Risk - Life, not the Game

During my senior year of high school, I did the typical stuff – SAT’s, admissions applications, and college visits. I had chosen “my” college. Decided that I was going to pursue an elementary education degree at a wonderful teaching school a couple of hours from my parent’s home. I was accepted, I applied for loans, my parents applied for loans, I was set for my freshman year. My mom and I stayed in the dorms for an orientation weekend. On the second night of the orientation, I knocked on my mother’s door, and collapsed into her chest, crying my eyes out. Fearful of this move, not wanting to leave the comfort and safety of my high school life, my parent’s home, my relationship with my high school boyfriend, to jump into a college setting – strange town, strange professors, strangers. I cried my eyes out that night. She lovingly told me to do whatever was best for me. If I didn’t want to go, don’t go.

But there were outstanding loans, there were plans with my friend to room together, there were meal tickets already bought. And I went. My friend backed out at the last minute. And I still went. I attended that school for one semester. I went home every weekend. And I ran home as soon as the semester ended.

I regret my decision to this day. I wish I had been brave enough to embrace the circumstances and make the best of it. Make new friends, find out what college life is really about and receive a diploma. Yet I chickened out, ran home with my tail between my legs.

I have thought of this moment many times over the past few days. I want to run home to my mom and cry and tell her to make this easier, make my decision for me, keep me safe.

I am enveloped with fear and doubt and sadness.

We are moving back to Houston.