Beekeeping, Shark Swimming, & Croquettes Out of a Shoe

Today is my birthday. I am 26 years old as of lunchtime, and the fact that if I round, I’m at 30 continues to make my stomach drop, but I am coping.

I began today by turning to my favorite person and sleepily saying, “I want to keep bees.” 

And I do. I want to buy a house, keep bees, get married, learn to make jam, write a novel, go parasailing, swim with sharks, and about 800,000 other things I’ve scribbled on random scraps of paper and fast food napkins littered around my apartment, under the seats of my car, and in the bottoms of my bags. And I will do all of those things eventually. 

I have ridden roller coasters, climbed rocks in Garden of the Gods, and seen Chicago under three feet of snow. I have snorkeled with sea turtles and barracudas, read more books than I can remember, ridden horses, eaten some wild and incredible food (ask me about the croquettes I ate out of a shoe). I wrote a children’s book. I admitted to myself and everyone that I want to be a writer. I’ve seen Anastasia on Broadway, modeled in a fashion show, sung on the Grand Ole Opry stage, and managed to stay on a mechanical bull for four whole seconds. I regularly line dance, own three pairs of cowboy boots, and spend a lot of time sunburning in a kayak on the river. 

I have also been so depressed I didn’t leave my couch for almost a year. I flunked out of college three times, and laid in bed for so long without brushing my hair that my  s a i n t  of a mother spent fourteen hours picking it out so I wouldn’t have to cut it all off. There are disturbingly large gaps in my memory that I can’t recall because I just wasn’t really there. 

The second time I failed out of college because I couldn’t get out of bed, I sat in my dad’s office and wept because I had ruined my life. I had fallen behind all of my friends and wasted thousands of dollars that had been scraped together to pay my tuition. My dad listened for a long time, and then, when I was out of words, he got up, grabbed a piece of paper, sat down in front of me, and drew a line down the middle of it. On one side, he laid out my first option: officially pull out of school, work for him or work for whoever I wanted, write, and keep moving forward. On the other, he wrote out option two: go back to the suspension committee at my university, be raw and honest and brave and tell them why I failed and appeal to them to let me back into school, get my degree, and keep moving forward. Then he looked at me and said, “Either way, you win.”

I had just lost this man tens of thousands of dollars. I had completely gone off script and made a mess of every possible thing that I could. And he had the audacity to just stare fervently at me and tell me that whatever choice I made, he was behind me, that my life was nothing even close to ruined. 

I flunked out once more after that because life is still hard, even with people in your corner. I went back to an appellate board (again), I begged them to let me come back (again), and I did, after another year, walk across that stage with a graduation cap covered in glitter. 

Everyone’s journey looks different, and everyone struggles and thrives in their own way. I have failed so splendidly, but I have also accomplished so many things that I am deeply proud of, and I have been so. well. loved. 

By a bulldog dad who refuses to let me stay down, by a mom who can fix anything, who won’t judge, just detangle one knot at a time. By an academic advisor who called me to make sure I was okay when I missed classes and delayed her move by a whole semester because she promised she would see me through to graduation. By a sister who can read my mind and tells me how to dress and is the calm, steady voice in my high-strung freak-outs. By a boyfriend who had only been dating me for three months when I had a full-on catatonic episode and, instead of running, took me to the beach to help bring me back. By borrowed parents who let me live in their house for three months while I pieced myself back together. By friends who have held my hand, cleaned my house, and called out of the blue to pay my tuition when I could not afford it, without expecting to get back a single cent.  

By so, so many people that I could never thank enough. 

I have “ruined” my life a few times since college, and every single time my dad laughs at me. Which feels rude at the time, but, I’ve got to admit, he has yet to be wrong. Things are still messy. Some things are the worst they have ever been, but some things are the best, and I think I’m learning that you never quite get it all together at once.

I still have my moments; the chemicals in my brain still get sloshed around and send me flying into dark and twisty places. But there are so many hands that reach into that place to pull me out whenever I am ready to take them, so many people that climb down into the hole and sit with me until I can scale the sides. 

Twenty-six years is such a long, short time. I have learned so much and still don’t know anything. I am so happy with this life, even if I sometimes hate it. 

If you started reading this thinking that you have screwed up too badly to fix it, I’m here to tell you; you are dead wrong. If you are in the middle of the Dark Place, just hang tight; you will make it out. And if you think there is no one willing to climb in there with you, think again. Because whether I have known you my whole life or we have never spoken, I will be there if you need me. And I come with an army. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, I’m so happy that you’re here. 

Keep shining,