Back when I was eleven years old, I had no clue my life was about to change on every level. 

From another cross-country move
to moving in with the other parent
to finding my calling in life

it was quite the year of change for me. 

Much like this last year has been.  

In the blink of an eye, due to the dedicated influence of just one kind person, I started down the path of writer is me.

And, unbeknownst to me, started to pen my very first memoir. 

And this year, well, having my name as my word of the year, that right there has been a delicious discovery that has unearthed all the tender, raw, torn, divine parts of me that I’ve intentionally kept hidden till now. 

More on that to come, along with news about my first soon-to-be-released in my name book, but today’s words are a trip down memory lane. 

An excerpt from that new book, Create Your Most Delicious Life, written by me, as me. A first and yet not.

A story I recently shared a bit on in my free Facebook group, Write Your Book Already!

But today, let’s dive into this blast-from my past essay entitled eleven. 

eleven

When I was in the 5th grade, I entered my third fifth-grade classroom, after moving across the country to live with my Dad. It was unexpected, as was the entire topsy-turvy year, but that’s another story.

See my teacher, I’ll never forget him. He met my father at the classroom door to welcome the new student (me again). And unlike my last teacher that year, his smile was real and kind.    

My last teacher, number two for the year, even though she randomly shared my last name, did not have the same compassion, kindness and care as I did. In fact, at times, I’d often felt she downright hated me.

This teacher—he seemed fun even, with glasses,
a grin that turned his lip up on one side,
almost hidden
but seen by me,
behind a trim,
close-cut beard.    

As the students craned their necks, leaning to and fro in their seats to get a look at the “new kid,” I stared unflinchingly back.   

Being the new kid can go one of two ways. 

With you on the top,
Queen B.

Or you sucking wind by day’s end
like you took a few swift kicks. 

This time, I was determined to end the day on top,
as I’d had it both ways already
this year. 

And to be honest, I was tired of being someone’s punching bag, another reason I was here, now living with my father at eleven.   

So, this teacher, Mr. R. let’s call him, took me by the hand and walked me to the front of the classroom after a quick side hug with my so-not old man.    

At first, I thought, Crap, a desk in the front row. 

I preferred to observe. Hard to do from the head of the room. 

But then we stopped by his desk and my heart dropped into my stomach, creating a ripple of nauseating waves that threatened to erupt out of me if I didn’t suck that shit down.   

He turned to me and said, “Tell me your story.”  

I nearly passed out as I forgot yet again to breathe.   

First minute, first day, and he was going to make me stand in front of the 40+ eyeballs already trained on my back and share who I was while all sat in judgment of me.   

Seconds from my vision dimming to black, I remember resisting the urge to push up my too-big-for- my-face glasses and instead began to count backward from 99. 

Sometimes that worked. I’d never once fainted, yet knew there was a first time for everything.   

He repeated the words, “Tell me your story.” 

But this time he stood behind his desk chair and pulled it out with a scrape of legs against old, worn linoleum floors. A palm up offering of his hand encouraged me to focus on the paper and pencil already set neatly...

for me?   

The relief was a wave so glorious, I smiled — an uncomfortable upturn of my normally straight-line, at that time, lips.   

I quickly sat, before he could change his mind,
like adults tended to do,
and scooted closer to the desk.

When he nodded, I picked up the pencil, turned to the blank page and felt such peace and JOY at being left the hell alone. 

I got to work writing the waves of thoughts, words, sentences, paragraphs that were my life. 

Fragments and tales and all the many shoved down emotions. Feelings that had been bottling up within me for days, weeks, years… a lifetime.   

That teacher, that man, gave me a gift that day. An outlet. 

And I often dream of crossing paths with him.

To thank him with a hug,
a handshake,
a kind word for taking the time,
for knowing just what I needed
in that moment
to thrive.   

Survive.

Plus, it made me the must-have lunch companion when the time came, as everyone wanted to know why I was at the teacher’s desk in the front of the class, not doing the assignments but busy working on something that seemed super-important.   

And it was. Important. Vital. Everything to me. 

It was the first time I wrote the story of me.   

My first memoir. 

If  you liked this share, an excerpt from Create Your Most Delicious Life, and want to sink into more words with me . . .  Get on the waitlist for my latest book today. 

I’m finally writing as me,
and hot damn has it been a trip.
Get on the Waitlist & Get all the dirty deets.

Post Photo Credit: Юлія Дубина @yulia_dubyna