Refugee. The word stopped me in my tracks as I tried to collect my breath, feeling the searing pain cut through my spine. My hands on my knees as I gasped for air fully aware that it was not because of the race I had just run – a convenient cover. I could feel their eyes burning into my back; eyes that I failed to see as my own vision blurred from tears welling up inside.

I can’t let them see my cry, I can’t let them see me cry, I thought as I gathered my composure and slowly turned around.

“And you’re wearing overalls! You’re a farmer! A refugee farmer,” the taunt continued. I squinted my eyes funneling all of my anger through my gaze. Everything inside of my being wanted to run up to this ignorant boy, cock my arm back, and clock him in the eye, but as I stared at him through the slits of my eyes, I recognized one important thing that would stick with me the rest of my life; no one lets a winner bask in his or her glory for long, there’s always more work to be done.  I had beaten all of the boys and girls in that race, and as the loser that he was proving to be, he was trying to strip me of the momentary joy that comes with winning. I refused to bring myself down to his level despite the anger that brewed deep in my core.  I would retain my dignity. “Whatever. I still beat you and I can do it again, anytime.” 

I was eight years old and in the fourth grade when this happened.  Little did I know at that time, I had learned one of the most valuable lessons of my life, which still holds exemplarily true to this day - that people like to compartmentalize individuals into little boxes, to keep them small, to define them by one singular thing that they can wrap their mind around, as to attribute a label of expectation of this person.  A label that permeates into every crevice of an individual, to triumphantly belittle them to nothing else; as to say, this person does not amount to much beyond the extent of this word; this title; this minute descriptor; this ultimately meaningless attribute to the individual as a whole. 

My label, at that time, was refugee.  It was as if I had been branded with a scarlet letter of sorts – an identifier to let others know that I was different, lesser somehow, that I could not possibly be, in any way, comparable to them, much less compete against them. It was the differing factor between me and those boys that somehow lightened the feeling of defeat brewing in the pits of their stomachs. It was my defect. My outlier. My burden. But most importantly, it was their excuse.

What they didn’t realize was that I had been branded.  I had been branded with a horrifying, yet intoxicatingly educating, emotional, and challenging experience that left invisible scars all over my body and a piercing pain in my soul that still sneaks up on me like the last step down the stairs in the dark and trips me up only to force me to recover my balance; to force me to view the world from the bottom up, again, because there is no feeling quite like the one of slowly piecing yourself back together after you have crumbled and your spirit has endured war, literally. And while this renewed reassembled self may have some missing or chipped pieces, cracked in minute, barely visible ways, you feel stronger – more empowered; having endured and growing into a more spectacular, more learned future than one you imagined for yourself.

There have been many moments in my life that have undoubtedly molded the way that I view the world and the way that I choose to pursue my purpose. While I share my stories and opinions with you, I urge you to take time to reflect on your own – harvesting the opportunities for self-improvement and growth. But, I caution you, never lose the underlying philosophy that I have shaped my life around – that expectations are limitations; that expecting people, events, and things to go, behave, and respond a certain way is a restraint on the potential of those things and people, as well as yourself. That goal setting and planning is to be interpreted much differently than expectation, and that disappointments will come and go, but they should never be the hook that you hang your hat on when reflecting on what defines you or the life that you have fought to unfold. Those hooks are merely wall decorations of the homes that you have walked through inside of your soul and have absolutely no bearing on the foundation on which your glorious structure has been built – they can be plucked out of position at any time when equipped with the right set of tools. So don’t be fooled by their presence. They are nothing that some of life’s spackle can’t fill in once removed.

            And honey, if you can’t find spackle, make it – because no one wants to let those holes crack so deeply and carelessly as to reach your foundation and alter it. No disappointment is worth as much.

I have to admit, I’ve always had a love affair with words. To be able to crawl within their spaces and let them fold into you like a newborn. To feel them wrap around your skin as you slowly bear witness to the goosebumps that awaken down your arms and magically jump to your legs as they trickle through your toes. Words have that kind of magical effect on me. The kind that truly make you believe in fairy dust, far away lands, and Sleeping Beauty. So I simply ask of you to be kind as you read the posts herein. By all means, be critical. Be critical of me, and then stand in front of the mirror, reflect, and be critical of yourself, but do not judge. Because no matter how difficult, easy, fun, light-hearted, or heavy your life has been, we do not share the same footprints that walking in my shoes have left. My journey as a mama, wife, daughter, sister, friend, lawyer, athlete, writer, and woman, is my own, and someday, I hope you are brave enough to share yours.

Please note, my thoughts, ideas, opinions, and posts are my own. They are not reflective of my employer or any organization to which I belong.

agl.