I believe we are in control of our attitudes

Five months ago, after four good, long years together, my girlfriend and I broke up. My heart was broken and I felt lost and confused, like I was driving down the road in unfamiliar territory and somebody took my map. There were times when I had imagined what it would be like if we ever broke up, but when it actually happened, nothing I might have thought prepared me for the real thing. It seems cliché, but I think it’s true, as humans we don’t realize how much things mean to us until they’re gone.

I’ve spent a long time over these several months getting over it. I had to realize that getting over it wasn’t going to be an overnight thing. I spent much of the time coping in negative ways, moping around and spending my time locked up in my apartment. One day I was talking with an honest and concerned friend who told me I was wasting my time going on like I was and I needed to man up and move on.

There was some comfort in being down on myself and feeling bad about the whole thing. It kept me from actually having to deal with it. After a few days’ thought on what my friend said, it dawned on me she was right. I began to analyze the bad things that happen to people every day. If all of us gave up each time the negative creeps in, there would be very few of us left. The key is to remember we are in control of our lives and have the ability to pick ourselves up when we fall.

So, I had to start picking myself up in the grips of the darkest days of my life thus far. I thought back to a day I hadn’t looked back on in a long time.

I was in a speech class as a junior in high school. We were assigned to find a quote that spoke to us to share with the class. I didn’t take it seriously and picked a random, anonymous quote off the Internet before school that morning. My thought was to find something short so I could read it and sit down as quickly as possible. I wanted something semi-meaningful so the teacher would let me by with it. It wasn’t until I read it aloud that it made its real impact. Standing there having a heart attack in front of the class, I came to the end where it read “I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it. And so it is with you… we are in charge of our attitudes.”

When I returned to my desk I folded the little sheet of paper and put it in my wallet. It’s been there for six years now. There are times when it’s easier to live positively than others. I just have to remember everyday that I have no control over what happens to me, and respond to it with an open mind and positive assurance that everything will be all right.

I Believe in the Underdog

I Believe in the Underdog I believe that pit bulls are faithful, loyal dogs that have earned a bad reputation because of irresponsible dog owners. Since I was a little girl, I have been infatuated with pit bulls because of the horrible stories I heard about them; I simply could not believe that any breed of dog was naturally bad. About a year ago, I adopted a four-month-old brindle colored pit bull puppy. He had been bred by dog fighters and rescued from them as a puppy. As I took him into my apartment and gave this shy little dog a new home, I knew instantly that there was more to these dogs than their horrible reputation. As a new pit bull owner, I decided to educate myself about the breed. I bought books, checked Web sites and joined several pit bull forums. I soon discovered that these dogs had not always held the reputation they are now known for. Pit bulls, formally known as American Pit Bull Terriers, used to be America’s family dog. Known for their extreme loyalty and being great with children, pit bulls used to be today’s Labrador retriever. Here are a few facts that I found surprising: President Theodore Roosevelt owned two pit bulls. Helen Keller owned a pit bull. Petey, the child-friendly dog in “The Little Rascals,” was a pit bull. The one that surprised me the most, however, was a pit bull named Stubby, who saved an entire U.S. platoon from a poison gas attack in World War I. He also single-handedly captured a German spy and was wounded twice while pulling injured American soldiers off the battlefield. He is the only animal in history to be awarded the rank of honorary sergeant. I also discovered that there is a law in many cities across the United States that bans certain breeds, including pit bulls. Under Breed Specific Law, if anyone is caught in such cities with a pit bull, the dog is taken from them and killed. I have read countless accounts on forums of people pleading for help fighting this law, which swept their communities by surprise and took their beloved family pets from them. I have read stories and seen pictures of innocent pit bulls that were brutally beaten and killed simply because of their breed, and I have been subjected firsthand to the fear people show when they see me with my sweet, loving dog. It breaks my heart to know that there are people out there who would want my dog dead simply because of his breed. I can’t understand how prejudging a dog by its breed is any different from prejudging humans based on race. Pit bulls are working dogs that will do whatever it takes to please their owners. If what the owner wants is a champion fighting dog, then that is what the owner will get. If a person wants a friendly, loving 60-pound lap dog, that is what that person will get. I believe that dogs should be given the same rights as people in regard to prejudice. The fear and loathing that many people hold for pit bulls is based on ignorance, and I believe that if people would educate themselves about this breed, they would find that there are no bad dogs, simply bad dog owners.

Sometimes the headlines define the by-lines

Recently, I met up with a few friends I hadn’t seen in a long time to throw back a few beers and talk about where life had been taking us over endless hot wings. In the middle of our conversation, a waitress (not ours) called out to our table.

"Did you say The Shins?" She asked, several tables over.

A little stunned she heard us, I stammered, "Yeah?"

She speed walked over to our table, eyes wide, grinning, "Oh my God, I love their music! It changed my life."

One of my friends started laughing, "Actually, we were talking about getting kicked in the shins."
That brief exchanged quickly left my mind. I went back to checking dates in my planner and dreaming about the future. A week or two later that scene replayed itself as I was drifting off to sleep. I thought about how excited she was, how she though she shared a connection with a table of five.

It made me think about how often we look over those small connections that shape our personal and professional lives. It made me think about how we spend so much of our time trying to escape through YouTube videos or live vicariously thought reality TV.

I believe that while we’re waiting for something monumental to happen, we miss out on the day-to-day interactions that shape our lives. I believe that regardless of the feat or the obstacles that separate the person from their goal, we're all a sucker for the story. And, admittedly, we're just waiting for our Hollywood moment to come find us.

I rolled over, pushing the covers down slightly. I looked around my room, taking note of its set up. Everything in it, from the books overflowing from a trio of shelves to the mess of guitar chords and equipment in the corner has caused me to interact differently with people. These small examples may have drastically altered the path my life has taken to this point.

I thought about the many times I tried to form a band in high school and the 15 or 16 people I met in the process. I thought about the club soccer team that incorporated kids from six different cities. I had flashbacks to sophomore year, the team traveling through Alabama and Tennessee. We tried to get in as much trouble as we could, even shocking ourselves when we never got caught.

Hit forward and get the high points: proms to acceptance letters, good-bye parties to terrorizing dorms. From a mindset centered on girls, parties and just getting through class to worries about dry cleaning suits and job interviews. In each event there was something interaction that caused me to go down a set path. That path could’ve been completely different with a few opposite reactions over the past few years.

I lied back down, thoughts racing. Soon sleep washed over me as I went back to that waitress, how maybe if I'd known just one song, my life would have changed too.

Finding the red flowers.

My grandmother died in January. I made it about 19 years without losing someone I was very close to, although I was 22 when she actually died. Alzheimer’s had taken her long before then.

For years, every time I visited her in the nursing home, I would make myself say goodbye as if were for the last time. There were a lot of goodbyes. I find it almost funny that “goodbye” was not the last thing I said to her; on the last day, I made myself end on “I love you.” I never had to make a conscious decision about what my last words to someone would be, but somehow “goodbye” just didn’t feel right.

My grandmother, Nina, probably couldn’t understand me when I said it. She had long forgotten who I was, how to carry on a conversation, how look me in the eye. But, I figured, it was worth a shot to tell her I loved her one more time.

Death changes people. I feel fortunate to have almost made it through college without having to look at life with that huge, gaping hole in it. Not that the hole suddenly appeared — it had slowly burned and smoldered over time, from the first time Nina forgot the poppyseeds on the poppyseed chicken casserole and the first few times she called me the wrong name. That hole burned a long time, and death only brought its permanence.

Even so, I learned a thing or two from it.

When I would visit her, Nina would always be walking. She didn’t like to sit still; she had to keep busy. Occasionally, if the weather was nice, we would walk in the nursing home’s small enclosed courtyard. Around the circular sidewalk we’d go, holding hands and looking at the flowers. “Nina, look at the azaleas,” I’d said, pointing to the flowers she loved to grow. “Look at the daylilies. Aren’t they pretty?” Sometimes she’d hum her approval. Any time we passed a red flower, I made sure to try to get her to look at it, because red was her favorite, and she never forgot that.

Alzheimer’s robbed Nina of most every memory she had, except for three: Her favorite color was red, towels and linens had to be folded and tucked a certain way, and that she really liked bananas. These always brought a smile to my face. There was a fourth characteristic that Alzheimer’s could not steal, though, something I believe was impossible for her to forget: how to love. Sometimes a little prompting was needed, but she loved to give hugs, and sometimes a little sugar, too. The last time I remember her making eye contact with someone was to look straight into my grandfather’s eyes and tell him, “I love you.”

Maybe that’s why wanted to end on that.

I believe that even through heartbreak and suffering, I can find comfort in familiar things. What brought my grandmother joy now brings me joy in my own life, and I am inspired to remember the things she could not forget. I believe in red flowers.

Ground Zero offers reality and closure

I believe that everyone who is able should visit the World Trade Center site in New York City.

Like you, I remember where I was on 9/11. But I did not realize the full effect until March 2007.

I was in the Big Apple for the first time, and was bitterly disappointed by the weather. We trekked through the city, sight-seeing, and after walking and riding subways for several hours, we found ourselves at Ground Zero.

It was a big mess. That's the best way to describe it. Fences, dirt and construction. Nothing to look at, and if it were in any other part of the city, no one would even stop to peer through the chain-links.

I didn't want to go to the site, because I didn't see much of a reason to be there. I wanted to see the prettier parts of the city, the touristy areas. But I begrudgingly joined the crowd that gathered there.

It was just a small inlet-- an area where we could get out of the sidewalk’s lanes of people. A timeline of that day was displayed above the crowds that gathered there by the hour. I glanced at a small area in the fence that, unlike the rest, had an opening in the tarp big enough to see through. There were trucks, equipment and construction workers on the other side.

I heard a man in a hardhat laugh. Laugh.

"That man laughed. This isn't a place for laughing," I thought in anger.

Then, I tried to imagine his position: coming here, day after day, pretending I'm not standing where innocents were buried in agony for days before dying. Pretending that there aren't people every day who pass by and remember their loved one who took their last debris-filled breath here.

On the timeline above me, photos showed firefighters carrying people out of the destruction. Underneath, a caption told that they were killed in the collapse later that day. I became aware of the diverse faces around me, staring silently at the pictures with wide, no-longer-innocent eyes and gaping mouths.

Then, I noticed buildings across the street: immense structures standing somberly in the drizzling rain with still-boarded windows. I impulsively began snapping pictures of everything, thinking in desperation, "These are the last things that those people saw."

I saw the passers-by who weren't acknowledging the hole where two gigantic towers once stood. I realized that they were natives, and probably see this spot almost everyday. There's a good chance that they, or a close friend, never saw someone they loved again after those two planes rocked Manhattan.

Loss. Death. Yet uncomfortable normality prevailed.

I was standing where so many perished. This was real. Death stood where my feet were planted.

The emotions surged into my chest. I grabbed the corner of the chain-linked fence and wedged my body into it. I sobbed into the other side, hoping that somehow my delayed grief would plant itself in that place, and that I would never again forget or take for granted what was lost by so many that day.

I Believe The Sun Will Come Up Tomorrow

When I was younger, and something wasn’t going my way, my dad would tuck me in at night and reassure me that no matter how badly I felt in that moment, the sun would come up tomorrow. At the time, it almost made me feel resentful towards him. How could he be so unsympathetic to my problems, and dole out the same, impersonal retort to each and every one? Who was he to dismiss them so flippantly and bury them at dusk? Of course the sun would come up tomorrow, but what of it?
As I got older, my bad days consisted of more than just tiffs with friends at school or sibling rivalry, but learning to overcome death, loss, and heartbreak. Still, my dad reminded me time after time, the sun would come up tomorrow. I consider my father one of the most brilliant men I know, and I’m fairly certain he could converse with a tree if it didn’t uproot itself, so why did his credo seem so thoughtless and dismissive?
Last year, I almost lost my sister. She was in the hospital for five days. Five days waiting to live. Five days waiting to die. All any of us could do was wait. The thing about hospitals is time stands completely still, and before you know it, Monday morning becomes Wednesday night, and you lose all touch with reality without an opportunity to put up a fight. But that’s the great part about finding yourself on the brink on insanity, there is tremendous clarity when you gain perception from dangling off the edge. Laying on the floor of the waiting room, I realized the one constant I could count on through all of this was the sun. It didn’t depend on what day it was, or what condition my sister was in, it was going to come up regardless. The sun wasn’t meant to symbolize a beacon of hope that it would all be alright, but rather a reminder that time stand stills for no one, and just as the days march on, so must we.
At age twenty-two, I’ve witnessed my fair share of sunrises and sunsets, and experienced the storms in between. I can finally appreciate my dad’s unwavering response, and I know we are all a testament of it’s truth. I believe the sun will come up tomorrow.

Learning to Talk

Last night I was driving home from Publix and realized I was about to burst into tears. I had no idea why. I felt stressed, anxious and mildly annoyed. I needed a way to clear my head, to figure out what was bothering me. So, I did what I always do – I called Emily.

Since 1993 in Mrs. Davis’s third grade class, Emily and I have been inseparable, sharing and overanalyzing everything. We frequently stayed up late during sleepovers acting like therapists, sharing our frustrations with siblings, parents or teachers. We discussed our classmates and dissected their personalities. Once we even assigned code names – Coke, Sprite and Captain – to boys in our class so we could talk about them without the threat of eavesdroppers.

We attended different colleges in different states, but we remained best friends despite more than 300 miles of distance. Along the way, we have had more than our share of blowups and misunderstandings, heartaches and disappointments, but there is still no one else on earth who can talk with me like she can. She helps me process life and keeps me sane because of her commitment to real, honest conversation with me. I believe this commitment is an essential element of forming close relationships of all kinds.

Sometimes honest conversations can be difficult. So often we like to project to others the self we wish we were. But in real conversations, you are forced to expose yourself, blemishes and all, to another person, and you make yourself vulnerable to them.

My relationship and conversations with Emily have helped me tremendously in other relationships. My mother-in-law also shares a love for meaningful conversation. My love for her has grown exponentially over the last few years because we have deep discussions about theology, heartbreak, our joys, our past mistakes and more. She and I know each other much better now and therefore can love each other more fully.

My marriage has been strengthened because I am comfortable sharing my innermost thoughts with another person. My husband, on the other hand, has never had an Emily, so he sometimes finds it difficult to open up. I have to assume the position of the therapist again and try to drag it out of him. Despite the difficulty, we’re committed to one another and make a concerted effort to communicate. We’re most fulfilled when we’re regularly having real conversation because we feel like we’re headed in the same direction.

Deep conversations with Emily have always been the foundation of our friendship. While she knows me better than anyone else, she also helps me know myself. She can point out the parts of myself I can’t see or that I’d rather deny – one of the most important benefits of real, honest conversations. Our friendship is undoubtedly special, but these conversations are possible in any loving relationship if both parties are committed.

I sincerely believe in deep conversation with those we love simply because it has significantly impacted my life. I cannot imagine who I would be without Emily’s presence in my life, helping me, teaching me and encouraging me. I freely and openly share my thoughts with her – good, bad, and ugly – and she accepts me. All of me. Not just the me I want to project, but the real me.

I Believe in Scars

I haven’t always been the person I am so proud to be today. I’m ashamed to say that I once took advantage of my parents at any opportunity. Whether it was lying about where I was going, who I was with or when I would come home, I did it. It was as if my parents were in my life to interrogate me and I was there simply to deceive them. Up until a few years ago, I never truly understood how blessed I am and what an amazing life I have.
In February of my junior year of high school, I was on my way to pick up a friend and go to the mall for what would probably be some pointless waste of my father’s money. It was raining that day, and while my mother told me she had a bad feeling about me driving the half hour to San Antonio, I reminded her of my flawless driving record to get the O.K.
The next thing I knew, I was falling in and out of consciousness with a massive headache caused by the booming bass of some loud rock music playing on my stereo. Most everything was black around me, and when I was able to make out the caved-in windshield, I knew something was terribly wrong. I couldn’t move my head to see around me and it felt as if someone was pulling me by my hair against the seat. When I reached my hands to the bottom of my ponytail, I felt gravel, grass and the roof of my car--I was pinned upside down inside my truck.
I woke up to my father standing to my right, holding my hand and looking slightly nauseated. A nurse was on my left, and seemed to have a personal vendetta against me as she stitched up a gash on my elbow. My dad told me that my mom was outside, that she wouldn’t be able to handle seeing me like this. Apparently, I had flipped my truck twice and broken almost every bone on the left side of my face. I had severe lacerations to my forehead and skull, which would require staples and more than 100 stitches. My dad wouldn’t let my mom see me because they had yet to stitch my forehead together.
The months following my wreck, I wore a hat to cover my face and constantly checked mirrors to make sure my makeup was still there. I became severely self-conscious and overly paranoid that people were only looking at my forehead when they talked to me.
Finally one day I just got tired of hiding who I was. I realized the scars were there whether I liked it or not, and with the support of my family I was able to eventually overcome my daily anxieties.
Today, my physical scars can hardly be seen, but the emotional scar I retained is apparent in everything I do. My wreck five years ago was a blessing in disguise and allowed me another chance at life. As cliché as this sounds, I try to live each day as if it is my last, or even my friends’ and family’s last. I say, “I love you” probably too much and try to make sure those around me know how much I appreciate them.
I once hid what I’ve come to realize was my saving grace. Rather than dwell on my scars, I decided to thank God for saving my life. I now believe in scars because they have the power of change. They can make a person negative and bitter over what has happened, or they can make them appreciative and eager for what is yet to come. I was fortunate enough to experience an event that would change my life forever. I was fortunate enough to have a second chance.

Have a Little Deed

When you see someone with an armful of bags approaching a closed door, do you open it for him? Do you rush over to the woman in front of you who dropped her credit card on the ground? Do you speed past the homeless man on the side of the road, instead of rolling down the window to hand him some change?

In our day-to-day lives, we often don’t take time to stop and think about the ways we affect others. Our own personal schedules wrap us up so tightly that we might not even have time to think about helping another person; it seems as though people today are just struggling to help themselves. But good deeds do not have to be forced into our daily routines. There’s no need to make an appointment for them, and they don’t have to be tedious, time consuming tasks, either. A good deed can be as simple as sharing an umbrella with someone while walking to your car on a rainy day. I know it can be tempting to close the elevator doors as soon as you step inside, but it can’t possibly take that much effort to hold the door open and wait for others. Extend a resource that is available to you but not others around you. What may seem insignificant to you could mean the world to someone else.

The first time I realized how much a simple deed could make a difference, I was a nine-year-old girl scout. We dabbled in crafts and selling cookies, but we also learned the importance of serving others. I remember when our troop went shopping in a large supply store. We were standing near the exit when I noticed a woman with a cart heading toward our direction to leave. Figuring that she might have trouble getting through the door, I walked over and held it open for her. Before I could turn to walk back, she handed me a dollar. No words, just the dollar. I held the dollar in amazement and slight confusion. "I just opened a door," I thought. My young mind was then beginning to understand how my act of courtesy rewarded me. It was my "Aha" moment and has been etched in my memory forever.

There are two sides to a good deed, the giver and the receiver. I’m sure everyone has experienced a time when they needed an outstretched hand--a couple of extra dollars for lunch, a ride home from work or maybe even a temporary place to live.
I cannot forget my sophomore year in college when I was running late to my biology exam. As I was speed walking and cursing myself on the way to class, two random classmates drove past, recognized me and offered to give me a ride. I could not stop thanking them enough! I felt like God sent me a blessing via rush delivery that day. Moments like these not only remind me to think of someone other than myself but also connect people that might not have ordinarily been acquainted.

Whether your good deed is voluntary or involuntary, the act itself is like a ripple in a pond that grows larger than the initial splash. You never know how much your act of kindness can uplift or save someone in distress. I believe a small, unassuming good deed has unlimited power. Its strength gives hope, brings peace and changes lives.

Experiencing the world from a different view

I believe that everyone should take the opportunity to travel as much as they can to different places to learn different cultures, experience different climates, and to view the beautiful world through their own eyes, not just through magazines and television screens. The world is beautiful, full of breathtaking sights and insightful people with different customs and traditions, and a lot can be experienced right here in the United States.
Growing up as a military brat I was able to travel to many places in the United States as well as overseas. I believe I am more open and accepting to change as a result of growing up the child of a father active in the Air Force. When living in different places, I was exposed to different climates, cultures, and ways of life. In a car ride from Alabama to California my family and I traveled through the dry plains not seeing a tree for hundreds of miles, through intimidating Rocky Mountains that elevate hundreds of feet above sea level, and through massive hills of desert sand, something I did not even know existed in the United States at that moment in time. I’ve been exposed to the rainy tropics of Hawaii and had the opportunity of hiking up Diamond Head Mountain so that I could view the island from above. I experienced the customs and traditions of the Chamarros, the natives of Guam, a U.S. territory. I learned to respect their beliefs, learned their language, and even learned how to cook some of their native foods, much of which consisted of coconuts. I’ve been exposed to the snow storms in South Dakota and the bone chilling temperatures falling well below zero. South Dakota also offered the rocky ancient Badlands and Mount Rushmore.
Because I have had the opportunity to move to different places I feel that I am better able to adjust in different settings whether it be a social, climate, or environmental adjustment. I can better tolerate change, and I am more willing to accept others for who they are and for what they believe in and find important in their lives. I also believe that each move was educational and provided me with knowledge about the environment as well as about other traditions and beliefs that I would not have likely learned elsewhere.
The sun glistening off of the snow, the waterfalls falling gently in the rain forest, the black sand beaches, the legends and traditions of other people, are all apart of our world that can’t be seen from the comfort of one spot. I believe everyone should experience and embrace the beauty that lies outside of his or her own geographic location.

Compromise, not change

Growing up in the South has not really been easy for me. Let’s face it – I ain’t no southern belle. I was not born here. My family is not from here either and I think that made a huge impact on my upbringing. I guess have always been different from most people ‘round these parts. I just have a much more liberal outlook on life than most people do in the southern states. Many of these people did not appreciate my uniqueness and let me know it. These relationships left a bad taste in my mouth toward the more conservative people of the South.

When I first arrived at the University of Alabama, I was nervous that I would find myself alone in my opinions and beliefs. Instead of joining a sorority, which is expected for a southern belle, I joined the Million Dollar Band. There were enough people in the band that I could surround myself with the different kids.

Early this year, I accepted a leadership position within the band. Some of my bold opinions and strong language are not for everyone, including some people who were now my responsibility. The wall I had created to keep out my opposition was automatically destroyed. As a leader, I would have to treat everyone, no matter how compatible or incompatible with me, with respect and honor their beliefs, but being a strong leader is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

I was proud of who I had grown into and, being rather headstrong, felt that I had no reason to change who I was to accommodate different people. This created a lot of tension and caused a lot of head butting. For weeks, our differences created an awkward atmosphere and the tension between many of us thickened. Inevitably, the situation imploded and a confrontation ensued.

Then suddenly, my so-called light bulb lit up. The whole time I had been avoiding a change within myself, and expecting everyone else to change at the drop of a dime. Change was not what we needed at the time. We needed to compromise.

I have always preached change, but this experience has opened my eyes to an incredible, new option. Through this experience, I learned that a complete change from even one side is far too difficult to accomplish. However, if everyone gives a little and believes in finding the middle ground, then a lot more can be accomplished.

I am determined to use my epiphany to its full potential, starting with the southern people I have run away from my whole life. Maybe then, the concept of compromise can be spread throughout the country, maybe even the world.

After our confrontation, the atmosphere at band practice is light-hearted and enjoyable. I only wish we could have resolved our differences earlier in the year because everyone’s experience could have been much more pleasant. We can all learn from each other, as long as we give and take equally.

Put Your Own Happiness First

I have recently realized that you cannot always please everyone. Throughout my life I have constantly tried to make everyone else around me happy. If I felt like my parents would disapprove of my behavior I would do what I thought they would like instead of what I wanted. If I knew that my boyfriend or roommate wanted to do something, then I would change my plans to accommodate them. I have always pasted on a smile and gone along with the group even if it was something that I did not want. Once, I even signed a year long lease to live in a house with two girls that I knew were lunatics.

During my sophomore year, my best friend decided that she wanted to live in a large house with five other girls. She also made the decision that she wanted me to live with them as well. I knew it was a bad idea from the beginning. Two of the girls went out every night and never did any school work. They had bad reputations and talked about everyone behind their backs. My instincts told me to get an apartment with other friends, but my best friend had her heart set on living together, so I caved of course. Throughout the entire year, I was miserable. The girls ended up being mean and would pull crazy, drunken stunts. I would call my Mom and cry at least once a week, but when I was around my roommates I never spoke a word of my unhappiness.

During my last semester of college, I reached a turning point in my life. I broke up with my boyfriend whom I spent the majority of my time trying to please, and I decided that I had had enough. Moving on from that relationship forced me to step back and examine the real reason behind my unhappiness. It made me realize that life is too short to spend all of my time constantly pleasing other people. I finally understood that I needed to live my life for me and stop trying to please everyone else around me first, because no matter what I do, everyone is not always going to be satisfied. Their happiness is beyond my control.

I forced myself to focus on me. I began saying "no" to people which was a difficult thing to do, but a huge step in self-discovery. I started to figure out things that I actually enjoyed doing, and I also figured out the things that I didn’t like. I learned to listen to my inner voice and feelings, and I also began to stand up for myself. I began to understand that you do not have to agree with people all of the time to make them happy. One of the most important things that I realized was that people are not going to shut you out of their lives if you don’t go along with their every wish. If they do shut you out for putting your needs first, then they are probably not worth your time.

I Believe in the Power of Our Own Strength

I Believe in the Power of Our Own Strength

I began my first semester as a transfer student at the University of Alabama in January of 2006. I was a long way from my home in Washington, D.C. and felt extremely out of place as I attempted to adjust to southern living. I had lived on campus for only a week and a half when I was physically attacked in my dorm.

On a bright and brisk January afternoon, I was walking home from my classes, but I wasn’t alone. A fellow student was also walking--not to his home, but to mine.
I could feel someone behind me as carefree students walked together to class. I could hear them talking and laughing, but my mind was elsewhere. I could only concentrate on the quickening footsteps behind me.

I reached the door of the all girls dormitory and for one fleeting second thought, Safety.
That thought quickly vanished. As soon as I entered the elevator, so did he. He followed me out of the elevator and toward my dorm room, where I told him firmly to leave. The man charged at me as soon as I unlocked the door. What must have been only about a few minutes seemed like an eternity even three years later.

Grasping my arms together with his hands, he pushed me onto my bed. Reality clicked on like a light bulb. I realized what was happening to me, and this enraged me. I alternated my screams for help with screams affirming that he messed with the wrong woman. Soon my screams were solely those of rage, and the attacker became the one being attacked as I began to muster all my strength to fight him back. I don’t think we ever truly realize our own strength, mental and physical, until tested.

Within minutes I had the man fleeing as fast as he could back to the elevator. You would think I would have locked the door and called 911…but no. I chased the man to the elevator in such a rage that I slashed him with my keys, threatened him, and then retreated, leaving him probably more confused than he had ever been in his life.

My assailant was caught and is still to this day awaiting trail for daring to attack me. I told the university they were lucky this happened to a girl like me, because I am able to tell a positive story, and the University Police still refer to me and the girl who “kicked butt.”

Today, I carry mace and still get on high alert when I hear footsteps behind me, but not in fear. What happened to me that January changed my life, luckily for the better. I learned from my experience just how strong I can be and that I am capable of anything. I believe that we must all find the power of our own strength, and never ever forget it.

A death of faith leads to the making of a woman

Five years ago I cradled my father’s head in my lap and watched life leave his body. He heaved one final breath and departed from this earth, and I remember that exact moment, because in that second, everything I believed in died with him. My faith in any higher power diminished, and I began a path of self-destructive behavior that lead to misery and loss. A failed engagement followed by an abusive relationship destroyed any joy in my life, and the second year of graduate school found me in the hospital with no will to continue living.

A Quaker woman in Cincinnati, Amanda, befriended me and began writing to me weekly, giving words of encouragement. We hardly knew each other but the letters arrived faithfully. Copies of letters to other women came as well, describing the loneliness and darkness we each faced in our spiritual lives. Amanda chronicled the death of her grandmother in a series of poems she passed along, often with a handmade felt flower or collection of small books.

“How do we die?” she asked me. “What are your thoughts on love?”

Never prodding, never prying, Amanda wrote lyrically and recorded letters she wrote to her husband during their first year of marriage, or a poem on the spiritual meditation of washing dishes.

I learned a quiet way to practice faith. Often I woke up at five in the morning to do two or three hours of meditation and prayer. Amanda’s written presence guided me through yoga poses and prayer beads. I read countless books by Thomas Merton, a monk who lived nestled in the foothills of Kentucky. I read of sitting in the zafu, the Benedictine practice of manual labor, and the mysticism of the Zen masters. I longed for my true self, the woman I was created to be, stripped from masks and falsehoods.

As I shed layer after layer of doubt and weakness, I began a new journey of spiritual reconciliation. I found hope in the Divine, and followed with my own path as a Quaker woman, renewed in love and joy.

I believe in the power of planting seeds of faith and the power of self-healing. I believe that in the darkest moments of life, there are glimmers of soft light that beckon us not to fear. Life is a walking meditation of love and Light, a path of valleys and hillsides. We make our own happiness in this earth, and the Inner Light we possess wills us to move ever forward, walking, stumbling like newborn lambs, and grasping on to the ever-present promise of becoming our truest selves.

God gave you a drum, now dance to it!

by Jennifer Mitchell

I believe in being the person God created me to be, despite criticism.

My mom used to call me her little free spirit, and most days my brother refers to me as Tree Hugger. A lot of my friends joke about me being a hippie--not a Woodstock hippie, but still a hippie in my own way. No I don't smoke pot. Yes, I shower, but not necessarily everyday.


It's just that I have this passionate desire to live a nontraditional lifestyle. The desire and the way I choose to live my life are often misunderstood by others. For example, I'd be content to wake up tomorrow morning in a hut at the foot of a mountain wearing the same clothes from last week. My future plans include living in a third world country. I go through stages where I suddenly want to throw out everything in my closet and become a minimalist. My fiance and I hope to quit our jobs to thru hike the Appalachian Trail. You could say I'm different.


I wasn't always this way. True, I've always been different, but I wasn't as open to expressing it. I wasn't always as bold in standing up for myself perhaps. Though I was heading that direction in college, one unfortunate tragedy shook me enough to appreciate the person I was becoming and embrace her.


Standing at my mother's grave, the words to "Amazing Grace" whipping around my black dress with the wind, I never could have imagined the changes to come. I was 19 at the time, and losing my mother's support and protection made me realize how different some of my beliefs and actions were from those in my family and others close to me. Where some were baffled or stunned at my actions, Mom would have just sighed and said, "She's my free spirit." Like when I told a friend about thru hiking the AT--her jaw dropped and she said, "You want to walk from Georgia to Maine?" My mom might have thought quitting a job to hike was crazy, but she would have understood it fit with who I am.


Mom was the glue. She understood me, and I now see how she was a mediator, explaining my oddities to others as best she could. When she passed, the glue was gone and it became very difficult to stick to my family.


The next year was rough, but I began to realize how much I liked being different from the rest of them. Mom had seen the person God created me to be, and without her constant encouragement, it just took me a little longer to see it, too. Where others would say, "She dances to the beat of a different drum," I began to believe I was simply dancing to the beat of the drum God gave me.


Sure, my brother and father still think I'm strange, and occasionally my brother cracks jokes about adoption. The values I've come to hold dear send me walking down different paths from most, but I learned through my mother's death that I can't be anyone else. I was created with a distinct personality and plan in mind, and I now know I can't let anyone's criticism--even family--hinder where I choose to go.

In defense of deliberate mediocrity

by Carolyn Mason

I believe that choosing not to excel at an endeavor can be freeing.

I can knit a scarf in one night. Pick your color, width and length and if House re-runs are on, you can expect your creation the next morning. It can be long and thin or short and wide. It can have funky fringe on the ends or just a nice cast-off row of neat stitches. But don’t ask for a matching hat, sweater, mittens or vest, because I am a one-stitch scarf wonder, and that’s all I plan to learn how to do.

Sure, I could go to knitting class, and I’m intelligent enough to follow a pattern -- knit a row, purl a row. I could figure out how to count stitches, subtract rows and make intricate designs. As tempting as it is to consider making an adorable matching hat to go with the scarf; that’s what I am deliberately planning not to do.

I love wrapping a freshly finished scarf around the neck of the newest recipient. My friends, family and the checkout lady at the grocery store get to pick soft and fuzzy or sharp and crisp -- any color or texture they desire. As long as they understand it will always consist of a single stitch -- knit. No patterns, no zigzags, no designs, just long fluffy scarves to ward off cold or boredom or whatever talisman you wish it to be. These are not excellent scarves or even imaginative ones. These are mediocre scarves in an inspired, complicated scarf world.

I’ve not always been this average.

I’ve always bought into the philosophy that if you are going to do something, you should do it well. But there’s a caveat and I believe you don’t have to excel at every endeavor.

Choosing mediocrity can be freeing. It can relieve you of the anxiety to improve and the urge to compete. When I discovered the joy of knitting it hit me that while I yearned to make scarves, I was afraid to learn too much. “Just teach me one stitch,” I begged my mother, who was well on her way up the knitting hierarchy. She took me to her knitting shop where they know her by name and speak a secret knitting lady language. I didn’t let on that I deliberately planned to be a one-stitch scarf knitter, someone who intended to settle for less. It’s practically unheard of to suggest you don’t intend to better yourself.

In this newest endeavor, I plan to stay simple and uncomplicated. I’m going to stitch joy and love into each scarf, and if you leave it in your drawer, drag it in the mud or lose it at the park, it won’t matter. What matters is that I created something for the sheer purpose of giving it away, and I believe that's a true gft to myself.

Welcome to the class blog! You may upload your This I Believe video to this site.
Thanks!
Carolyn