By Baity Wagner | senior | Wylie E. Groves High School
[This work comes from the Art of Storytelling class, taught by Julia Satterthwaite.]
I soaked in school like a sponge. I loved learning about shapes, addition and how to write a proper sentence. Despite the abundance of lessons that are thrown at you in Kindergarten, story time was always my favorite. I would sit in the same spot every day; the blue circle right in front of my teacher Mrs. Denys. Whether it be a royal kingdom or a wild jungle, her calm energy immersed me into whatever world she threw us into that day. With this, I started to find my oasis in my teachers and the classroom.
With my love for learning, my parents, aunts, uncles, and other extended family (many of which are also teachers) continually recommend I become a teacher. Considering my world view was as small as I was, it only seemed natural that this was the path for me.
Soon enough, the vibrant playgrounds turned to locker filled hallways and my world view expanded once more. I had found my passion in another classroom, my eighth grade social studies class.
Mr. Emmi presented us with the same issues as our forefathers of America. We debated on how the states would be represented in Congress, how much power our president should have and what rights our citizens should have. I’d stand behind my teachers podium and address my classmates as if I were a congresswoman myself. I’d ask to read ahead in the textbook, relish in delegating debates and speaking my mind. Mr. Emmi continued to be a beacon of positivity for me, encouraging me to transfer these skills to our forensic team which only fueled my passion for public speaking.
I had made up my mind once more and decided I wanted to pursue law and politics. I wanted to advocate for those who didn’t have a voice and engage in debate with people just as passionate as I was.
My dream stayed fierce till the summer before my Sophomore year. My Mom’s cancer had come back out of remission and this time, no amount of chemotherapy could save her. I spent my summer beside her in numerous bleak hospital rooms. The time didn’t even feel like ours; some rooms she shared and there was almost always a nurse coming to administer medication, meals, or tests. Every day I came to visit, I was dragging my feet down the grey tiled floors.
Her inevitable passing came and grief consumed me for months. I couldn’t get out of bed, shower, and some days eat; I was pulled out of school for a month. The load of my grief started to lighten with time, even if some days it feels just as heavy.
My worldview expanded once more. My mom inadvertently gave me strength that most fifteen year olds don’t have. And with that, I wanted to use it to help others in mine and my mothers position by becoming a hospice nurse. If I, as a teenager, could survive grieving my mother, I could certainly use my experience to help guide others.
As my world opened, it helped me discover myself along the way. I’m not a different person than who I was before, I have just discovered more of myself. Every learning opportunity and uplifting teacher opens another path for me to explore. I’ve walked the hospital halls as a heartbroken daughter and before I know it, I’ll walk them as a hospice nurse.