A quarter of a century ago. That was the last time I prepared for fall college classes. I barely remember it. I'm sure I bubbled over with anxiety, as I bought textbooks and decorated an off-campus apartment with dorm leftovers, restocked the backpack and steeled myself for the final steps on the path to grownup life. I wish I would have slowed down to enjoy it. I put so much pressure on myself. I had a thousand pounds of worry strapped to my soul. What if I fail my last classes? What if I pass but can't find a job post-graduation? What if I get a job and am horribly unqualified and unprepared? What if nothing spectacular happens? What if worry is all I have, always? I look back and let out a sigh of relief and release. I wish I could shout back at my 20-something self: It works out! You survive! Did the fretting and tears and hand-wringing help? Not sure. They gave me an ulcer and boatloads to unpack with a therapist. Mostly they got in the way; they kept me from savoring ...
When you've lost your way, I'm not the person to ask for directions.