A few years ago I was struck down, metaphorically speaking, by circumstances I felt were outside of my control. I’ve since realized I do have a lot more say in what happens to me, but at the time, I was easily controlled by people in authority or even just people with a lot more self-confidence. I was too nice, too eager to please.
I’m still a nice person, but I don’t sacrifice my own self-worth for others any more. It’s been a difficult journey. At the time this all happened, others told me there was a reason for my suffering and eventually I would understand why I had to go through all of it. To this day, I resent hearing that. Yes, I learned some valuable lessons. But that doesn’t justify the actions of others, nor does it make sense of what happened.
I believe there are consequences to our actions, and not just for ourselves. What we do can help or hurt others, just as what they do can affect our lives. I also believe in God, and I believe he can bring about change in our lives that we didn’t expect or don’t deserve. But I don’t believe he intends for us to suffer. Man has free will, and that brings me back to this: consequences. We are responsible to ourselves and others. Just don’t expect others to always treat you as you deserve to be treated.
Life can be difficult, but it also can be joyous. Most of the time we land somewhere in between. Right now, life is good for me. There are struggles, but I have the support of family and friends. I know the path I need to take to solve some of my problems, although that doesn’t always mean I do what I’m supposed to. The consequences are mostly mine to bear, and for that I’m grateful. I don’t want others to have their happiness depend on me.
Do I believe in fate? I believe good and bad comes into everyone’s life. I believe in luck. I believe in perseverance. I believe in myself. And that’s as much as I know on the topic, so I’m sticking with that.
Image Credits: Sad Woman © Ella–stock.adobe.com; Confident Woman © Jacob Lund–stock.adobe.com; Winding Road © tarasov_vl–stock.adobe.com

I used to dream about being a skilled musician. In my fantasies, I could play the piano with panache and sing the most difficult songs with ease. It didn’t stop there. I could also dance.
In the past couple of months I’ve been talking to my dad on a regular basis. His wife Jeanne died in December, something I wrote about earlier. It’s been a powerful thing in my life, these conversations. I hope it has been the same for him. We didn’t used to talk much, and in recent years the phone calls got shorter and shorter.
I have a friend, also from college, whose husband has ALS. Her honesty about the heartbreak and her integrity toward her family is a shining example of rising. Another college friend went through a series of tragedies, too much to detail here, and in her darkest moments she told me this just wasn’t what she expected out of life. Both women have persevered and are role models for me of how life will change you, one way or the other, and it’s up to you how you handle it.
This brings back what should be a painful memory, but the situation actually never bothered me. In seventh grade (when everything embarrasses you), I slipped on a banana heading in to class after the lunch break. I thought it was funny. My fellow students just stared at me. I’m not sure where my confidence came from that day, but there it was.
Until two senior girls befriended me and told me it was okay to strike out. It didn’t matter if I dropped the ball. I was still okay and worthy of support and caring. It changed my life.

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