Advice from the 18-Year-Old Version of Me
Starting over requires moving on. Perspective determines how you shape change, no matter the decade.
One hundred and five pounds of trembling flesh and blood. That was me, in 1982. My skin felt the eyes locked on me. Hundreds of eyes watching with high expectations. Hundreds of ears waiting to hear what I had to say.
The red tassel dangling on the right side of my graduation cap marked the official apex of my youth. Adorned in the traditional cap and gown, the red tassel swayed with each cautious step I took toward the podium. I had wisely chosen a kitten heel. The odds of avoiding a humiliating fall in front of the sea of people filling the gymnasium was tilted slightly in my favor.
My legs had somehow transformed into spaghetti noodles, shaking with an intensity that distracted me from the racing heartbeat pounding in my chest. The gymnasium of my small Kansas town was at capacity. The bleachers were full and the chairs blanketing the glossy basketball court were all taken.
I’m standing on the stage, at the head of the basketball court table, so to speak. The space at the opposite end of the basketball court, behind the far basketball goal, is packed with latecomers unable to find an empty chair. As I unfolded the crumpled paper…
