Category Archive
The following is a list of all entries from the Coping with Real Life category.
I’ve Made My Choice
And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Or at least some of you…
Drumroll please…
I have made the life-altering decision of where to attend grad school. In the fall, I will be relocating the Virginia to go to George Mason University.
Going in to the decision-making process, the voice in the back of my head constantly needled me, saying “You know it’s going to be Mason. It’s your top choice.” Yet I needed to weigh all factors, all options, all offers. If just the right offer from the right program came along, I would snap it up, but almost all offered the same amount of federal unsubsidized loans.
Once I gave in to that ever present voice in my mind (which, coincidentally had been growing 
exponentially louder), I felt elated. I e-mailed a confirmation of enrollment to George Mason, and within a matter of minutes, it was settled.
Yet something still did not feel right. Perhaps because the enrollment process was not more of a ceremony, or required no deposit. Perhaps because other offers still lay open. Perhaps just because this decision signified entering unprecedented territory.
This uncertainty has eased as I have assuredly rejected the other programs to say “I’m just not that into you,” yet a feeling of stress has taken over. It’s difficult to not get bogged down in fretting the details of relocation, funding, and leaving all I know but every once in a while I take a moment and smile.
I’m going to George Mason University.
I’m taking a huge step toward the career I want and have dreamed of for years.
And that’s pretty incredible.
A Few Thoughts on Boston
This blog has been on radio silence since the utterly tragic events at the Boston marathon April 15th. I had planned on posting that day about my grad school decision, or perhaps even about the marathon itself, yet have taken these past two weeks to attempt to come to terms with what happened to my city, and to find adequate enough words to express what I want to say. Although I am not sure either of those has really happened, I feel it’s time to say something.
Since I began work at a university in Cambridge three years ago, Marathon Monday has not been the same day of reverie (or really even the day of annoyance) that it has been in years past: I had to work. It was not a vacation day, and as the bombs went off, I was plugging away at my desk. This year was different in that I knew two people running: my cousin was running for Dana-Farber, and my former colleague’s husband was running for Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center. I was insanely proud of my cousin and was really enjoying following both runners along online as they hit each checkpoint.
Boston Magazine Cover, May 2013
My world changed as a friend messaged me with the news: explosions at the finish line. I was confused: perhaps it was just some sort of cannon fire. I immediately tuned to Twitter and the local NPR website, and refreshed the runner check-in. Vague reports of bombs. Ghastly videos of explosions and twitpics of bloodied sidewalks. I sat at my desk for what felt like hours learning everything I could, tweeting and retweeting, assuring friends and family of my safety (side note: thank goodness for Facebook that day. Knowing the whereabouts of all friends that day by a simple status update or a like was an extreme relif).
My cousin was safe. As was my colleague’s husband. Had my cousin not stopped twice at the medical tents for to treat blisters, she might have been there when it happened. I have never been more thankful for blisters.
That day I walked across the Weeks Footbridge which spans the Charles River and connects to Boston to get home (I had been afraid to take the T after reports of bridges being closed and police investigating a suspicious package at the Harvard train station). I was so struck by how normal everything looked: people rowing, people running along the river. Ducks swam merrily along. The sun was shining beautifully. If only the unthinkable hadn’t occurred hours before a few miles away, it would have been a perfect day.
April 15th was an emotional day. I felt violated, numb, scared, unsafe, angry, and overwhelmed. How could someone do this to my city? At such an event which honors the ultimate athletic achievements? To hurt such innocent people? Tears were plentiful that day, but I quickly grew saturated from the constant rotation of news footage. We quickly turned on a comedy on cable.
I was still scared on April 16th. I hadn’t wanted to leave the house for fear of the unknown. Yet I told myself to have the conviction to show that I was not afraid, even if I was trembling on the inside.
That fear has since subsided (aided by the capture of the suspects), and my energy has refocused on two words: Boston Strong. This phrase, which has been adopted as the slogan of the city’s collective efforts to heal, is more than just two words on a t-shirt. Boston is a strong community. We’re the host of America’s revolutionary spirit, the diehard sports fans, the intellectual elite. We honor our first responders, help those in need, demand justice, and love our community even when it makes no sense. As Garytt Poirier (@Garytt) said on Twitter “If you expect #Boston [to] ease up, you are not aware of how we treated Bill Buckner for 18 years after a baseball rolled between his legs.”
This is changed our city forever, yet I believe that our city can turn this tragedy into a positive change. As long as we can stay united, if we can stay Boston Strong, then we can make the right steps forward.
9/11 Anniversary: What We Can Do to Move Forward
Although the day is almost through, and each and every one of you is already likely beyond saturated with 9/11 coverage, I felt that I wanted to add my perspective to the deluge. Ten years have gone by since our world changed immensely, and it just feels right to put something here.
That day, I was 15; a sophomore in high school in New Hampshire. When the attacks happened I was in my B period class (which was either Spanish or Biology; I can remember my schedule that day exactly except that those classes were interchangeable), yet I didn’t find out about it until later in the day. I happily went about my day through choir, gym and lunch until I was heading down the hall to my F period Advanced English class, when my friend Aslynn stopped me in the hallway. She had seen the news and cornered me before I entered the classroom. She spewed something at me about airplanes, attacking, New York, DC and buildings, and they don’t know what’s going on, and everyone is freaking out and she has to go. I walked dazed into my classroom and asked what was going on. We proceeded to watch the news for the rest of class, and I watched the second tower fall over and over again. I couldn’t believe how a vast tower made of steel and glass could fall as if a sandcastle to the sea. I couldn’t understand it. My next class was history, and although the administration had apparently asked our teachers not to show us the news or really talk about what was happening (nice, right?), my history teacher answered our questions. We were all upper middle class kids from a small town in New Hampshire, and most of us had never heard of Osama bin Laden before. Not one of us could fathom why anyone would want to commit such terror against the United States. We were the best and most powerful nation in the world; why do this to us? We were released early that day.
9/11 was very eye-opening to me. I was very naive about the world and understanding our place in it. I didn’t have the knowledge of history and politics that I do now, and couldn’t understand the nature of religious and political extremism. Perhaps 9/11 is what pushed me forward into wanting to learn more about the world around me. It brought my country off the giant pedestal I had always held it on, and made me re-examine our policies a bit more closely. I think this was a shared experience for many other Americans.
What I remember most about the weeks after 9/11 was the feeling of community and togetherness that brought our nation together. We were bonded by tragedy and filled with the hope that we could heal, rebuild and show the world that we were strong and united; that no form of hate could tear us down. I miss that feeling. That closeness.
Soon after, we launched into an invasion in Afghanistan. Someone had to pay for their transgressions. I must admit that I was not totally against this war. I wasn’t absolutely for it, but if we could get the terrorists that hurt our country, then so be it. But hindsight is 20/20.
And then came Iraq, and our country started to split in two. Iraq was not about 9/11. It never was. But we had pledged to fight evildoers, and so we went.
Now it is ten years later. The wounds from 9/11 have healed in various degrees. Ours wars in Afghanistan and Iraq are still being fought, although are increasingly overbloated, unpopular and seemingly unsuccessful. My generation has forever changed thanks to a quickly evolving political, social and cultural landscape.
I spent the past few weeks welling up with tears over stories and coverage of the upcoming anniversary. I thought that I would have been prepared for the occasion, but as the date grew nearer, it was apparent that I wasn’t. After hearing survivors’ stories about the dead and tapes of the pilots on the hijacked planes, I have been more or less avoiding coverage whenever possible. Today, I watched a part of the ceremony at Ground Zero while at the gym, and tried to avoid crying on the arc trainer. My wounds from the attacks have healed, but the anniversary has been an emotional experience for me.
I went to church this morning for our “Homecoming Sunday,” or the first service back from summer. I was a ball of emotions today as I mourned for those who died ten years ago, prayed for their families and loved ones and rejoiced in the community of my parish. We were reminded to be grateful for our lives, and to live in the house of love instead of fear. I was comforted and uplifted by the words read, said and sung and felt ready to take on the day and move forward in the world.
Here is what I believe we can do: work together to use our soft power influence in the world-words and diplomacy instead of weapons. Remember that revenge is not justice. Give back to others and act selflessly when you can. Never forget 9/11. Never forget those who died in the attacks or who died trying to save others. Never forget how it impacted your life. Never forget how it changed America. Work to create that feeling of resilience, unity and community that we once held. We can hold it once again.
Saying Goodbye to a Furry Friend
My phone was ringing at 4:30 on Tuesday. It was my mother. Uh oh. She never calls during work hours unless it’s near lunchtime. Something was wrong.
I could tell immediately that she had bad news by the tentative manner in which she greeted me as I answered. I was right. My mother told me that my beloved golden retriever, Duncan, had died in his sleep the night before. She hadn’t called me earlier to spare me a work day of being distracted and tearful.
It wasn’t a shock that Duncan died. He was old, especially for a golden, at 11 or 12. We had expected it for months, as his arthritis had gotten worse, he was moving slower, his fur was emitting bad odors and he was losing weight. Although he could still have moments of sheer playfulness, running on the beach, we all knew his time was near. For months, whenever I left him, I would give him extra hugs and kisses as I said goodbye just in case.
I saw Duncan the Friday before he died as I was home briefly. I was in a rush and didn’t give him a full goodbye, but I told him I loved him. And he knew I did.
Duncan on the Hampton River Marina docks
We adopted Duncan when I was in 9th grade. He was a skinny 1-year-old golden boy with a sad case of pneumonia. He was so sweet-natured, but rather dim-witted, and we believed then that he was given up because he couldn’t cut it as a show dog.
Duncan was unconditionally affectionate, loved indiscriminately, always played like he was a puppy and made us laugh. He wasn’t good at retrieving or catching, but he always wanted to run around with you. He hated to be alone, and thrived when he was around other dogs and other people. He was very close with our former (deceased) dog, Rusty (I still maintain that they were gay lovers), and was very close with our other dog, Bailey. He would follow you everywhere, even to the bathroom.
Duncan loved when you threw things up in the air. When you sprayed water or shot snow into the air, he would be up on his hind legs trying to catch it all in his mouth. He always tried, in vain, to catch snowballs, and was mystified when he couldn’t find them when they landed in the snowbanks around him.
Duncan was not intelligent. It took him a week to learn how to use the doggie door – he didn’t quite get that he had to push the flap to get out. He thought that once it closed he was trapped. Even with me going in and out to show him how to do it, he was mystified. Yet, Duncan understood people’s emotions. He knew when you were upset. Once, when I was in high school, I was alone in the house and extremely upset for one reason or another, crying on my bed. Duncan understood that I was distressed, and on his own volition, came up to my room and jumped into bed with me, and just laid next to me to be with me, to calm me down.
I’ve had a handful of dogs in my life, but Duncan was my favorite. It’s sort of like picking a favorite child, but Duncan and I had a connection. He was my special boy, and I feel a huge rift in my life and my heart now that he is gone. Since I heard the news, I have mourned the loss of Duncan as if I lost a member of my family. Losing Duncan was like losing a brother. Although Duncan was a four-legged, furry guy, he was a friend, and a big part of almost half of my life. I’m left with so many happy memories of Duncan, and as part of the mourning and healing process, I’ll be periodically posting them to my Tumblr blog, Oh so Peculiar.
Writing about Duncan has proven to be the only thing that makes me feel better. To focus on the good and get past the pain of my loss. For those of you who aren’t pet lovers, this might seem trivial. But when you have a relationship like this with an animal like Duncan for as long as I did, then you’ll understand.
Duncan, I know you’re in a happier place. I hope you’re at peace.
My Handsome Fellow
A Note on Anniversaries
Oh my, how life gets in the way…
Recently, I celebrated two anniversaries – the marking of one year since the start of the relationship with my boyfriend and with my new job.
Anniversaries of this caliber are cause for celebration, a moment to reflect on the past year: successes, failures, mistakes, and the ilk.
I spent my work an
niversary in a less than ideal situation: I made a relatively minor error, but it was not taken well by my boss. My other boss and co-workers and I went out to lunch (where I indulged in extra guacamole as a consolation prize), and that is when I started to look to the future.
It is absolutely important to never lose sight of the past. We must learn from our mistakes and grow from them. Particularly in my job, I have to stay on top of details, as a good memory is vital. But nostalgia can be dangerous. It can hold us back into a pattern of complacency.
Anniversaries give us a chance to embrace the future: they give a warm look at the new opportunities to come, a chance to plan, to set goals, and to better ourselves.
My work anniversary pushed me to not wallow in my past mistakes, the recent stress, and the current aspects of my job. It impelled me to think broadly and creatively about what I could do with my time, to possibly expand my role, use my time more wisely, and how to deal with my stress more effectively.
My advice is to count as many anniversaries as possible. Six months since you bought your shoes? Sure. Three years since you met your best friend? Absolutely. But keep your revelry constructive. Nostalgia can only bring you so far.
Bad Synchronicity/Good Karma
Have you noticed that things in life tend to bunch up? Bad fortune bunches with the bad, and good with the good. Celebrity deaths (or anything negative) coming in threes, etc. etc. I always refer to this phenomenon as synchronicity, where incidents in life appear in groups. I think we tend to notice these circumstances as they grow more glaring. And I think we tend to notice the negative occasions more than the string of positive ones.
For me, March has been a month of bad synchronicity. I felt as though I had reached a sort of saturation point: I felt exhausted, pushed too hard and too far, and maxed out on time. Contributing to this was the stress of overwork, the ordeal (and comedy of errors) of my car being “fixed,” and the loss of my wallet. I tried to tell myself that things would start to turn around, but they didn’t, and things got worse. It culminated in a 30 minute call to my mother where I cried buckets and she consoled and tried to perk me up.
But here’s the thing about bad synchronicity: it really does end up turning around. I’m not that superstitious and don’t believe that someone can have streaks of bad luck without at least some glimmer of hope. Although we don’t always recognize them, those warm moments are there.
For me, my turnaround came this week. Stress has been reduced and personnel relations have improved (markedly) at work. My car is on the right path to being returned (just will take a couple of lawyers and a contract), and my wallet was returned (completely in tact). The wallet appearing in the mail was really the sweet topping on my week. I ripped open the package from the “Loose Items Department” of the post office and held my missing mass of leather as if it were the holy grail. I ran to show my roommate and collapsed in a heap of concurrent laughter and tears.
The appearance of my wallet this week gave me faith in the universe again. Although I had largely given up on ever seeing it or its contents again, I held on to a sliver of hope that it would be turned in. Much like Kenneth in an old episode of 30 Rock, I felt like it would turn out for the best. Even when I couldn’t see it, I knew it would happen.
So I am seeing a light at the end of this tunnel of negativity. Is it because of my everlasting belief in karma; positivity bringing positive things to your life? Or was the universe just taking pity on me and figured that I needed a win?
No matter the reason, I am grateful for the sunshine. It always makes the small things in life better, and makes those swings of good synchronicity all the sweeter.
Good things are on the way. I can tell.
Quarter Life Crisis
Twice in the past month I have had existential bouts with crisis that have rendered me into a sobbing, near-hysterical mess.
What am I going to do with my life?!?!
For several years now, I have held a growing interest in the Middle East, international affairs and public policy. I thought that I had found several programs that would encompass all of these interests in a single program (that is, including a dual degree or joint concentrations). I even took a job at one of these said institutions to get closer and to learn whatever I could before application.
But then reality hit.
How can I afford school? How am I going to get into a top program? How can I afford the rest of my life while going to school? How am I going to get a job after school? Will I ever get to see my boyfriend? What will I do with my degree? Why would a program accept me with my years of administrative experience? I am going to be stuck doing boring work my whole life. I’ll never go to grad school. I’m going to wake up at 60 and realize that I am so unhappy and have a huge list of dreams unrealized.
On and on it went (and goes). I often get so frustrated, thinking that a program will not want to take me because of my lack of applicable experience, and feel like I’ll get stuck working in administration for years.
I have had this image in my head of grad school: just take a couple years off after college, work for a bit, build some “real life” experience that appears to be so crucial on graduate applications, and then return to school, find a way to have it paid (or go part time and work), and then get a job in a field I love.
The more I learn of real life, the less and less this picket fence image seems possible. I have come to accept that a top ranked program in New York or DC might not be possible, or getting through school without adding (possibly significantly) to my not-so-small mound of debt is unlikely, and making less at my first post-grad job than I do now as an admin is rather certain.
Not to mention that finding an adequate program has been proving tougher than originally thought. I want to have a career that combines public policy and international affairs, which tends to manifest itself in either academic research or management. Neither of which is exactly appealing.
And then there’s the issue of location. My boyfriend is a current grad student at the University of Kentucky. Our long-distance relationship is already too tough on us, but my grad school attendance has the potential to extend our distance for a few more years. Neither he nor I is willing (at this time) to sacrifice full opportunities for one another’s careers, but it leaves us with an daunting idea: apart forever. We are both two focused individuals, which may serve to be a disservice. We both need to search our souls, our interests and our wallets to figure out our next steps, but we both keep each other on the front burner, as it could be a clincher.
So what now?
I’ll have to go back to the drawing board: reexamine all of the programs I’ve already researched, find several more defined paths, e-mail old professors, and seek out the assistance of career and graduate counselors. I’ll have to look into more public schools, more types of financial aid, and maybe wait a few years more.
While my crisis is far from over, I can at least try to breathe easy as I refocus my search, ask smarter questions and make more informed choices about my future.
Does this adulthood stuff ever get any easier?
I Quit.
No, I don’t quit this blog, my job, or my relationship. I quit school. Sort of.
My quitting was much more quiet
Just after Thanksgiving, I faced an admittedly easy assignment in one of my two classes: a 5-8 page paper on the 2007 Danish cartoons crisis for my Islam class. I stared and stared at the blank page on my computer screen, and nothing was coming to me. Did I have an opinion? Not really. Had my class really prepared me to have one? Not really.
I was growing anxious – just over 36 hours left to submit this paper and it was clear that I was going nowhere. Then a nagging reoccurring thought appeared – drop the class. This idea had come to me right before my last paper was due, and then largely every Monday when I trudged across campus even as my body called for rest. But this time it was more valid.
I polled several friends – one encouraged me to buck up and do my best and aim for a B. A “withdrawn” grade would not be appealing on a transcript to a potential grad school admissions officer. Another suggested that I work for a few hours and rest and wake up again and finish. I was even promised persimmon cookies as a reward. But I knew that it was best if I quit.
So I did.
But what does quitting mean? I will have a grade of “withdrawn” on my transcripts, which might detract from my overall package once I get around to applying to grad school. But I saved myself loads of anxiety and freed up hours (perhaps days) of time to devote to other pursuits. But I quit. I quit school. I never thought I’d say that.
I am a person who has an undying quest for learning. I will never tire of seeking out information on any number of random topics. But I gave up on this opportunity. Why? Because I didn’t want to do a paper? It was more than that. I was fairly unhappy with the trajectory of the course – I was definitely learning more about Muslims in Europe, but I wasn’t connecting with the material. It felt tedious to attend class, which I have never experienced. I disliked the dynamic of the class, and was not getting out what I wanted to get out of it.
I still know that it was the right decision, and am confident that my portfolio of grades, work experience, recommendations and activities can assure me admission to most any grad program of my choice, but I still feel… odd. Especially in a time that I am working hard to honor my commitments.
But there are just times that quitting is deserved, or even necessary. And this was just one of those times.
I’m an Adult. Seriously.
My name is Heather Marie. I’m 24. And I’m an adult.
I guess I don’t really need to join a support group in reaction to my status in life, but becoming an adult has been a surprising series of events.
I legally became an adult six years ago, but it wasn’t until recently that I really felt like I had fully become one. Adulthood transcends the ideas I had when I was a kid: staying up late, making your own choices, dating, seeing R-rated movies, imbibing, and taking more responsibility.
These people love being adults!
Yet, the paved journey to adulthood has been somewhat surprising:
1. I go to sleep early.
I used to make fun of my sister when she was a recent college grad for retiring very early every night. Without homework to do, she had so much free time! Why waste it?
Oh how little I knew. Once I started working and commuting, I completely understood. Working full time is exhausting. Your whole self goes into what you do each day (well, hopefully so!) and once you get home, there’s dinner to make, errands to run, and a multitude of other things to focus on. By the end of the day, I sincerely miss my pajamas.
I have a hard time staying out late on Friday nights now (unless I’ve napped for a bit after work) because of how tired I get, and sometimes find myself leaving my plans early to go to bed. Sometimes even before the last train.
Lately, with taking classes, plus a lead organizing role with Oxfam America Action Corps, I can’t ever seem to get to bed before midnight, which will not be a trend I can keep up. I miss being in bed at 10 and not feeling ashamed!
2. Paying debt off is an accomplishment (and fun!)
Until very recently, my money management skills left a great deal to be desired. I am now uber-obsessed with my available bank account balances, how my money moves, and paying my bills. I paid off my credit card debt a few months ago (it took four years, but it’s done!), and now I’m focused on shrinking the size of my auto and school loans and growing my savings. I’m even hoping to open a Roth IRA in the next year or so.
I can control my spending, pay all my bills in full and on time, not overdraw my account. Paying off debt – well, it’s just a wonderful thing.
3. I like wine.
I used to be a mild consumer of wine. I would nurse a glass for hours until it became undrinkable. I tried and tried to like it; took advice on reds and whites and pairings from my knowledgeable uncles and friends. I just couldn’t get behind it. I couldn’t discern the tastes of oak and fruit that connoisseurs could.
And then, something changed. I now like, nay, love wine. I’m interested in learning more, trying as many as possible, and continuing to grow my palate. Pass the Argentinian Malbec, please!
4. Time flies by.
Another surprising (but yet not surprising) aspect is that time flies by. Growing up, all the major milestones seemed ages away: driving, voting, drinking. Now these are all so commonplace that I sometimes take them for granted. Once I hit 25 and gain the ability to rent a car, what comes next? 30 seems so far away, but it’s realistically right around the corner. While I’m not fearing middle age yet, I realize how quickly it could come. I just have to make sure that I enjoy life as much as I can, because each and every day is precious.
On the other hand, adulthood has also not been surprising: taxes, sacrificing want for need, and financial independence (I just bought a car – completely on my own!). But I’m enjoying the journey.
And besides, who said adults can’t be silly?
Who said that adults have to be serious all the time? Life is better when you're silly.
Advice from a Bedwetter
Book cover "The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee"
I recently received some advice from an unlikely source…a bedwetter.
Well, more specifically, I read said advice.
This past May, I sped through the new memoir from comedian (and fellow Granite Stater) Sarah Silverman. She called it The Bedwetter: Stories of Courage, Redemption and Pee. It was short, funny and incredibly smart (while at the same time incredibly ridiculous). It not only details her life in comedy, but also growing up as a bedwetter. She had a medical condition where her bladder was undersized and she wet her bed well into her teens.
Yet, she wrote one passage about a nugget of wisdom she received from a wise friend: Make it a treat.
Today, Sarah applies this directly to her comedy: don’t overdo a joke otherwise it will grow old quickly.
This idea of saving special things for special occasions is not revolutionary or even that new, but it fits so completely with my (not new) plans for self-revitalization. I always tell myself “I’m going to get fit and eat healthy” but these ideas never stick.
I have a love/hate relationship with sweets. I always have and always will. I love sugar in many forms, and often have time saying no or even stopping at just one. Even today I downed more than one (three) small (ish) conga bars from a lunch meeting. I always feel guilty afterward but yet that guilt never seems to stop me from helping myself to more at a later date.
I try to limit myself to a sweet or two a week, and try to substitute with healthier treats like low sugar fruit popsicles (which are actually so delicious) or even some (regularly low-fat) bite-sized macaroons. No avail. Sweets and junk food are everywhere, and I can’t always resist.
So my new motto and mantra is Make it a treat. If I can continue to remind myself of this, I’m hoping I can convince my brain to stop craving sugar so much, and when I do indulge, to stop. It won’t be an easy task, but one that is necessary. I haven’t been as active as I need to be, and it’s showing. Better choices are going to benefit me now and for the rest of my life. I need to make these changes now while I am still very able.
Make it a treat. It can be applied to anyone or anything.
What is the vice in your life that you could make a treat?
Falling Feet First 