To The Teacher Who Made Me Feel Capable

To The Teacher Who Made Me Feel Capable

Thank you.

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Some people thrive in high school, and that's great! Others, like me, do not look back on those four years with much fondness. When I call back the memories of myself from that time, "capable" is not a word I would use to describe the boy I see. "Hot mess" might be a much more applicable phrase. In the final months before graduation, I felt very lost and incompetent while at school. I struggled a lot, but one faculty member made each day almost bearable, and that was my psychology and homeroom teacher.

Dear Mrs. Psychology,

I just wanted to say thank you for being a positive influence in my life at that time. Your class was a safe haven from the anxiety-ridden, troubling world I was constantly treading water in. Psychology has always been interesting to me, but I didn't realize at the time how much that field would become attached to my identity. I'd be lying if I said that my decision to major in psychology wasn't, at least to a very tiny degree, due to you.

We both know that I was not the most responsible student ever. I remember how on numerous occasions you would wait outside the door to homeroom at 7:59, just a minute before the bell would ring. Sure enough, I'd be sprinting down the hall, my car keys jingling obnoxiously as my wrinkled tie flew through the air behind me. There were times when I maybe should have been marked late, but I wasn't, and it was because of your patience.

In almost all of my classes, I fell below the radar. I was a mediocre student, and I felt pretty withdrawn and insignificant. Psychology class, though, was when I started to notice that something was different. The atmosphere was calm and encouraging of informal discussion, and it relaxed me. I cannot begin to describe the anxiety I felt in some of my other classes. Your course was so easy to learn in— it barely even felt like I was learning. I never enjoyed a class before then. That might sound shocking, to dislike every single class until senior year, but it's true. Psychology was what changed that for me.

I remember one day in March, we were talking about creativity in class. You were saying that people who are more creative often have better problem-solving capabilities and sometimes, higher intelligence. Then, you went on to tell the class that I was creative. It was pretty abrupt, and I wasn't expecting the praise whatsoever. I had been feeling particularly down at the time. Your words made me feel so incredibly happy. I was blushing, of course, but I felt so confident the rest of that day. One of my friends later told me that you had said the same thing about me to her class, even though I wasn't there.

It felt so great to be noticed by a teacher. I was unhappy for a long time, but the attention you reserved for me helped me to survive the rest of the school year. I also remember how the class would split into boys vs. girls for test review games, but you let me be on the girl's team. I was a traitor to the boys, sure, but I can't help it that the girls in the class were smarter! We won every single game. I'm glad you bent the rules for me, even for something as seemingly unimportant as that. It was refreshing and unlike the rigidness that some of my other teachers stood by to such an annoying degree.

That's all I have to say. I have preserved you and the confidence, comfort, and care you gave me forever in my memory. I will never forget the things you taught me, many of them being so much more important than psychology— patience and kindness being two of the many.


With Gratitude,

Nicholas Everett Chasler

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Working With People Who Are Dying Teaches You So Much About How To Live

Spending time with hospice patients taught me about the art of dying.

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Death is a difficult subject.

It is addressed differently across cultures, lifestyles, and religions, and it can be difficult to find the right words to say when in the company of someone who is dying. I have spent a lot of time working with hospice patients, and I bore witness to the varying degrees of memory loss and cognitive decline that accompany aging and disease.

The patients I worked with had diverse stories and interests, and although we might have had some trouble understanding each other, we found ways to communicate that transcended any typical conversation.

I especially learned a lot from patients severely affected by dementia.

They spoke in riddles, but their emotions were clearly communicated through their facial expressions and general demeanor, which told a story all on their own.

We would connect through smiles and short phrases, yes or no questions, but more often than not, their minds were in another place. Some patients would repeat the details of the same event, over and over, with varying levels of detail each time.

Others would revert to a child-like state, wondering about their parents, about school, and about family and friends they hadn't seen in a long time.

I often wondered why their minds chose to wander to a certain event or time period and leave them stranded there before the end of their life. Was an emotionally salient event reinforcing itself in their memories?

Was their subconscious trying to reconnect with people from their past? All I could do was agree and follow their lead because the last thing I wanted to do was break their pleasant memory.

I felt honored to be able to spend time with them, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was intruding on their final moments, moments that might be better spent with family and loved ones. I didn't know them in their life, so I wondered how they benefited from my presence in their death.

However, after learning that several of the patients I visited didn't have anyone to come to see them, I began to cherish every moment spent, whether it was in laughter or in tears. Several of the patients never remembered me. Each week, I was a new person, and each week they had a different variation of the same story that they needed to tell me.

In a way, it might have made it easier to start fresh every week rather than to grow attached to a person they would soon leave.

Usually, the stories were light-hearted.

They were reliving a memory or experiencing life again as if it were the first time, but as the end draws nearer, a drastic shift in mood and demeanor is evident.

A patient who was once friendly and jolly can quickly become quiet, reflective, and despondent. I've seen patients break down and cry, not because of their current situation, but because they were mourning old ones. These times taught me a lot about how to be just what that person needs towards the end of their life.

I didn't need to understand why they were upset or what they wanted to say.

The somber tone and tired eyes let me know that what they had to say was important and worth hearing. What mattered most is that someone who cared was there to hear it.

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My First College Gal Pal Road Trip Was Amazing

Every girl should have one good girls trip.

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In some way or another, everybody has a list of things they want to do in their lives before it's all over. After all, we're human. There's adventure to be had in every life. One thing I have always wanted to do before I grew too old and grey was go on a road trip with my gal pals to the beach. A couple weeks ago, I achieved this memorable milestone, and it allowed me to open up to new surroundings and experiences.

On this trip, I went with two of my friends from college, Kait and Lindsey, to visit my roommate Elizabeth in Virginia Beach. This was pretty big for Lindsey and I because neither of us had been to Virginia Beach before. Thankfully Elizabeth and Kait knew their way around the city, so we never got lost on our way to and fro.

Like most vacations, my favorite parts probably took place at the beach. I'm always at utter peace stomping through mushy sand or leaning down to splash the salty water that tries to knock my short self over. We took pictures and did something us college girls rarely have time to do especially in school: Relax.

The four of us did not live up to the crazed stereotype of girl trips in movies. Although I finally got a chance to sing along to Taylor Swift in a car ride with my friends, so that's always a plus. We played "Top Golf" one day, and by some miracle, I actually won the second game by a fair amount after much humiliation in the first one. We visited some of Elizabeth's family, and I finally got to meet her giant dog Apollo (I call him 'Wolf Dog'). Everyday was another chance to ask with enthusiasm: "So what are we doing today?"

Our trip wasn't like the movies where we all cried or confessed our deepest darkest secrets. Everything the four of us shared was laughter and this calm feeling of being at home, in the chaotic peace of each other's company. We understand each other a little better due to finally seeing what we're like outside of Longwood University. After this, all I can say is that we're most definitely planning the next one!

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