quickly left my body as I realized what that meant.  He’s gone, I thought, and I got dressed.  The humid but not-too-hot mornings of July take me back to the one time I have voluntarily gone on a run, in hopes of clearing my head somehow.  Running around my neighborhood that morning, I saw the greatest sunrise of my life, and I have always been certain that that was left for me by my Granddaddy as one last gift on earth.  Now, every time I feel that particular feeling of the weather, I am transported to a different time and place, and I remember that beautiful sunrise as I ran with tears streaking my face.

This time of year-when the weather is just starting to feel a little warm, like maybe there’s hope for not wearing ten layers of clothes to class, takes me back to last year at this time.  I’d been fine on my own.  I’m taken back to times when I walked around my golf course for hours, sat on the swing Papa built long into the night, and discovered new flavors of CookOut milkshakes.  I’m transported to a time when I thought I was being treated well, when in reality, it wasn’t all that great, and a heartbreak I hadn’t expected.  This time of year, I am reminded that I am strong enough to survive anything.  

The smell of Burberry Weekender perfume takes me back to the beginning of my freshman year of college and the day I met Taylor,  the smell of Sea Island Cotton lotion from Bath and Body Works reminds me of the very first date I ever went on.  I only have half a bottle left of that particular lotion, and I don’t want to finish it up, because it’s something they don’t make anymore.  And that smell-that memory-is a fond one that I don’t particularly want to forget.  The smell of my mom’s chocolate-chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven makes me expect my childhood best friend to walk through the door at any given moment, and the smell of “Leaves” candles from Bath and Body Works make me long for fall, no matter what time of the year.  Burberry Brit perfume reminds me of that same first date I mentioned earlier, Reese’s eggs at Easter take me back to when my dad’s secretary, Miss Joan, always sent one for me, and the smell of cologne from Hollister reminds me of the boy who bullied me in seventh grade.

It might seem strange that smells create memories for me, but they do.  I could go on for paragraphs about the memories I have that are somehow attached to a scent, and sometimes, I’ll smell something that triggers a memory, but I just can’t put my finger on it.  Those are my favorite, because they’re proof that so many small moments and memories make us who we are, and sometimes we can’t even give them the credit they’re due to remember them.  In the same way, I remember seasons.  Seasons of good things, seasons of tough spots, seasons of things I’d redo in a heartbeat if I had the chance.  Seasons of love-love of all kinds.  I’d argue that the things we remember-the smells, the seasons, the songs-they’re the things that make us who we are today.