Free to be Me

I have been seeing a lifecoach for the past three weeks; today marked our fourth meeting. On our first meeting, she (Michele) told me that I need to figure out who I am. She, for example, is a guide. And so, my assignment was to define myself in a single word.

Ok--that may sound easy...but I found that rather baffling. Who am I? And so the search began. I scoured the internet for single word descriptors. That proved helpful--I narrowed the field quite a bit.

I am a counselor, I decided. When I was in my senior year of college after 5 years of undergrad, (getting married slowed me down a tad) I met a girl whose major was Guidance Counseling. "Wait--what is that?" I asked. And when she told me, I knew that was what I wanted to do. But? I had just spent the past five years in school; you could not pay me enough to spend any more time pursuing a different degree. And so, off I went with a degree in English in hand to conquer the world of education. I'll get my master's in guidance counseling when the time is right, I figured. And of course, we all know how that goes. During my first year of teaching, I found out I was pregnant and the rest is history.

I still don't have my Master's in counseling.

And so, week two I met with Michele, armed with my new descriptor: I am a counselor!

That's great! she said. I'm so proud of you! You seem so confident, so self-assured! 

Ah--job well-done. I know my who. 

And then, she told me I needed to figure out what I bring to the table with my who. 

How do people perceive you? How do you want them to perceive you?

And so, back I went to google. Google and I? We're buddies. Pretty much best friends. And so I began to make a list of qualities in a counselor and how I can see myself in that role. I met again with Michele, armed with my new array of how. And again, she was impressed with my insight, with my dogged determination to figure out who am I. This time, she sent me home to figure out how all of that fits into the workplace in a single sentence.

And so, I came home and began researching exactly what a counselor does. And that's when I began to question: am I really a counselor? I am not interested in hearing people's problems so much. I'm not a life coach, a guide. I'm not all about the office with the low lights and the waterfall contraptions and the tan couch.

And then it hit me: I am a teacher. Doggone it--I just can't get away from it. I was raised in education. My parents are educators. My husband is an educator. I taught for well over twenty years and thrived in that profession. I am a teacher.

And so today I went back to Michele and, with a shrug, I said I am a teacher.

I just can't escape it, no matter how I try.

And she said, "I thought you were a counselor!"

"Me too." (Shrug)

"Well then, tell me what you have taught."

"English."

"And what did you like about teaching English?"

"Well, I liked teaching literature, but my gift in the classroom was teaching writing. I loved teaching writing."

And so I began to explain how writing brings power. It empowers. It changes people and cities and countries and churches. Writing speaks love and brings connection. It unites and creates acceptance. Writing changes the world, one sentence at a time.

I explained to her how, at the tender age of 7 years old, I sat at our dining room table, pencil in hand, and created stories about the Christmas cards that hung on our wall during the holiday season. When I was a young girl in the throes of insecurity, I escaped the madness by diving in headlong to the lives of the characters whom I breathed life into on paper. I filled notebooks with stories that bulged and gave birth to another until they spilled out of the boxes that housed them. It was as though the world did not contain enough pages to fill with the words that burned within me--I simply could not write fast enough.

"And then I had children," I said. And writing took a backseat to highchairs and squabbles and flying out the door to teach and laundry and vacuuming and grading papers and cooking dinner and grocery shopping and exhausted blank stares at a tv screen at the end of the day only to wake up and do the same the very next day...and the next...and the next...and the next.

And then Michele grinned.

"I do believe you have your who," she said.

It was so simple really. It was there all the time; I just didn't see it. And now that I know? Ah--such freedom it brings! I no longer have to stress about the fact that I never know what to cook when company comes over for dinner. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a cook!

I no longer have to worry myself with the fact that, though I love to knit, it never goes well for me. Why? Because I am a writer! I am not a knitter!

I no longer have to worry about the fact that I don't do shopping or large crowds of people or boisterous parties filled with silly games. Why? Because I am a writer who craves peace and bursting flowers and quiet moments filled with the ones I love.

Figuring out my who? It's liberating. It's a beautiful thing really--I am seeing my world through completely new eyes. I am empowered! No more grading or pretending or striving to be the things I'm not.

Let the writing begin.