On the next transition.

I wanted this to feel like Colorado. I sat down in front of the computer screen, put on my favorite Pandora station, opened up my blogger window, and took one last look out the window to remind me of the beautiful day outside. I wanted to feel as driven and excited by the written word as I did so many months ago, the days I would wake up hours early in order to shake the words out of my head before driving the mile or so to work through the thin, crisp air, the Flatirons looming so majestically above me and the sky cloudless and blue.

But it hasn't worked. Every effort I've made in the past few months to reclaim that peace of mind, that feeling of boundless freedom I lost when I crossed the Mississippi, has ended the same way. I've only recently put my finger on the feeling - like my shoes are too tight. The big sky and mountain breeze helped of course, but the real thing I'm lacking right now has nothing to do with geographical location. Colorado was potent because it was mine. My first half marathon, my move to Bonnet, the relationships I cultivated and strengthened and lost and gained over the nine months I spent there, all the running and the learning and the opening - all of that was mine too. But now it's like I'm living on borrowed time, within the confines of other peoples' homes and in snippets of everyone else's lives. Don't get me wrong, I've had an absolutely amazing summer. I'm so incredibly grateful for the love I've felt and the people I've met and the places I've seen. But it has also felt like one absurdly long vacation, and I think I'm ready for a little solid ground. A place I can really call home.

In two weeks, I will begin yet another experience of my very own. I'm scared. I'm thrilled and anxious and ecstatic and frightened and feeling utterly bewildered and bittersweet. In some ways, the last thing I want to do is leave (ok, one very particular way), but in others I realize it's more necessary than I probably know. I worry about balance and about failure and about the past repeating itself, all the while looking forward to the adventure and the challenge and the opportunity to prove myself once again. I've been having a lot of feelings and doing a lot of soul-searching in preparation for the long road ahead. And here's what I've come up with:

1. Stop being so scared of not having enough time. Whatever that means. John Steinbeck once said in a letter to his son, "Don't worry about losing. If it is right, it happens - The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away." So have a little faith. That goes for so much more than love.

2. Don't forget to breathe. Be careful not to get so lost in your head at the expense of the rest of you and the big world around you that's so ripe for the noticing. Because - I wrote it in a previous post, and I've never forgotten it - the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.

3. See everyone you meet with fresh eyes and a beginner's mind. Plato had it right: "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle," and all that.

4. For god's sake, love yourself. You're pretty awesome and, more than that, you're pretty damn lucky. Take care to see that you never become depleted or overwhelmed enough to forget that.

Yes, I miss the mountains. I miss the big sky. But I love my life today. And as it turns out, the freedom I once thought was exclusive to altitude is tantamount to the ease that arises when I hold myself accountable for my own peace of mind. From loving and letting go and trusting... something. And I've realized all of this before, but maybe that's what life is. Once, during one of our then-customary late night chats in the hot tub, my good friend Liz likened growing up to a spiral staircase rather than a ladder. It's not linear (much to the chagrin of those of us who enjoy control and single-variable equations with rational solutions). We may come back to the same point again and again, but we rise a little each time we do it. So I'm learning the same lessons over and over, which is incredibly frustrating. But at least I'm growing while I'm doing it. And at least I'm learning. Borrowed space and time might be infuriating, but when the time is mine again, I think I'll be plenty ready to jump right in... and hopefully to rise a little more.

On stowing the Rocky Mountain High in my suitcase.

I was recently told that I'm too serious. That my standards are too high. That I've got such a stick up my butt, constantly reading all those gosh-darn books. "Men don't like a girl who's so intense all the time, you know." It reminded me of Christmas, and of my grandmother's quip: "You'll never find a man if you keep being a vegetarian, you know." What is with that?? What is with people who barely know me informing me that I have to change who I am in order to, of all things, eventually attract someone with whom I can be completely honest and wholly intimate? Naturally, I laughed my humorless little butt off and went on with my day. But I have to admit, it got to me. If only because it made me wonder whether I come across the way I think I do. If the "me" I put out to the world matches the "me" I'm so well acquainted with inside.

A few days after that ridiculous yet thought-provoking conversation, I left for a vacation in Colorado and had an absolutely amazing time. Knowing full well that happiness has nothing to do with geographic coordinates, I came back to the east coast with the express intention of figuring out exactly what it is about the wild, wild west that makes me feel so wonderful.

(Aside from sights like this, that is.)
And so I did. See, I'd had zero expectations heading into my trip. I was afraid it would hurt too much to be back there, so I had avoided devoting even a single thought to anything about it except for my race training. That really made the whole week very... easy. When it came to our weekend in Utah, I handed the reins to everyone else. For once, I was just along for the ride. I let go of controlling anything at all and just enjoyed myself. My friends. The weather. The mountains and canyons and desert and fresh air. Without any expectations or desire to control circumstance, there was no way for me to feel disappointed.

Let's just say that realizing all that was a definite "a-ha!" moment. I have always prided myself on being an excellent planner - which, unbeknownst to me, apparently translates in proper English as "she who has major control issues." Living life from the neck up comes with an unfortunate desire to be able to foresee the future, the way other people will act and the outcomes of all of your carefully orchestrated choices. And all of these expectations automatically set you up for anxiety, aggravation and, ultimately, disappointment... a.k.a. the New England, Type A way of life.

I've written a number of posts in the last year about how happiness comes from "being here now," but I don't think I ever quite knew exactly how to do that. But Coloradans sure do. Turns out, it happens when you live in your body instead of your brain. When you spend your moments focusing on the person in front of you, or the sunshine on your shoulders, or the depth of your breath, rather than your to-do list, or what other people think of you, or all of the possible twists of fate that you are so deathly afraid of being unprepared for. What is the worst that can happen, really? What good is worrying actually doing you? And more importantly, what are you missing out on by being so caught up in your fears over anything and everything that could go so "wrong"? Maybe I have been too serious, after all. Maybe I have been spending too much time caught up in my safe little cocoon of a brain, building walls against anyone (everyone) and anything (everything) I am afraid of.

So I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm certainly not changing who I am, but I'm finally letting other people know who that girl is. Here and there, I'm letting go of the reins. I'm not going to lie, it scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. But it's also incredibly liberating. And what some might call freedom feels a lot like that bliss I've been chasing after for years. Funnily enough, it was here all along.

2011

I've been staring at this blank slate and blinking cursor for weeks now. Even now, I'm not sure where to start. I could easily use a bunch of flowery adjectives and dramatic metaphors to describe the past 12 months, but I won't. Because to be honest, I don't really want to look back. I'm kind of done with 2011. I started out having no idea what I wanted and no inclination to make choices that were good for me. I didn't get out of my own way until about halfway through the year, when I finally had to scale my way out of the massive mental hole I had built around myself. I finally prioritized taking full responsibility for my life rather than continuing to wait for some elusive opportune moment. I learned to breathe, and to be present, and to be comfortable with uncertainty. I met an incredible yoga teacher who inspired me to get out of my head and stop exhausting myself trying to be perfect. I stepped out of my comfort zone and set goals that had previously seemed leagues out of my reach. I opened myself up to people and realized that there are always ample opportunities to belong, if you'll only let yourself do so. All in all, it has been an amazingly transformative year... that I am very much looking forward to leaving behind.

Of course, one thing I would do well to remember in the coming years is that there is no finish line. Perhaps counter-intuitively, maintaining peace of mind these days takes commitment. And commitment is all about balance. From now on, I'm going to try and embrace Lao Tzu's words: "A journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step." Rather than expending all of my energy on a single inspired task only to crash and burn and lose momentum, I'm going to focus on taking baby steps. I'm going to continue to work on forgiving myself for not being perfect, and I'm going to try instead to embrace the grey area. Essentially, my new year's resolution is not to make any. Yes, I could promise to adhere to a more consistent workout schedule, or eat only whole, minimally processed foods, or maintain a strict daily meditation practice, or put more of my paycheck into savings, or any number of other smart, healthy vows to foster my sense of well-being and improve my life. But, let's be honest. I would break all of those in no time and just end up feeling discouraged and disappointed with myself. Who wants that? So I'm proposing something different. Here's to imperfection in 2012 - to effort and failure and perseverance, and inevitably, to the joy that just might happen to arise from the whole shebang.

On moving forward.

As I pulled into my driveway, I instantly regretted not having the forethought to bring supplies and camp at the top of the mountain. It was such a beautiful night. I lugged my backpack from the front seat of my car and gazed up at the crystal clear, star-studded sky above me. The cosmos and I needed a moment, I thought. I set down my pack and lay down on the wet grass, propping my head up on my folded hands, staring into the abyss, chilled by the fall air but warmed by my quiet contentment. I suddenly realized that I couldn't think of one thing to ask for - no requests for clarity from the universe, or guidance, or good fortune. I took a couple of deep breaths, reveling in the perfection of that autumn evening. The following week, life blew up in my face.

And on and on it goes. These days, I'm pretty good at taking it in stride. There will always be crests and troughs; the trick is to be the water rather than the boat. Wise people know that the secret to happiness is relinquishing your attempts at control. Ok, noted. But wait a minute - surely we can't just coast through life expecting everything to be peachy keen without putting forth any effort at all? Call me crazy, but that seems like a pretty serious contradiction. How in the world are you supposed to simultaneously let go of your attachment to a given outcome and continue to maintain your goals and ambitions?

Once again, the answer (for me, at least) is stunningly simple: Be here now. It's all well and good to have grand plans for the future, but too often I've found myself halfway down one road before realizing that my drive to explore it had evaporated miles and miles back. Here's the problem with consciousness: it paints us as vaguely static individuals, when in fact we are changing all the time. In the Western world, we are taught that we each have a distinct "me-ness" that makes us special. From an early age, we are urged to define ourselves based on our myriad strengths, our likes and dislikes, the people we choose to associate with. Later in life our identities might become entrenched within a particular religion or political party or job or community organization. And while some of our values do tend to remain stable over time, little changes often accumulate and mix and mingle to become desires that undermine even our most dearly held self-concepts. And before we know it, we're stuck in a place we can't stand or pursuing a career we hate or married to a person we no longer love.

For whatever reason, I'm becoming increasingly aware of the fact that we only get one shot at life. And time is flying by. For my part, I spent a lot of years backtracking, trying desperately to recover the ghosts of "lost" choices that were never right for me in the first place. Like most of us, I wish I had known then what I know now. So, be present with yourself. Take the time to become intimately acquainted with what you are feeling right now. By all means, have a blueprint for your future, but be prepared to jump ship at a moment's notice. If you're reading this, you're lucky enough to live in a place where you can choose nearly everything about your life; if not circumstance, then at least the way you react to it. All I'm saying is choose, and choose authentically. There is no reason not to live a life you love.

Harder, better, faster, stronger.

If there's one word in the English language that inspires more fear, more apprehension and more shame in me than any other, it's this one: wrong.

I've been thinking a lot lately about that word. Wrong. When I was in college (i.e. when my life was pretty well laid out for me), I spent hours and days and weeks of my life fretting and obsessing about the few choices I had to make, completely paralyzed by my indecision because I was afraid I would make the wrong one. Throughout the last year and a half, I've found it nearly impossible to forgive myself for instances in which I was careless with the feelings of people I cared about, in which I was rash and thoughtless, in which I made the wrong choices.

I've heard it said that humankind is capable of only two emotions - love, and fear. The majority of my adult life has unquestionably revolved around the latter. Somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that if I made a mistake, no one could possibly love me; and worse, I couldn't possibly love myself. If I didn't make every effort to see that the needs and wants of those around me were satisfied, if I didn't put aside my own desires and feelings - in fact, if I even focused on them long enough to realize what they were and that they could possibly conflict with those of others - I wasn't being a loving friend, or family member, or coworker, or girlfriend. I killed myself to maintain that precarious balance and tend to the needs of everyone I cared about, endlessly berating myself for those that fell by the wayside, trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control in my own life, and expected that at the end of the day, I would be perfect. I would do everything right, and love everyone, and everyone would love me, and I would love myself.

Well, honey, that's not love. That's fear. Plain and simple.

A few weeks ago, I was having a particularly overwhelming afternoon. Now, when I'm stressed, I tend to just take off. And so I went for a run. I ran until my breath fell into a steady rhythm. I ran until all I could focus on was putting one foot in front of the other. I ran until I felt the endorphins coursing through my blood, and a smile creeping across my face. And suddenly an hour had gone by. It was then that I decided I was going to push myself. I decided to run a half-marathon.

Now, I had never been what you would call a "runner." I'd always preferred to run on a treadmill, with music pounding in my ears and some empty drivel on the television distracting me from the otherwise mind-numbing experience. But somehow, this was different. And since then I've been running exclusively outside, at dawn, with no sound but the beating of my own heart and the scuffing of pavement for company. I can't focus on my past, or my future, or my so-called "mistakes," or what anyone else expects of me. I'm forced to take it breath by breath, trust my instincts, let go of my mind, and listen closely to what my body is telling me. And slowly, I'm picking up the pieces. We've all heard the old cliché - before you can love anyone else, you have to love yourself. And this might be the first time in my life I've ever done something for myself that wasn't based in fear - fear of consequences, or inadequacy, or failure.

They say that if you can run 10 miles, you can run 13.1. This weekend, I'm on track to do just that. Easily. Something I never thought I could do. I'm proud of myself. And while it's not forgiveness, it's a start. Love, like life, is an endurance sport. And I'm working on it. One step at a time.

twelve months.

Tomorrow marks one year since the day I left for Colorado, and two years since the day I graduated from college. Funny how time flies. As the days get longer and the air gets warmer, I find myself becoming increasingly nostalgic for last summer: the gorgeous, sunny day hikes through green meadows filled with wildflowers, the lazy mornings spent floating around on pool rafts, baking in the 100-degree sunshine, the late nights spent in downtown bars, searching for nothing but an innocent good time with a girlfriend or two (though occasionally finding more than we bargained for). Eventually those thoughts give way to memories of the fall: of finally sharing my amazing world with friends and family from home, of trekking over the Rocky Mountains at 12,000 feet, endlessly in awe of the stark contrast between the vibrant yellows of the autumn aspens and the crisp blue of the alpine sky, of learning important life lessons from unfamiliar back woods and the unspeakably haunting, howling wind. After that, it gets muddy. Next thing I know, I'm back in Rhode Island. And a minute later, my life is completely different from what I had imagined and I'm about as comfortable as I would be had I never left. Let's back up.

I'm pretty sure I've said that Colorado changed me about as many times as one can say something without being labeled with a memory disorder. But to a certain extent, it's true. If nothing else, it changed my values. I remember listening to a speaker at the Science Writers conference in November and being struck by the realization that I had always cared about ideas more than people. For the majority of my adult life, I had been far more interested in learning about abstract concepts than I had been in interacting with my fellow man. But sometime between that trip and the time I moved back to New England, all of that changed. At some point, I stopped living my life in my head, and I started living it with my heart. I think it happened over Thanksgiving. Despite my history of running off on my own, I had never felt that kind of profound loneliness before. For the first time, I realized that I needed people. And slowly but surely, my urgent desire to belong to the world has blossomed into a quiet sense of clarity that I've never felt before.

There are days when I miss Colorado a lot. I miss my friends and the sunshine and the mountains. But I haven't once regretted my decision to come back to Rhode Island. Despite the frequent dreary weather, the distinct dearth of open space or elevation, the cranky people, the crappy roads, the constant rush and congestion... it's home. I felt relieved the minute I crossed the state line. I'm going to be honest, it has been a challenging couple of months. Hell, it has been a challenging year. But I worked it out. I accomplished everything I wanted to. I'm happy. And I'm ready for yet another fantastic summer.

On being here now.

I've been destination-oriented for as long as I can remember. As much as I loved theatre when I was younger, I never liked rehearsing very much; it was the final performance that always drove me. In high school, I spent my time taking pictures of everyone and everything so I'd have the memories to look back on, rather than focusing on enjoying the experience in the moment. I looked forward to my college exams more than I did classes. I watch movies to have watched them and I read books to have read them. Sometimes I even find myself wanting good things to end simply for the relief of being on the other side of the pain that will ensue when they do.

I know a number of people right now who are undergoing transitions. Some are just a little confused, and some are on the brink of quarter-life crises. Yesterday, a few friends and I were lamenting the fact that we're spending the prime years of our lives consumed by concern over our futures. Personally, I know I've always been in a hurry to grow up because I crave stability. I'm terribly impatient, I despise failing, and I can't stand feeling like life is out of my control. But what's funny about all of those things - and what I'm only now starting to realize - is that all of this evolving is the fun part. Now, somebody once told me that I concentrate so much on purpose that I don't know how to have fun. That comment bothered me for years but, to be honest, in a way I think he was right. And I don't think I'm alone. So many of us are so focused on tomorrow that sometimes we forget to live right now. And the truth of the matter is that we'll never be younger than we are today.

Of course you need to plan for the future. But only until it starts to detract from your present. The answers will come when you're ready for them. I spent years and years hoping to control circumstance by sheer willpower alone, thinking and rethinking my big life choices until I was blue in the face. But it wasn't until I became very still - until I sat on a train quietly observing the world as it flew by my window, until I heard the pounding of music in my ears and felt the wind racing through my hair, rolling down a hill on my bike - that everything seemed to fall into place. I still feel jealous when I encounter people who seem to have their entire lives figured out, but I'm trying not to get ahead of myself anymore. I'm trying to step out of my own way so I can be the one place I need to be: here, now. And so far, it's going swimmingly.

wherever you go, there you are... or are you?

I've been thinking a lot lately about change. I am not who I was ten years ago. Nor am I who I was last year, or last month, or even yesterday. Everyone evolves - friends, family members, acquaintances, people we aren't terribly fond of. It's a fact of life, but it isn't one that we tend to focus a whole lot of energy on. We all care deeply about some people and hold grudges against others without regard for the amount of time that has passed since our feelings arose. But why? Mentally speaking, they have changed. Physically speaking, they don't even possess the same body they did so many days or months or years ago. When you really think about it, such a continuity problem becomes a complicated issue in terms of both love and accountability.

A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine recommended that I read Milan Kundera's short novel Identity. In it, Kundera tells the story of Jean-Marc, a young Frenchman who becomes consumed by the fear that time will change his lover Chantal into a woman he no longer recognizes. And why shouldn't he? In a world where such change often happens imperceptibly, is it even reasonable to believe that two people can spend 10 or 20 or 50 years together without growing apart or eventually encountering some kind of insurmountable obstacle?

In one of my college courses, we conducted the following thought experiment: a ship goes off on a long voyage. While at sea, boards crack, pipes break, and one by one each component is replaced with a new part. When the ship finally returns, every piece of it is brand new. So is it still the same ship? What if, instead of discarding the old parts, each was gradually assembled into a second ship? Both ships return to port - now, which is the one that left? Personally, I'm inclined to assign identity based on some form of continuous memory; that is, the ship with all the new parts is the one that originally left.

But what about in criminal cases? Yesterday, the New York Times published an interesting article arguing in favor of lessening the punishments for juvenile murderers. The author cites factors such as peer pressure, impulsivity and immaturity as reasons to prohibit severe sentences in juveniles. When it comes to accountability, identity becomes a sticky issue. Releasing a 25-year old murderer is still releasing a murderer, even if he was only 14 when he committed the crime. But at the same time, so much of our growth as human beings occurs during our adolescent years. Is it fair, then, to lock him up for the rest of his life based on a crime he committed when he was barely old enough to know what it meant? I don't think so.

Then again, where do you draw the line? If a young girl kills someone the day before her 15th birthday, should her sentence be any more lenient than that of the young man who commits murder the day after his? What about a 17 year old vs. an 18 year old? I suspect that it's less about age than maturity in these cases, but it is extremely difficult to quantify maturity and even moreso to diagram the grand ways in which an individual has changed since the fateful day that shaped the rest of his or her life.

The famed Greek philosopher Heraclitus once claimed, "change is the only constant"; still, it would seem that our society makes very few provisions for evolution. So how do you make sense of your own continuity of experience? How do you pass fair judgement on the people in your life? What do you place your faith in? I have no idea, but I think it's all worth a thought or two.

sea level

I drove to the beach in an effort to find some clarity. The chilly salt air stung, and I retreated as far as I could into my winter coat, a lone huddled mass on the long stretch of concrete. As I bundled up against the cold and spitting rain, I watched the ocean. The same old waves crested and fell again and again, one after the other, displaying at once their strength and transience. The water haphazardly lapped at the grimy and windwhipped rocks below my dangling feet. Beneath the threatening sky and relentless wind, the ocean seemed tired. I felt I could relate.

Ten months ago, I moved to Colorado with grand aspirations. I was going to start over. I was going to figure out who I was. I was going to prove to myself that I still had the social stamina and emotional wherewithall to confront a set of completely alien surroundings and transform them into a place that I could call home. But I didn't count on longing for the ocean. I didn't count on desperately missing my friends and family. And I certainly didn't count on my career sending me right back the way I came. So I decided to pack everything up, drive 3000 miles across the country and dump myself right back into a life that less than a year ago, I left behind for some very good reasons.

Surprisingly enough, not much has changed for me in Rhode Island. Despite filling my time almost to excess, I've been feeling insecure and anxious and alone. I've been questioning whether I actually accomplished any of the goals I had for myself in Colorado. I've been blaming myself inside and out for choices and judgements that are out of my control, and I've found myself wrung out, exhausted, and feeling hauntingly close to the way I did a year ago. Bla bla bla.

And you know, for a while there I thought that I messed up. I thought that it meant I didn't trust myself any more than I did last May. I thought it meant that all the time I spent out west was a complete wash. But I was wrong. The fact is, I did change. I stopped being the person I thought everyone wanted me to be, and I embraced the qualities that make me who I really am. In fact, I think I'm confused and hurt and overwhelmed precisely because I've learned to be true to myself. I think more than is necessary, and I'm openhearted to a fault. For me, there are only two choices: I throw myself 100% into something, or I don't do it. That goes for my career aspirations, my personal relationships, and everything else. Call it what you will, but it's the most authentic way I know how to live.

The fact of the matter is, I know who I want to be. And even if I don't act like that person every minute of every day, even if I make a misstep here and there, it doesn't mean that I've failed. It just means that I'm not dead yet. I'm growing. I'm moving forward. And regardless of everything I'm feeling in this moment, that is something to be proud of.

Vanessa, a history.

Write a narrative about your life. This should include information about your accomplishments, family, educational experience, and outside activities. Be creative rather than philosophic. Remember that you are writing for a reader who knows nothing about you or your background. (1,000 words maximum)

Let’s build a time machine. We’re going to go back twenty-three years, to a muggy Memorial Day weekend in 1987. I wasted no time being born; I was out like a shot, ready to explore the world, and I have been growing, impatiently, ever since.

My parents divorced when I was very young. I grew up living with my mother, who steadfastly supported my every step and instilled in me a love of learning and a passion for creativity. As a kid, I sang, I danced, I drew and painted. I wrote plays, short stories and comic strips. I completed my homework diligently and requested extra credit assignments with the kind of enthusiasm that one could only expect from a little girl with stringy hair and enormous coke-bottle glasses. Yes, I was a nerd. I can’t remember whether I knew it at the time, but if I did, I showed no signs of caring. While my best friend decided to ration her time between playing with me and wooing the popular kids, I spent my recess hours creating the perfect scrapbook page on which to display my winning ribbon from the 5th grade science fair.

I have always been a good student, but eventually my love of school gave way to a love of theatre. For eight years, I spent my summers rehearsing for musical theatre productions. Once I reached high school, I spent the academic year in much the same fashion. I played ensemble parts, supporting characters and leading roles. I embodied the dark, moody spirit of the true Grimm fairytales as Little Red in Into the Woods. I portrayed an impassioned young woman with fiercely loyal gang aspirations as Anybodys in West Side Story and a poor Jewish bride fighting archaic traditions and the rising tide of prejudice as Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. I understudied the gregarious Reno Sweeny in Anything Goes and, in an unexpected turn of events, deftly took to the stage on the night of our very last rehearsal. I managed to perfect the precarious act of balancing my theatrical endeavors with my studies and graduated fifth in my class with a degree from the prestigious International Baccalaureate program in hand.

A few short months later, I was off to the big city. After years of excelling in my English classes and harboring a deep-set love of writing, I had decided that a career in broadcast journalism would be perfect for me. I excitedly began my studies at Emerson College, and was promptly dismayed to discover that I had seriously underestimated my love of the sciences. No more amino acids or cellular pathways or vascular systems? No more valence electrons or resonance structures or hydrogen bonds? No more magnetic fields or gravitational interactions or protons? I could have cried.

Instead, I transferred to Wheaton College and took up a major in Physics and Astronomy and a minor in Biology. I thought that would fix matters. And it did, for a time. I found my creative niche in The Blend, Wheaton’s only co-ed a capella group. I joined the Physics Club and played an active part in fundraising and event planning. I delved deeper into the physical sciences than I ever thought possible. I spent a semester studying biology in Australia and returned older, wiser and more sunburnt. During my senior year, I made the trek to Rhode Island twice a week to attend an EMT certification class in an effort to get a better sense of how science is practically applied. I graduated Magna Cum Laude, with a job offer from an ambulance company in my hometown. I was ecstatic. I had everything figured out.

Of course, life is never quite that easy. There was something amiss in my plan and, deep down, I knew it. While working as an EMT, I spent my downtime reading articles about health and astrophysics in newspapers, blogs, magazines, and anything else I could get my hands on. I missed the classroom desperately, but after spending a college summer in academia, I knew that research wasn’t for me. There was simply too much interesting science to learn about. On a whim, I decided to move halfway across the country to Colorado to gain some perspective.

A few weeks after my big move, I had an epiphany. I had just returned from a long hike. I hadn’t quite adjusted to the high altitude, and the blazing summer sun and ever-present haze of black flies had made my climb all the more challenging. Exhausted, I sat down at my computer and began surfing my usual haunts. As I scrolled along, silently cursing the scientific illiteracy of so many journalists, it suddenly occurred to me that I could do a much better job. I could easily explain the mechanics of a black hole or the physiology of the human heart to the general public. In fact, I had been doing it for years. At Emerson, I had detailed the physics of time travel to a classroom full of actors and poets. At Wheaton, I had elaborated on the emergency treatment of eviscerated tissues to a table full of music students and social scientists. I get laypeople excited about science; that’s my thing.

These days I run Cosmodynamics, a science blog that has received hits from every corner of the globe. By day, I pay the bills. By night, I read and learn, edit and educate. It’s a great life. Even now, lightyears away from the geeky little girl I once was, I still wouldn’t have it any other way. In the end, some things just don’t change.

***

TL;DR version: Dear Boston University, Please accept me. Love, Vanessa