The Ending In The Beginning: Part II

After a summer spent finishing my Master's thesis, having a 3-in-1 surgery on my left hand (three different procedures including a joint replacement, in a single surgery), and turning 30, I returned to Cape. As I mentioned before, this wasn't supposed to happen. I was supposed to be in Ann Arbor or Columbus or New Jersey (cringeworthy, I know, but Rutgers is amazing), starting my PhD program. Instead, I was back in Cape, starting my first semester as a college instructor, and rehabbing from my surgery. Of course, I was also dealing with the fact that I had turned 30 entirely and completely single, with no one out there on the horizon. I finally also was able to start dealing with some of my PTSD issues. All in all, the next two years in Cape proved to be very good for me.

Teaching was amazing. I loved teaching my students about history. About helping them make connections, and in many cases, about making many of them love history. I started to plan for reapplying to PhD programs in the fall of 2014, giving me two years to teach, beef up my C.V., and work on my PTSD issues.

In the Fall of 2014, I was ready to go. I picked my top schools, and scheduled a visit to my number one choice: Carnegie Mellon University, in Pittsburgh. The visit went really well. I found an entire committee excited about working with me on my research regarding abolitionism as it pertained to race and class, in Cincinnati. I came back, feeling confident and ready to go. But just days after returning back to Cape, I was rear-ended in what turned out to be a bad car accident. My car was totaled and I was injured. The accident put my applications on hold, and the one place I did apply to, Carnegie Mellon, turned me down. I spent the rest of the year trying to recover from that accident physically. Mentally, I'm still a little jumpy when things get dicey with other people on the road. But I got through it thinking, "At this time next year, this will be completely behind me, and I'll be in a much better place.

Boy, was I wrong.

I had finally come to the conclusion that I was 31, single, and probably would remain so the rest of my life. It wasn't my preference, but I was okay with it. In fact, I was okay with my life for the first time (that's an entirely separate post for another time). Then in November, out of nowhere (isn't that usually how it happens?), this amazing guy pretty much falls right into my lap. By the time we have our first date, we're both pretty sure this relationship is going to be a permanent thing. We had an amazing 7 months together .My parents and family loved him, his friends and family loved me, most of my friends loved him (there's always that one, right? lol)...everyone was sure, we were getting married. We complimented each other in so many ways, he actually liked eating my healthy cooking, we had more things in common than we could get to in over a decade. Everything about it seemed like it was meant to be. He was absolutely amazing.

I really don't want to go into details, but out of nowhere, things went very, very wrong. I wound up completely devastated and heartbroken, but intended to stay in Cape. Well, let's just say that the following months had even my friends amazed by how much I was dealing with- in addition to a devastating breakup. Most of my friends say I'm the unluckiest person they know, and yet the last several months have been record-breaking for me. Finally, at the end of September, something else happened, and as soon as it did, I called my parents and said, "I'm moving to Denver in December." And that was that.

So I created a resume with Melissa's help, got some contacts and job leads from friends in Denver, and started applying for jobs. I decided not to apply for teaching jobs, as I really think I would do well in the business world, and am excited for the change. A few weeks after making that decision Phoebe, the nearly 7 year old daughter of my friend Krissy (mentioned in my previous post), died suddenly. That was a big blow too. Not only did I love that little stubborn thing, but I love her family, and I have been there. I was about the ages of her older sisters when my brother died. My heart aches for them. But it also gave me even more to look forward to in Denver.

Now, I drive around Cape, and I'm sad. I think about all the promises. All the hopes. All the joys and the lessons. But Cape is too small to also not think about all the losses. My friend Aaron, who died of cancer. My first love, and the plans of a future with him. Little Phoebe. I have no real ties here, no real roots. I never intended to stay here forever. And this seems like the  best time to make a move. I have always been the practical one. The one who does what she should and what makes "sense". But I finally decided it was time to take control of my life. To stop letting the fears and anxieties and "what ifs" hold me back. I have wanted to live in Denver since the first time I visited, in June of 2014. I just never thought it would be practical.

But guess what. Sometimes doing something impractical is in fact, the most practical thing to do. I love Denver. I have a support system there of many friends and two cousins with their awesome wives nearby. Denver is where I can, more than any other place on earth, become fully- myself. My very wise cousin Lindsey (she'd die laughing if she knew I called her wise, but she is!) told me to make sure I'm not moving to Denver to get away from life. To run away from the pain. But the beauty of it is, I'm not. I'm not running from anything. Moving to Denver isn't about running from, it's about running to. Running to...ME, in a very real sense. Denver is a place full of opportunity. Full of gorgeous mountains, wonderful architecture, gluten free food, and every kind of person you can imagine. Denver is NOT lacking in culture. I can't wait to go there and make it my own. But then, that's the beginning, isn't it? So I'll leave that for when my end comes to a close, and my beginning truly starts.

December 11th. That's the day I pull out of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, and move to Denver, Colorado. I have lived my life in the Midwest and South. But now, much as tens of thousands of poineers did, beginning in the 1840s, I am headed to make a new life for myself in the great American West. And I can't wait to see what that looks like. 

The Ending in the Beginning: Part I

The purpose of this blog is to document my new life in Denver, Colorado, and my quest to become more truly myself, and more truly Dauntless than ever. This will be explained in future posts. But first things first.

The beginning of one thing inevitably means the ending of another. Some of these endings are less dramatic than others: the beginning of a life simply means the end of said life not existing. The beginning of a school year means the end of the summer. The beginning of Summer means the end of Spring. Sometimes, however, the ending ushered in by a new beginning is so dramatic that the ending itself deserves attention. This is one such case. In fact, the ending is so important, that it needs a series of posts to fully explain.

I moved to Cape Girardeau, Missouri, in January, of 2011. My residence here was never intended to be permanent. The plan was to earn my M.A. in history, and then move on to another university in another city and state for my Ph.D. I intended to be here for two, maybe two-and-a-half years. My, how plans can change. Nearly five years later, I am still here, and only just now have definite plans to move. But not for a Ph.D. program. More on that later.

In November, of 2010, I was living with the Holmes family in my hometown of Cincinnati, Ohio. Despite being armed with a newly minted college degree, and the submission of over 600 employment applications, the only employment I had managed to find in six months was 9 hours a week nannying a 6th grader. $90 a week only goes so far. So imagine how pleased I was when I received a Facebook message from Dr. Wayne Bowen, a former history professor at my alma matter, Ouachita Baptist University. He was now the chair of the history department at Southeast Missouri State University, in Cape Girardeau. We spoke on the phone that night, and he told me he had found me a graduate assistantship that would cover my tuition, fees, and pay me a small stipend each semester for four semesters, while I worked on my Master's in history. Two days later, I jumped in my car, and drove out to visit Cape Girardeau, Missouri. By Thanksgiving, less than a week later, I was making my plans to move. I even had a thesis advisor already.

I began my Master's in January, and I loved my time as a graduate student. No, really. It was intense, for sure. And there were times I wanted to strangle my professors, but the department was awesome, and I was making some great friends. Not to mention, I rediscovered a childhood friend from Cincinnati, who was now living in Cape Girardeau: Krissy (now know as Kris). 

As a graduate student, I learned to be more confident in my own opinions and interpretations- something that had been suppressed during my family's tenure in the Advanced Training Institute (ATI), when I was ages 13-22 (though that's another story for another blog). Professors encouraged me to challenge them if I disagreed with them. They challenged me to figure out why I held my opinions. Instead of being someone who had learned to be timid, despite a very bold personality, I was finally finding myself able to become more, well, myself. I grew more as a person and an individual in my 2.5 years in grad school than I had in the entire previous 15 years before that. I was finally starting to thrive. 

Due to some unexpected health issues, my graduation was pushed from December of 2012, to August of 2013, but I graduated with several awards, and a GPA north of 3.9. Writing my thesis (in the 7 weeks before it was due, which I do not recommend to anyone unless you actually like stomach ulcers) was one of the biggest growing experiences of my life. Identifying and solving problems, learning how to do what has to be done no matter what kind of personal crises may arise, and dealing with an advisor who takes sadistic pleasure in marking up your drafts (I'm mostly joking here...mostly), and realizing that an awful lot rests on you actually finishing and passing this big final project, well, I matured a lot. But finally, I passed my defense, handed in my final draft, and received the approval of the Graduate School. Despite a number of health and personal crises (including the death of a very beloved friend and classmate), I had finally completed my Master's Degree in history, with a specialization in African American history, just shy of my 30th birthday. The plan had been to go right on to a Ph.D. program. But out of 10 applications, all 10 got rejected. So I adjusted and stayed in Cape.

To be continued in Part II