Milestones

17-year-old me, 1986

This June will mark thirty years since my husband graduated from high school. That means next year it's my turn. Wow! Where did THAT time go? I remember the year Mama Schaefer went to her fiftieth class reunion. When I asked her about it, she told me at that point nobody had time to "strut their stuff" or try to impress anyone. Mostly, they were just glad to all still be alive. She said it was refreshing and honest.

I wasn't popular in high school, and that was fine by me. At that age, with the things going on in my life, most of the time I was perfectly happy if I could accomplish blending in with the walls. I learned early it was safer that way. On her more catty days, my mother would accuse me of always "needing to be the center of attention", a testament to how much she didn't know me or herself, as that was more her affliction than it ever was mine. Mostly I think she just didn't know what to do with being the mother of a teenager (or being a mother at all) and I know she was often terrified about growing old. Her sense of self-worth had always been tied to her beauty. I'm sure she thought if she didn't have that, she'd be nothing. She would have been mighty cranky about aging, but she never got the chance. Perhaps the biggest thing she missed out on, however, was that she never found a way to purge her demons or truly find value in herself. There is a part of me that understands I could have easily have ended up just like that. I am very grateful I didn't.

I've been reflecting a lot on milestones lately. One thing about the high school visit down memory lane is that it reminds me of how far I've come from that frightened girl, whose world was a dangerous place and who only wanted to feel wanted, loved and safe. As graduation approached, I had zero college aspirations. Part of that was because nobody ever offered me one iota of encouragement, although Aunt Mattie did once say, "If I could afford to send you to college, I would." I wasn't even sure I was going to be able to have a future at all, but I knew if I did get the chance, I couldn't do any worse for myself than the adults around me who were directly responsible for the care and well-being of a child. The plan that not-so-grown-up seventeen year old me put into place was messy, often random, and very much a "fly by the seat of my pants" method. Over the years, as I became more educated about life, I developed a bit more meticulous and conscientious approach, but there is still an element of "oh, push all the buttons and let's see what happens" in me. Apparently that wild part is genetic, rooted deep in my DNA strands.

That seventeen year old me would not have believed where forty six year old me ended up. As I sat on the doctor's exam table this morning, she asked me about the scar on my neck. She wanted to know if it bothered me or if the look of it was something I'd like them to help "fix". I told her, "I don't mind it being there. I'm just grateful I didn't die." Mama Schaefer was right. Happy to be alive. Beneath me, solid, sturdy ground to stand on, and above me, nothing but endless sky. If I could go back and whisper one thing to my young self it would be, "Just keep pointing that compass North, little girl. You'll get there."