This is for My Mom

Getting myself to write can be such a struggle.

It’s like being nudged a little closer to the terrifying edge of a ice cold pool.

Every part of my body is screaming “no”, but the allure is far too great.

And so I am here. Writing. Expressing my feelings.

Sometimes it comes so easily.

The words literally pile up inside of me until I feel like I am going to bust. Sometimes I do.

Other times, writing just solidifies all of my fears and personifies them into ghouls and creatures of the night.

I’m trying to find that voice again, but all that is coming out is a meager squeak.

Creeping towards the edge, I dip a toe in.

3, 2, 1


I work two days a week tutoring.

Today was the first time that I sat in front of my students to find myself not looking at merely a student.

I saw artists.

In their projects they have turned texts into raps, caricatures, and video game graphics.

It was the first time that I could offer them little to no help.

I sat in amazement as I listened to a rap that one of my students had written and recorded herself about the story “The Gift of the Magi”.

How amazing is that?

I had one of the most beautiful days at work today. My students surprised me. I no longer can think of them as mere students, they are artists.

I love seeing the excitement in their eyes when we are talking about writing a paper or brainstorming an idea.

I love their smiles when they break through and finally create that thesis statement that has been missing from their paper.

I love their questions.

I love their readiness to work knowing that, as student athletes, they have been awake since 5am doing intense workouts.

I love their missing me when I took a day off of work.

I love them and I think that they love me too.

So much has been going on in my life right now that I give thanks for my opportunity to work with these students.

Tumultuous does not even begin to describe the days that I have had. As the day for notification looms onward this week, I close my eyes tightly and I can just see the acceptance letter.

Sometimes I can see the consolation letter and feel the hurt.

But maybe, just maybe, if I keep going and plunge through the pain, I can reach out to more students on a larger scale.

Maybe those students can hold my hand when I feel like my world is falling all around me.

I am drowning in a sea of maybes, waiting for fate to throw an answer, the ultimate life preserver, to save me.


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