I feel gross when I write songs.

When I was a child, I would make up little tunes in my head. I played outside in the creek by my neighbors house or climbed the tree in our front yard. I sang all of the time (prompted or unprompted) but these little tunes were very private. I rarely let anyone hear them because, like many of my thoughts as young autistic child, I didn't think anyone would understand them. 

To be fair, my child self had a point. The songs I wrote didn't make any sense. They were about the stupid things I wanted, like finally declaring my love for my second grade boyfriend after my parents told me I was too young to be dating anyone. Or working in the concession stand at a baseball game instead of watching it (this is while my dad coached baseball; I got bored pretty easily). I thought I was going to be the next Hannah Montana or Billy Joel's hype man. It was a dream that was my own and no one else's to crush.

The TLDR: the worse I got bullied in elementary and middle school for things other than songwriting, the more certain I was that I could not write a song good enough for people to hear.

 

                                            

To this day, I am the most visibly jealous and bitter toward people that can do things that my childhood self would get made fun of for. For example, I don't run. I have always looked like I was limping when I ran, and I could never do it very fast or very long. Up until eighth grade, I never broke a 10 minute mile. A group of people I used to have resentment for: cross country runners. Many of them had bodies very different than mine, and they seemed to all have endurance to last through many races. I felt gross when I ran.

A less extreme example is my attitudes regarding video games. I get motion sickness when playing video games, and I didn't have a game console growing up, so naturally, I'm not very good at them. I was always jealous of my brother and his friends, or my guy friends that played video games. They would be breaking records in Mario Kart when I have never finished beyond last place in Super Smash Bros. I felt gross when playing video games.

What really ground my gears for a long time–you guessed it: young songwriters. Kids would call me weird for singing wherever I went. When I was in middle school, a girl tried pressuring me into singing a song in front of other kids at a sporting event just to see what this kid with undiagnosed ASD would do. The one time I tried singing a song for a friend I made in middle school, she stayed loyal to her clique of mean kids that wouldn't let me sit with them at lunch time (which I don't blame her for, middle school is hard enough). So if someone else was getting lauded for their songwriting skills, I was really upset. As the title of this post says: I still feel gross when I write songs.

These weren't just any songwriters. These would be the kids going viral on YouTube, hearing their songs on the radio, or having their songs sung by professionals–I'm looking at you Jacob Collier. Rooms full of people cheering for them and people adoring them as they sang at the next open mic. They would get the love and attention from the cool theatre kids at school, and they would be praised for being their own person and having their own thoughts. And worst of all, when people would talk shit about them...they didn't care.

Now I know better. I need to grow the hell up. I know things don't just come naturally for most people. I know that these people probably have their own insecurities. I know that for many people, especially the composers alongside me at Luther, writing music was their personal outlet for their inner dialogue. I've grown to admire the misunderstood, the innovative, the growing, and the curious composers. But even after I graduated with a music degree where I had composition assignments for my music theory classes, I am still working through the pain being unfairly judged for things I wasn't good at yet.

The first and last time I ran a 5K was when I was 17. I still get last in Mario Kart. And, other than for class, I rarely finish the songs I write.

Except for two. 

There is only one person other than me who has listened to the full version of both of these songs. When we first met, he listened to a tune I had made up on my guitar. I said "I'm probably not gonna do anything with it. Should I?" Without hesitation, he said "FINISH IT. PLEASE." And I did.

That was my junior year of college. He is now one of my best friends, and I knew he would still love me even if my songs were shit. He knew how personal it got when I would write. When I finished my second song, he was the first person I told. He sent me this text after he got my recording:

I don't think he was saying that just because he loves me. I think it means I'm getting better. I've learned over the last few years at college is that you're going to be bad at something. And sometimes, that something is important enough to you that you have to keep doing it. Even if you're bad at it. I'm not the next Lin-Manuel Miranda (although my mom thinks I might be, love you KT). Hell, Billie Eilish is a year younger than me and has an Oscar for her music. But...I think I'm ready to try feeling the growing pains again. And, because they were my best friends in college, I know now that the truly cool kids will understand what 9-year-old Abs was trying to say.

"Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance"

I love genius lyricism, and as a child of the aughts, I find myself going back to music I would hear on the radio or on my mom's iPod. Moreover, I'm amazed at how often the lyrics become proverbs of my daily life.

Recently, a lyric from "Hey Ya!" by OutKast has been trending on social media: "Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance." Andre 3000 (the genius that he is) uses it to back away from his heavy lyrics about people in unfruitful, unhappy relationships and jump back into the contagious joy felt in the rest of the song. It's beautiful and heartbreaking how self aware the Andre 3000 is. He knows that millions of people were not going to download this song and dance to it at weddings for the next two decades for depressing lyrics in a seemingly peppy song.

I never read into this interjection at the beginning of the second chorus, but people are artfully inserting it into their conversations about justice and inclusivity. It resonates with me on this day as I received this pamphlet from homophobic evangelical protestors on my college campus.

ID: a small pamphlet with a galaxy image with text that reads "Where are you going to spend eternity?"

These protestors had been traveling around Iowa with signs that call people to be saved from the "sins" of premarital sex, homosexuality, etc.–you know, the standard protests for most groups with intentions to spread shame instead of joy. 

I wasn't afraid. First of all, they couldn't tell a queer person even when they looked them in the eye while wearing a rainbow button on their backpack. Second, I have already come to terms with my personal identity as an LGBTQ+ Christian with goals to live out Christ's gospel. I have faith in my Creator who made me as I am, and my capacity to love and exist in different ways is one of God's gifts to me. Most importantly, I know that my sheer existence and my loving, consensual relationships with others is not something I needed to repent.

But today, the accuser found a way to get under my skin and doubt God's plan for me. Because of these protestors.

With the protestors' presence, my fight or flight response activated, somehow at the same time. No, I didn't want to hurt them, but I wanted so badly to show them how wrong they were. Usually when people ask me out of genuine curiosity, I know exactly how to support threatened communities with scripture, scholarship, well-established theology, historical context, and faith. But when people are anything but curious, I feel the fear creep inside of me. This is where Andre 3000's lyrics resonate.

I feel the pangs of ignorance and hatred as if they reached their hands to strike my cheek. I feel powerless when I stand before the Goliath of systemic homophobia that is able to justify these people's work, and I am just a kid with nothing but the words "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength." I doubt. Like Job 3:24-26 when he cursed the day he was born, "For my sighing comes like my bread, and my groanings are poured out like water. Truly the thing that I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me. I am not at ease, nor am I quiet; I have no rest; but trouble comes.”

In other words, Job said "Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance."

However, like Job, this feeling didn't last forever.

As I sat in class knowing the rising tensions in the street between the music building and the Center for the Arts (by no surprise, a loud, beautiful, rainbow-filled counter-protest ensued), I received a text message from someone I knew from our college's student-led worship group. I had some classes and extra-curricular activities in common with him, but we weren't very close. I also knew he was heterosexual and cisgender. 

He asked me what was going on outside. I responded that a group of homophobic evangelicals were protesting, and the other noise was from the counter-protest going on from fellow students. He asked why the evangelicals were here, and I said that they were traveling around the midwest but I didn't know specifically what brought them here. During this conversation, I was feeling particularly vulnerable because I hadn't had an in depth conversation with him.

He then responded with the following "Well hey, I'm not exactly sure how you're feeling or what to say–if anything–but I think God loves you so much! Let me know if there's anything I can do to support you♡" 

It took everything in my power not to melt into tears in my physics lecture. It wasn't enough. Even typing these words into this post fills my heart with such love and acceptance that the words have the same impact as when I read them for the first time. Yes, I had solidarity within my community, but I so badly needed an ally in that moment. Somehow, the Holy Spirit guided this man to specifically reach out to me to make sure I was okay. Just when I doubted the connection between myself and the overwhelming love of God, someone granted me the gift of compassion.

I wanted to leave a final word of hope for my fellow members of the LGBTQ+ community who wonder if there is a God to hold them. God's love for you is abundant. God made you and is alongside you in the process of become the person you were always meant to be. God is within you and loving people around you to establish beautiful connections with one another. God is alive and well in the spaces we retreat to when we feel unsafe, and God will create safe spaces for you to just be.

Take comfort that two straight men stood in the sight of homophobes and locked lips.

Take comfort in the fact that children of church leaders grow up to be in the LGBTQ+ community.

Take comfort that our college ministries is a Reconciling in Christ congregation, a certification that signifies full inclusion of LGBTQIA+ in all aspects of their work.

Most importantly, take comfort that there are people who do want to hear you, and they don't just want to dance.

2021 from the eyes of an autistic college student

A self-portrait titled "Trying my best"

The start of 2021 has been chaotic. Upon writing this blog, I finished a degree recital with limited attendance, entered the back end of the most academically intense semester of my college career, and mended my broken heart of two months–as you'll see, each of these are important in illustrating my plight as an autistic college student. Spoiler alert: absolutely no one has their shit together, and I'm glad we're learning to stop trying to pretend like we are.

For anyone that is relatively new in my life, I will attempt to sum up my experience as an individual with (incredibly poorly titled) "high-functioning autism." All of my life, I have been able to excel academically while trying to learn common patterns of behavior among neurotypical people. Individuals have recently described me as emotionally intelligent and outgoing. In all honesty: long periods of distance have stepped on my confidence.

I'm getting the help I need, but I'm unlearning my fears around advocating for myself. When it came to completing my recital, I flubbed one of my pieces during my dress rehearsal. The pressure I had placed on myself had driven me to tears.

My wonderful voice teacher approached after the piece, held my hand, and declared the greatest fundamental truth of 2021, "Shit Happens." Dr. W, in his empathy, understood the pressures for me as a busy college student with insecurities about making things perfect. I was able to understand that he was also an imperfect individual with struggles of his own. He knows the dangers of trying to be perfect, and he has also had many situations in which he has had to learn to let go. 

From an academic perspective, I had to deal with academically difficult work and trying not to link my class performance to my self worth. I've been able to cope as we return to an in-person environment, but I've been feeling similar feelings to how I felt in a choir room at age 12. By no one's fault, I'm scared to speak up about how I'm being affected by the classroom environment for fear of offending or provoking my classmates. I tend to feel this way especially when I'm putting pressure on myself to know exactly what's happening all of the time. I don't know how to fake it as well as everyone else.

One of my saving graces for the semester has been my advisor. He's been able to share his experience as a quirky student (my words, not his). Our brains are wired differently from other people, and he has guided me in the process of thinking about my long-term goals. He reminded me of why I wanted to pursue a business degree: in order to gain enough clarity to share with others.

Sharing with others hasn't been easy lately. In January, my partner unexpectedly broke up with me, and my brain rehashed a long history of insecurity. For years, I feared my beautiful autistic brain could never be seen as beautiful, attractive–dare I say sexy to anyone. I once again fell into the practice of wondering what went wrong in a conversation. There have been multiple occasions where I would be sharing the points I didn't understand to my friends. Last night on Snapchat, I got so frustrated with myself that I just simply declared, "This just a time where I have to acknowledge that having autism is hard."

Still, it didn't take much for my friends to acknowledge their love for my brain and my heart with multiple heart and hug emojis. They have seen a growth within my time at Luther like no other. They have been through the messiest of mental health episodes as well as the happiest of emotional triumphs.

In all honesty, autism is not my downfall. My issue is actually more universal: the need to let go of control. Sure, my struggles may stem from my internalized shame about my brain, but I'm realizing that internalized shame stems from unrealistic expectations about ourselves. It pains me to say this, but my struggle for acceptance has rarely ever been external. I'm quick to jump to conclusions about other people's thoughts about me, but I really am working on cleansing my view of myself. (Nana if you're reading this, I'm sorry, but it had to be said): it fucking sucks.

I'm learning to be more kind to myself in a world where we're meant to internalize hatred toward unique individuals. I feel the pangs of tearing apart a well-knit cloth that I hide my unique brain. Gradually, I'm releasing the need to be perfect. I'm acknowledging that I'm not as confident as I present myself. I'm trusting the people around me not to hurt me. I'm allowing the care and attention of others to rest on my heart.

Reflection on a devotion by a dear mentor

While I was scrolling through Facebook, I heard a devotion from one of my bosses–now also a pastor–from my old summer camp. He spoke on texts related to Jesus and young children, particularly the ever-so-famous "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these (Matthew 19:14, NIV)."

Even though I wasn't in a particularly "theological" mindset, I paused and listened. I hadn't listened to a sermon since Christmas, and I thought it would be great to listen to a familiar voice.

He was scrolling through a set of older camp photos, long before my time as a counselor. And as he was speaking, he asked the listeners to recall a time where they had nothing about a curiosity about the world and just wanted people to share in their delight. I started to think about the kids I counseled, and how they were experiencing the thrill of meeting brand new people and just getting to see people experience a new place for the first time together.

Then, during the slideshow, I saw a familiar picture. This picture was taken by the fence on the farm at camp. This group of young adults in the back row were holding various animals, and a counselor with fluffy colorful hair and dark clothes was holding a bunny. I recognized the man as Chris, a counselor from my youth. "This can't be..." I thought. I looked to the bottom right corner of the photo, and I see a little blonde girl with a pink shirt, stretching out her cheeks to make a silly face. That little girl was me. The photo was from my first time at camp in 2008–13 years ago.

My mentor's words still ring in my head after proceeding to watch this video as a camper, not just a counselor: "Jesus is referencing some qualities we find more prevalent among children, before they've been jaded by the world and maybe–you could say–before we've lost that sense of wonderment that adults struggle seem to find sometimes."

From this moment on, I held back tears when thinking about my time as a child before I discovered shame. As a child, I held onto and claimed my adoration for the color pink, singing and dancing–even at the most inopportune moments–any sort of social gathering, and God. Exactly as my dear boss said, I had been jaded by my experiences with middle school bullies and the sensory overload zone known as a cafeteria. Admittedly this experience continued through my sophomore year of college and through my summers as a camp counselor. The jaded feeling of wanting to be on a certain "level" with my peers, and never really knowing the end goal. 

But I remember occasional pure moments. I thought of when two girls from my building in Brandt invited me to grab hot cocoa in our pajamas at the post Christmas at Luther, and they ended up becoming my best friends. I think of when a middle school kid prayed that I could win American Idol and that I would never stop being a GOAT (greatest of all time, I didn't really know what it meant either.) I thought of when a wonderful classmate of mine–whom I adore very much to this day–deemed that I was a shiny Pokémon.

I have a new goal: being secure in my personality in order to allow myself to get to know people outside of my circle, seeing them as other weirdos like myself. People that once were kids like me. People I could see myself grabbing coffee with in the future. Or petting some bunnies at the Ewalu farm.

-Abs

Regret vs. Repentance

CW: Sexuality, minor encounters of emotional abuse

Consequence. As I grow older and recover from years of emotional turmoil from childhood, I am learning to elaborate on my judgements. The food I eat, the people with whom I spend my time, the actions I chose, the actions from which I steered away. In addition to fighting my internal unfair judgement on myself, I look at the larger systems that shame my actions. Particularly, the concept of purity culture.

I realized that many people, especially people that currently or previously present as female, believe their failed relationships and their insecurities on their encounters with their partners.

"I should have known my relationship wasn't going to work out because we had sex before marriage."

"I'm a bad person because I displayed affection with my partner in front of everyone."

"I thought I loved my partner, and we had experienced so many of our 'firsts' together, but because the relationship didn't work out, I know my actions at the time were wrong."

Can people have regrets and make actions that aren't appropriate? Yes. But the concept of purity, wondering if you are going to be a chewed up piece of gum or a unusable piece of Scotch tape, makes people equates the damning word of "fornication" represents their consensual and enjoyable activities with a partner with whom they eventually diverged.

Biblically, fornication is when men break a possible contract with a potential wife's father by having sex with her and abandoning her, meaning she would be seen as unfit to marry. The sin, in God's eyes, was placed on the man for hurting every party involved by quite literally screwing them over. But for many years, through today, the social shame around fornication is placing blame on the "chewed gum" rather than the mouth that spit them out.

The good news is that you are a person and not a piece of tape or a stick of gum. Engaging in trust and enthusiastic consent is not what is hurting you in your heart. You shouldn't blame yourself in that respect. So why does it feel shitty when things don't work out? The answer is paradoxically simple and complex: it's because you see clearly where trust has been broken or lost within the relationship, especially in sexuality but more so on a personal level.

I have a friend (I promise this is not me) that is in a long-term committed relationship with someone that is genuinely hurting them. I am not in contact with this person a lot, so the odds of them looking at this is incredibly low. Here's why.

 Their partner overshadows their actions and friendships with other people outside of the relationship, including myself. As much as they use sexual activities as a reaffirmation of their love and trust, I see the trust falling apart for both of them. My friend's partner, in my personal opinion, has an incredibly possessive view of their relationship and clings onto my friend as a person that will drop everything in their life for them. They've been together for a long time, and my friend credits their partner as one of the greatest things in their life but still sacrifices every bit of security they have for their partner. My friend will justify their partner's manipulative actions, gatekeeping of friendships, and threats of physical and emotional violence as both accountability and reversion to a traditional view of a relationship. I–and many other people–know it's abuse.

The worst part is that when everything crashes and burns between the two of them, my friend will look at their own loving, consensual displays of their love and blame the failure of the relationship on themselves. They won't believe that they can or should love anyone else because they will think that their actions prompted the downfall of their relationship with their partner.

If this particular friend reads this (or anyone in a relationship like that description above), I have one thing to say: I cannot be the one that brings judgement on the people that hurt you because that's God's job. However, the pain that comes from failed relationships, especially long-term sexual relationships, is incredibly valid. But just because you will feel chewed up and spit out, doesn't mean that you are. You do not need to repent any loving action you choose to do with your body. But you certainly have the right to feel anger and regret. I hope, eventually, we all learn the difference.

Hearing music about immigrants and gay boys

This photo is from a lecture in the class "Hidden Figures in Early Christianity" discussing the behavior of the dominant voices in antiquity, particularly public artwork representing other nations as sad, passive women holding up strong men. I thought it was relevant.

All artists have a purpose. The most influential artists have power. Most of us are comfortable with this sentiment. The most impactful artists have an agenda. This is what troubles the casual listener.

During my time in Nordic Choir this last year, we had the unique experience of preparing a full-scale oratorio titled "Considering Matthew Shepard," a work describing the tragic story of the murder of a young gay man. Harder yet, the work discussed the aftermath of the media, the backlash, the confrontation, the forgiveness, and the desire to move forward.

As performers, doing this work was difficult. Many of the LGBTQ+ members of Nordic Choir reflected their own emotions about their worldly experiences and presented excerpts of this work to audiences in the American South over our tour in Texas. Although we had an overwhelmingly positive and powerful response from the majority of our audience members, we had a few instances of clear pushback.

After our runout, an alumnus emailed our director asking why we were singing about a gay boy that did nothing to serve the country (quoting from the Book of Matt, a largely discredited narrative about the notion that Matthew was a drug dealer) and that Nordic shouldn't be pushing an agenda on individuals wanting to hear Nordic sing nice music. The sentiments a more brash casual listener can be summarized in an aggressive comment from an audience member to our director after a concert in Missouri: "I didn't come to hear a concert about immigrant children and gay boys."

Did we perform some beautiful music with more universal messages that are fun to sing and hear? Yes, we love ourselves some PJ Christiansen and Vaughan Williams. They help complete our message. Choral programming is now a balancing act of showcasing the traditions of the past while making space for new voices. Sometimes, audiences aren’t ready to hear them. Historically, this is normal. Thus, I write.

In the midst of this tightrope, I fully believe that our director didn't entirely build this rich program for the casual listener. That's a good thing. I personally believe that building a program for casual listening has numbed the voices of the composers, therefore numbing the interpretation of the performer and losing the purpose for the composition among the audience. Here's why:

This idea of programming music exclusively for the entertainment of the listener and teaching fundamental devices of music stems back to people in Medieval, Baroque, and Classical music. People like Bach and Vivaldi were hired to write music for the church and their students. Do we love Bach? Hell yes. His music is incredibly fun to sing, and the traditional audiences pine for the nostalgia of timeless music. That’s why folks in the 19th Century decided that Bach was “music for the sake of making music.” However, we see a major shift in the perspectives around music when Beethoven is cited as a vehicle for the Word of God to his audiences.

But many great works of art in the 19th and 20th century stemmed from the radical outcries from oppression. Shostakovich and Stravinsky wrote music with sentiments of rebellion against the Russian government; each of them made their impact on Russian instrumental performance and ballet for the centuries to come. Much of the modern musical devices in our modern "casual listening" stemmed from spirituals from enslaved folks in the South.

This got me thinking about my conversation with another choral musician about the concept of choral spirituals. Teachers love to program them because they add diversity to a program and teach students about the specific rhythms and articulations needed for the genre, and the students retain joy from making that cool music together. That's what makes it purposeful. Thanks to the genius of composers such as Stacey V. Gibbs and William Dawson, many audiences love to hear them because they are fun to listen to and they can sing them in their head after they leave. That's what makes them influential.

However, when programmed in a way that sees beyond the coded language of Christian spirituality when discussing the atrocities and fears concerning slavery; that's what makes them impactful. How do we as a predominantly White choir capture the voices of these people when singing “Great God Almighty”? How do we talk about Beethoven’s grief when he lost his hearing while discussing the atrocities of ableism in Runestad’s “A Silence Haunts Me”? How do we talk about immigrants and gay boys? Yes, it is hard to amplify voices without speaking over them. Certainly not programming for the casual listener. But we try.

Out of all people, Weston Noble knew how to program pieces to leave an impact. The man loved music. It was his form of fellowship, prayer, and discipleship. He had an agenda with his concerts: to have the audience leave with the love of God that he possessed in his heart.

Of course the music he produced sounded lovely, everywhere from Bach to Christiansen to Hogan. People liked listening to the Nordic Choir sing because they were skillful and powerful. But the music was so much more than that for Weston. He used the gift of music from these composers to put out his own message.

As for our current director, Dr. Last not only wanted to impact audiences of all generations; he wanted for us to put our collective voice as young musicians to make our own impact. And right now, we're making a statement that a particularly disgruntled man in Missouri who came as a casual listener. And yes, we love singing Bach and Sweelinck, making music for the sake of making music. We sing to outline their interests as well. We added the voices of other testimonies as well, testimonies that speak to us now. In my opinion, the listener coming to hear the status quo of choral music clearly didn't come to hear the legacy of Nordic Choir. We reach above and beyond.

I'll say this as an individual artist from this larger body known as Nordic Choir: I'm grateful as a musician to move into another generation of music with the fire from brilliant composers in tow. I get to contribute to an almost 75 year legacy of college students wanting to leave an impact. I'm grateful for the folks that housed me in Ft. Worth and said that they thought the experience was so unique and special that they came to our next stop. I'm proud of the impact the 2019-20 Nordic Choir made, and I'm even more excited to hear the new collective voice of Nordic Choir 2020-21. We have a purpose to serve as a voice in a time of uncertainty. We have power because many individuals look to choral artists across the country for innovation. And yes, we as artists will have an agenda. And whatever it is, it will trouble the casual listener. Because it will be impactful.

Doing the best I can

For those who desire photo descriptions, the text reads "The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me, Because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners...–Isaiah 61:1"

On one of the last ordinary Tuesday nights of my semester: my classmates are in shock and disarray. Spring Break is within reach, but many are preparing for distance learning and mentally avoiding the possibility that their last year at college might be cut short.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting on the floor of my parents' bedroom with mascara running down my face. I've gotten to the point in college where I can't just get by with my intuition. I'm working my ass off and disappointing myself. My parents remind me that I have nothing to prove to anyone, and I need to focus on my learning rather than the letters on my report card. I have a hard time believing them. Here's why.

The day before, I'm sitting in the lounge next to the choir room with my close friends. All of these lovely humans are wonderful singers, and my good friends are discussing the difficulty they're having with their music and their struggle to adapt to their ever-changing instruments. The conversation led me to a point of comparing myself to all of my fellow mezzo-sopranos and their splendid growth. My friends assured me that my development as a musician is on the right path, but I feel the need to argue. I didn't know why in that moment.

I walk away for a drink of water and a moment of reflection. All I can think to myself is "stupid, stupid, stupid." My self-bullying makes me reluctantly go back and sit quietly among my friends. Amid their conversation, I realize why I'm so upset:

I'm not mad at my voice. I'm not mad at my grades. I'm mad at myself.

I've been mad at myself for a long time now. The summer of 2019 started with an ugly breakup and ended with my first and only episode of self-harm. The school year continued with what my friends have described as a date-of-the-month club (none of which started or ended particularly well). I was seeking love and attention that I didn't have for myself anymore, even though I was trying to justify that I was in a better place than when I was with my significant other in the spring.

I've been confiding in many friends about this inner turmoil. I tell them that I can't grasp that I am more than the sum of all of the things I want to change about myself. Being around other people is a temporary pick-me-up, but I revert back to my helpless state when I'm alone with myself.

Now, I'm away from Luther. And I will be for the rest of the semester.

I'm not afraid of the virus, so long as I stay at home and stay sanitary. I'm haunted by the isolation.  With my mom working her ass off as a key communicator in the health crisis and my dad advising people from home, I'm alone with myself and my screens. Yes, I have books and a nice neighborhood to walk in, but I'm overwhelmingly isolated. I needed a break from the rhythm of my hectic life; I just wasn't ready for it.

In the midst of my social isolation, I'm really evaluating why I'm here. In this climate, on this planet, heading toward this future–what will I be equipped to do?

Mom told me while I came home crying that Tuesday evening, "I want you to think back and remember when that professor talked to you outside of class to apply for a scholarship–not just because you got by in their class, but also they appreciated your character. And also when you were asked by multiple people to work with them because of research that you did all before you turned 19. You have nothing to prove, Ab. I struggle with this, too, but maybe it's time you stopped equating who you are with your successes or struggles and start finding worth in your capacity to use them for other people that need it."

Mom tells me this as I sit on the ground with my head bowed forward to hide the mascara streaks on my face. Although my mom is about six inches shorter than I am, she sits above me on her bed like the Creator on a cloud. The reflection in the mirror doesn't look like a defendant sitting before a judge. It looks like a daughter sitting before her mother. Neither of us have failed, but we feel the load crushing us.

The structure of my time home is still a mystery. It will get there, but not without the help of my parents. I've been keeping in contact with my friends, but knowing them, they've needed to catch up on sleep as much as I have. Mama is upstairs, working from home in her office but still watching over me. I'm spending the smallest bit of time on this painful reflection of my journey, and, truly, doing the best I can.