I wanted to be an extraordinary kid.
I saw these reports on the news about kids opening successful businesses, starting functional charities, and achieving academic, artistic, and athletic excellence – and I wanted so terribly to be one of them.
I was the kid who shoved legos up my nose when my cousin dared me.
As a kid, I did impressions. My mom’s favorite was most likely my Urkel impression.
I was a girl scout, and liked to make up silly skits with my girl scout sisters.
I was a klutz with asthma, so sports was out of the question.
The only place I seemed to excel was in my writing. I wrote poetry, essays, and stories and even won the Young Author’s Award at the age of 11. At the age of 13, I won the Youth Crime Watch award for an essay on gun safety.
At the age of 17, I spent the summer leading a children’s theater group. We wrote an original play with original music and choreography and performed it for a small crowd at my high school. That project earned me the Silver Knight Award for Drama in Miami-Dade County.
But I didn’t feel any of that made me exceptional and, as my 18th birthday approached, I felt like my chance to be extraordinary had passed me by.
I was most definitely not an extraordinary young adult.
I squandered my twenties being mediocre at best. There was a good twelve years where I did nothing but exist. The small efforts I made to excel at anything were met with failure and misery in my twenties.
My thirties were a time of self-discovery and service. Thanks to the support and encouragement of my parents, I traveled a lot in my early 30s and had lots of adventures with many new friends. This part of my life excelled for me personally.
My late thirties and early forties were a time of service to my parents. I strongly believe I excelled as a caregiver, but the only people that affected are no longer able to speak on my behalf.
And so, here I find myself at the age of 43, feeling more lackluster than ever.
But I no longer believe that my chance to be extraordinary is behind me.
Who ever told me that my chance to shine had an expiration date?
I’m never going to be an extraordinary kid, or teen, or young adult. Yes, it's true that those deadlines were missed – but each new day is another chance to try…
Another chance to strive…
Another chance to succeed.
So, I'm trying and, who knows? Maybe I'll be the most spectacular 70 year old to ever exist!
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