That Summer

I thought I was going to fight crime.

I had a plan and everything — it was all decided by the time I was a senior in high school. At seventeen, I already knew I wanted to be a forensic scientist. I was going to get a Chemistry degree, go on to get my Master’s in Forensic Science, and get hired by the government to test things in the big labs in Washington DC. I had big plans. I wanted to solve crimes, to save people. I wanted to be the next Abby Scuito (the goth forensic scientist on NCIS), who always saves the day with her instruments and obscure evidence that can be proved by science.

But in the end, it was myself I had to save first.

I was burned out by the time I was a senior in college. All I could think about was the future — living in the present wasn’t something I had ever done, really. It was always onwards and upwards. I had friends, but I couldn’t relate to their typical schedules of grinding through the week to let loose on the weekends. I never let loose. I never did anything at all other than study and read and watch too much television. I rarely went outside. I didn’t go to a party or a bar until senior year. I was a shut-in.

Even with all of that, I did what I was supposed to. I broke up with my college boyfriend because he didn’t embrace what I thought I wanted for my future. I applied to PhD programs, because a PhD is so obviously better than a simple Master’s degree, even though it would have been a roundabout way to get into what I wanted to do with my life. I overworked myself and tried to numb my way through heartbreak because that’s what I was supposed to do.

Through all of this, I just kept looking ahead. If I can get through this semester, everything will be fine. If I can get through next semester, it will all work out. I got accepted to three doctorate programs and chose one to attend, effectively planning to uproot my small Midwestern life to go to the South, a place I had very little experience with. I was running on empty getting through that final summer; I was avoiding hanging out with people I wasn’t already friends with and just trying to make it through.

Everything changed that summer, five years ago now. That summer redefined my life, and I fought the redefinition tooth and nail, because I knew what it was going to do to me. I knew it would wreck me before it eventually righted me again and set me cruising down the path I was supposed to be on. Two things happened to me that summer that changed the course of my life — I realized that I was actually kind of bad at science (research in particular) and someone told me that I was extraordinary.

I’m nostalgic for that summer in particular because it’s the last time I can remember ever feeling like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, just waiting for the wind to be right in order to catch me and send me into freefall. I learned more about myself in that summer than I ever have before in a single defined period of time. A lot of it was learned by messing up and then figuring it out for myself, but some of it was taught by other people. Figuring out that I wasn’t great at research? That was something I’d been denying for a couple of years, because it’s what I thought I should be doing in order to get to where I wanted to go. Once I admitted that fact to myself (about six months after the summer ended), my life imploded. So I denied it as long as I could. I don’t care to remember the implosion as much — it was messy and heartbreaking and made me feel more lost than I’ve ever felt in my life.

It was during the time of the implosion that I was able to reflect upon the second thing that happened to me that summer, and it’s been a bright spot in my memory ever since.

The incident occurred about halfway through that summer; I’ll never forget it. I was drinking a Mike’s Hard Lemonade on the front step of a labmate’s rented house, talking to her about why we were single. I knew why I was — I was leaving in a month or so. I didn’t have time for a relationship, for a commitment. But I was also scared, because my heart had been smashed a year earlier. But she told me that we were single because we were ordinary. Average.

I remember sitting there, thinking about those words. I think I outwardly agreed with her, but I wasn’t so sure on the inside. Is that all I was? Average? I went home that night with my head spinning, and a seed of doubt was planted. Several days later, I wrote a blog post about it. But one response to her assertion sticks out in my memory.

It was Coworker 2, as I named him in the blog post. I downplayed his response in the blog post because I was trying to hide the fact that I was a little bit in love with him from both the internet and from myself. No matter — that blew up later and isn’t what I’m talking about here. What I remember is this: casually telling him that one of our labmates thought I was average while walking through the hallway of our college science building, and having him instantly come to my defense. He was the first person outside of my family (although thankfully, not the last) who told me that I was not only worthy, but exemplary. He became one of my best friends (a friendship that somehow survived my unrequited love for him, bless him), a friendship that remains precious to me to this day.

I have a lot of fond memories of that summer. There were adventures and self-discovery that shaped who I am today. I went out at night. I had friends. I had fun. Without that summer, I would be someone entirely different. I probably would have stuck it out in that PhD program. I probably wouldn’t have met my husband. I probably wouldn’t be a writer who had the nerve to write something as personal as this on a platform where people would actually read it. The person I am today wouldn’t exist at all.

People think that nostalgia sets you back, that it doesn’t allow you to move into the future. I completely disagree. I have to look back in order to remember the girl I used to be, the one who was afraid to live. When I look back on that summer, on the distinct differences between who I was at the beginning and who I became at the end, I see that, no matter how bad things feel now, at least I am where I’m supposed to be. It’s a reminder of my own inner growth. It’s an acknowledgement that change is sometimes a very good thing. And it’s concrete evidence that even when you’re not looking, sometimes you find yourself.