Motherhood – Page 48 – Trying My Breast

[Author’s Note: The pieces in this collection were originally posted over the course of April 2020 and have since been compiled into the following behemoth. Accordingly, if you kept up with my original Blast from the Past updates, there is no need for you to read the following anthology.

April 1, 2020 introduces the idea behind the series, which was to use the “free time” during our national stay-at-home month to publish a ton of my old written work: essays, letters, poems, journal entries, etc. In addition, I drafted two other pieces during April of this year — i.e. those pieces are contemporary, rather than reminiscent.

Additionally, I have chosen to keep separate the two stories that read most like my normal blog posts: Bo’s First Egg Hunt and Process Control Class Goes to Coors Lab. They are now standalone stories, while the rest of my Blast from the Past pieces are doomed to languish here for the rest of their literary lives.

Lastly, here is a table of contents. I even looked up how to create anchor links in WordPress, although a cursory trial of these links suggests that you might have to scroll up a bit after using one of them. Oh well… beggars can’t be choosers, and ChemEs can’t be software engineers. (Or, at least, this one can’t.)

April 1, 2020 — The Introduction of an Anthology
April 1, 2016 — Application for the Phillips 66 SHIELD Scholars Program
April 3, 2016 — Application for Continuation as a ConocoPhillips WE²ST Scholar
April 5, 2018 — A Journal Entry to My Son
April 7, 2011 — Oklahoma: Day 245
April 7, 2020 — A Pandemic Birthday During Holy Week
April 8, 2015 — Differential Equations: A Study in Change
April 11, 2020 — Bo’s First Egg Hunt
April 14, 2017 — Process Control Class Goes to Coors Lab
April 15, 2013 — A Poem to My First Boyfriend
April 18, 2018 — Another Journal Entry to My Son
April 21, 2017 — An Explanation of My Incomplete Homework Assignment
April 23, 2009 — An Eighth Grade Track Meet
April 24, 2009 — An Eighth Grade Short Story
April 24, 2013 — A Letter to My First Boyfriend
April 27, 2019 — A Life Update Addressed to My Pen Pal
April 28, 2017 — The WE²ST Research Symposium and a Contemplation of My Post-Graduation Fate
April 29, 2011 — Oklahoma: Day 267
April 30, 2015 — Application to Become a ConocoPhillips WE²ST Scholar
April 30, 2017 — An Introductory Memorandum Preceding My Final Senior Design Report

And, on that note, happy reading!]

April 1, 2020 — The Introduction of an Anthology

Fun fact: A global pandemic is the best source of new material for a narrative blogger.

April Fools!

The COVID-19 crisis has been the worst kind of visitor: one who steals your toilet paper, shuts down your favorite restaurants, takes all your money, and leaves you exhausted… or [literally] dead. Such a visitor is seemingly impervious to all but prayer.

[Note: I highly recommend Prayer: Experiencing Awe and Intimacy with God by Timothy Keller. This book is an excellent primer for anyone who is seeking to deepen their prayer life.]

By the grace of God, our family has only been minimally affected by the coronavirus situation. Taylor can work remotely, so our income is secure. I’m already a homemaker, so I’m not juggling a full-time job and full-time childcare. My kids aren’t old enough for school, so they aren’t falling behind in their studies. We had a recent windfall of food, so we’re not going to starve. Oh, and apparently I’ve always been an amateur prepper, because we have a six-month supply of toilet paper, paper towels, diapers, and wipes — all purchased before the grocery stores turned into zombie apocalypse free-for-alls.

So, by any standard, we are quite materially blessed — but not everyone is in the same situation. I have wept bitterly and prayed fervently for those whom God is testing in this time, but I have also been comforted by His presence and assurance. I may not understand God’s purposes in this, but my lack of understanding doesn’t dampen His unfathomable goodness.

However, even though we have everything we *need*, I lack something that I *want*: new content for this blog.

There’s only so much I can remix stories about washing Blankey while Bo screams, treating eczema with breastmilk, or wearing scrubby clothes because I’m not leaving the house. Given the choice between an unoriginal story and a nonexistent story, I almost always choose the latter.

[Note: This predilection is typically the reason for any longer-than-normal time period between posts.]

But, earlier today, I realized something important: April 2020 may be a drought for my writing, but not every April has been that way.

Let me explain. I have always been a writer — specifically, a diary writer. (A memoirist, if you’ll excuse the exaggeration.) And, since I’ve also always been a packrat, I still have basically everything I’ve ever written.

The oldest diary I have is undated, but its Sailor Moon theme and atrocious spelling suggest I was five or six. My Post-It note journals are also undated, but they were probably written between third and sixth grade. While humorous (intentionally and unintentionally), those diaries don’t really show my passion for prose.

But, my middle school diaries *do*. Scrawled in the blank pages of old composition books, the journals take two forms: realistic and fictional. With regard to the former, I can see what would eventually become the brutally honest voice that you have [hopefully] so come to love in Trying My Breast. And, with regard to the latter, I am both appalled and impressed at my first forays into short stories. (They were very brave, but mostly terrible.)

Then, in the summer of 2010, my family moved from Colorado to Oklahoma — an experience so traumatic that I abandoned fiction altogether and focused instead on detailed journaling of my own life, which at times truly felt stranger than fiction. These sophomore year journal entries are all stored on an old iPod —which, at the time of this writing, I cannot locate. [Author’s Note: Thankfully, the iPod turned up the next day.]

I have no written record of my junior year of high school, which is really a shame. Memory fades so quickly without a backup.

During my senior year, I journaled daily until February, when I started dating someone. Then, my diary took the form of unsent letters — most of which are addressed to my first boyfriend.

But then I graduated in May 2013, and we broke up, and my family moved back to Colorado Springs. [Note: We moved because I graduated — not because we broke up. I listed the events in chronological, not causal, order.] In an unexpected twist, I actually deeply grieved Oklahoma, with which I had unexpectedly fallen in love. So, back in Colorado, I spent the summer running alone across a town in which I had grown up, but no longer felt at home.

And then suddenly, I was at Mines. My desire for good grades and good relationships left no time for diaries, so my journaling turned more formal — or, rather, my formal writing turned more journalistic.

I laugh out loud when I read the stuff I submitted for grading. Every essay, every application, every report rings forth with irony and personality. I wrote notes to my teachers on every homework assignment and every test. And somehow, it only took four years of uncontrollable journaling to discover that my skills lay less in engineering and more in writing.

Since graduating, most of my composition has gone here, on the blog. However, I also keep a journal for each of my children and maintain a healthy correspondence with several friends from college. (Plus, there’s all the posts that I start, then scrap — but that’s a story for another time.)

Therefore, with so great a multitude of unpublished writing from my past, I thought I’d do something different this month. We’re (mostly) all stuck inside until May, right? Well, then let’s metaphorically grasp hands and take a skip down memory lane.

This month, I will post an anthology of pieces from past Aprils. They will come from a variety of sources (i.e. those detailed above), and I will attempt to refrain from editing except in the case of obvious typos and terrible paragraphing. (Of course, I’ll change everyone’s names, as I always do.) I will post each of these pieces separately, on the date corresponding to their original composition, and at the end of the month, I’ll combine all the separate entries into one enormous post. [Author’s Note: You are now reading said enormous post.]

Y’all…. I am so excited for this. Many of these posts are pieces that I have never had the opportunity to share — until now! I love getting to see how my writing voice developed over the years, and I sincerely hope you do too.

Because if you don’t… buckle up. It’s going to be a long quarantined month on Trying My Breast.

April 1, 2016 — Application for the Phillips 66 SHIELD Scholars Program

[Author’s Note: Four years ago, I finished writing these mini essays at the house of my now-roommate Pollyanna while a party raged around me. It was the Friday night of Engineering Days, a weekend-long Mines holiday that ostensibly celebrates engineering in all its many forms. (In reality, the festivities tend to possess a less-than-erudite quality.) As E-Days truly got underway around me, I finally submitted my ostentatiously informal scholarship application — with a full half-hour to spare.

But, to be fair, I’m not sure my writing would have been any more staid had it taken place in a less carnivalesque environment.]

What led you to choose your major?

My major (Chemical and Biochemical Engineering) is my perfect fit — almost like every gut instinct in my life has been preparing me for the degree. While I have excelled in STEM for as long as I can remember, the pivotal moment when I decided to pursue the “E” in that word arrived when I was in eighth grade, and my father chose to bring me to the 25^th Annual Space Symposium. Although my interests have never aligned with the astronomical (in the scientific sense), each exhibit captivated me as proof that humans are capable of the astronomical (in the metaphorical sense). That night, when one of my father’s coworkers asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I surprised him, my father, and myself by boldly answering, “An engineer!” I was startled by the conviction in my statement, but I have always been someone to rely on intuition — especially in regard to my own self.

[Author’s Note: The story of my instant conversion to engineering is told in greater detail in another scholarship application in this anthology.

The next step leading me to a college career as a BioChemE at Colorado School of Mines occurred later that same year, while I was registering for my first high school classes as middle school drew to a close. Once again, I was gripped by an inexplicable knowledge that I had to take both Biology and Chemistry the following year. As at most high schools, Chemistry was an exclusively sophomore class, but I was undeterred in my mission. After a lengthy verbal war that took place over two schools and several months, and involved my heroic parents, my current science teacher, my future Chemistry teacher, and the principals of both the middle and high schools, I was finally permitted to take both science courses as a freshman in high school — and sometimes, I wonder how my life would have been different if I had not chosen to fight that battle.

My biology and chemistry classes were back-to-back, and as a new high school student, I was mesmerized by the beautifully intricate interplay that I saw between the two subjects that occupied the middle of my day and, indeed, most of my homework hours. I was once again struck by a certainty that the nexus between biology and chemistry was where I belonged. Since I had already decided to be an engineer, my narrowing of that decision to “biochemical engineering” was a natural one, as was my decision to attend Colorado School of Mines.

When the time came to decide on a college, my choice was made once again by strong feelings as much as logic, and I was drawn to enroll in the most difficult engineering school in Colorado — and, in fact, in what is arguably the hardest major on campus. I chose to be here, as a Chemical and Biochemical Engineer at Colorado School of Mines, by listening to my heart and my gut. So far, they have led me right every time, and I cannot wait to see where I end up in the next era of this fantastic journey!

[Author’s Note: The irony here is so rich, I am actually at a loss for words.]

Why are you interested in a career in the energy industry?

Like the best things in my life have always been, my attraction to the energy industry is one seemingly orchestrated by fate. My first — and truthfully, most heartfelt — connection to the energy industry came through my Oklahoma heritage. Even before I knew what they did, I could identify oilrigs from miles away. My classmates were the children of old-money oil titans, and in Civics, we discussed the sociopolitical implications of fracking in our small town. My blood ran with equal parts black gold and red dirt.

My courtship of the energy industry continued into college: the motto of Colorado School of Mines is “Earth – Energy – Environment.” As a Chemical and Biochemical Engineer, the classes that I take focus almost exclusively on the middle topic of those three. What is thermodynamics? The transfer of energy. What is fluids? The lost of energy through friction and the addition of energy through pumps. What is biochemistry? The storage and subsequent release of energy at the cellular level.

That kind of thinking has infiltrated my every waking thought. I find myself thinking about the mixing bowls I use to make cookies in terms of how many barrels of oil went into making the plastics of which those bowls are made, and how much coal or natural gas was burned to run the facility that processed those petrochemicals. As if mud has been rubbed on my previously sightless eyes, I am suddenly able to see the world around me: it’s all energy. Nothing happens without the harvesting, the storage, the transfer of energy… And I want to be in the position to make things happen.

Even now, I am doing my utmost to jockey for a right to be in that position. Both of my internships were in the energy industry, and though I will be enrolled in Field Session (a mandatory summer course) for half of this coming summer, the other half will be continuing the undergraduate research I am currently engaged in, which is the characterization of microbial communities in water associated with unconventional energy production. Though fate may have brought me to the energy industry, I am choosing to stay. I know that it is the only place for me.

[Author’s Note: I actually still feel this way, although I’m obviously no longer working in oil and gas. After a lot of prayers and a lot of tears, I abandoned my pursuit of oil and gas to start our family instead. You can read more about this weighty decision in April 28, 2017.]

Describe the ideal work environment and culture you seek upon graduation.

To set the stage for this description, I must articulate a few things about myself. At risk of sounding exceedingly conceited, I will assert that I am the most loving person I know. I cannot leave the computer lab without kissing at least one or two people on the forehead goodbye. When I worked at Victoria’s Secret, I spend upwards of $500 on bras for other women in my life. I have baked cookies for my favorite fraternity every single Thursday night for the past 3.5 semesters.

Hopefully, with that background laid, you may believe me when I say this: I NEED to love others. More specifically, I need to be surrounded by people that will accept that love, even if they do not show me the same level of attention or affection that I try to lavish on them. I can say from experience that I do not work well in environments where employees are expected to remain in their cubicles, work exclusively on their own work, and collaborate only through email and conference calls. I have worked for a company in which I knew more about the wells being fracked and produced than I did about the engineers overseeing their design.

My ideal work environment is one in which I can seek out my coworkers to ask about their children and spouses, then request their advice on a report I am working on. I do not want to be scolded for laughing openly at a shared joke, or for tearing up in a moment of quiet empathy. The culture of my dream post-graduation job would be one that would celebrate and encourage, rather than dissuade, my big heart and bigger hugs. I cannot, and will not, survive again in an environment of isolation. Luckily, I do not think that I will have to. Some companies (that will tactfully and subtly remain unnamed in this unbiased application essay) have the culture I am looking for. I hope that those companies are also looking for me.

[Author’s Note: Once again, irony so thick you could cut it with a knife.]

How will receiving the SHIELD Scholarship impact your university experience?

The most significant way in which receiving the SHIELD Scholarship would impact my university experience would be in the mentorship provided through the program. Perhaps the most poignant and consistent longing of my heart has been for mentorship, and for good reason — my older sister, whom in a different world, I might have looked to for guidance in school, relationships, and life, is autistic, and has thus never been able to offer any of the counsel that I crave.

Unfortunately, I have not been able to find that a consistent replacement for that mentorship elsewhere in my life. In high school, the upperclassmen on my sports team were either overly introspective, or otherwise uninterested in helping me improve — either as an athlete or, in a broader sense, as a person. I encountered a similar issue my freshman year of college, when I found that, in my relationship with the upperclassman girl that befriended me, advice generally flowed one way — and, to my chagrin and dismay, I was not on the receiving end of that transmission.

While I will be the first to admit that my [sometimes extremely] honest personality may act to dissuade others from investing in my academic, professional, and personal development, I cannot help but believe that if someone were to give me a chance, they would find me an excellent student. Much of my knowledge of the professional world has been learned somewhat on-the-fly over the course of my two internships, but I am open to — and, in fact, desire — the refined correction that comes from a mentor that is committed to my success as a student, a professional, and a person.

This mentorship would impact my university experience by offering me a committed advisor who, rather than scolding me when I fail, would instead encourage me to seek out ways in which I can do better. Perhaps naively, I believe that being a “mentee” would make me a more complete person — just as I have believed for all these years. More than any other opportunity, the relationship offered by the SHIELD Scholarship is what I desire from the program – and I hope that somewhere in Phillips 66, someone is waiting for me that would appreciate mentoring me as much as I want to be mentored!

[Author’s Note: With the benefit of hindsight, I am left chortling aloud at this application. Somehow, I was accepted as a Phillips 66 SHIELD Scholar, and for the mentorship piece, I was matched with a Mines graduate three years my senior.

The objective facts were all promising: my mentor had also been a chemical engineer and had even belonged to the fraternity for which I baked cookies every week. In fact, we had actually met in passing my freshman year.

However, these objective facts did little to thaw the ice between us. In person, my mentor was socially clunky, to the point of seeming robotic. Furthermore, my best friend (whom I’ll call Hal) absolutely loathed my mentor. Any time Phillips 66 came up in conversation, Hal exploded in righteous indignation.

“P66 sucks, and your mentor especially sucks. I would never work for them, specifically because he’s so terrible. And you shouldn’t work for them, either.”

But, he didn’t have to worry. They didn’t even interview me, let alone offer a job.

Well, at least I got a nice wallet out of the deal.]

“I was part of a scholars program, and all I have to show for it is this dumb wallet” ft. Llama Dumpster Blanket

April 3, 2016 — Application for Continuation as a ConocoPhillips WE²ST Scholar

[Author’s Note: These essays are not especially interesting. However, the anthology contains two other WE²ST-related pieces — April 28, 2017 and April 30, 2015 — so this reapplication makes more sense in the broader scheme of things.

As a junior in college, I was a delinquent member of the ConocoPhillips Center for a Sustainable WE²ST (Water-Energy Education, Science, and Technology), which was a relatively new research group at Mines. When the time came to reapply for the following year, I postponed my decision until the last possible day. What resulted was a very heartfelt and personal plea to let me stay in the program, despite my many shortcomings. (But, for everyone’s sakes, I have omitted the most boring parts of the submission.)

I sent my reapplication to the former director of the WE²ST Scholar program, whom I will call Blaire. Blaire and I were very close. She was one of the most consistent champions of my writing, and she always made time for me. The depth and sweetness of our relationship is reflected in the vulnerability of these mini essays.

Truly, though… They should not have let me back in.]

Do you wish to be considered for continuation in the WE²ST Scholar program? Why or why not?

Upon careful consideration, I have definitively decided that I do wish to be considered for continuation in the WE²ST Scholar Program. This decision was a slightly difficult one for me because I had many reasons to desire continuation within the program, but also several reasons to bow out from consideration. However, upon analysis of the pros and cons of my choice, I have determined that the pros outweigh the cons — and, in fact, many of the cons have already disappeared or will disappear soon.

The WE²ST program offers many benefits to me as an undergraduate. The obvious benefits are the financial assistance and the exposure to a serious research lab under a stellar advisor (especially the latter). My work in the GEM Lab and my conversations with Dr. Research Professor have helped me better direct my post-undergrad career. I am now planning on pursuing graduate school, which is not an option I had strongly considered before this year. My integration into a dedicated research group has opened my eyes to the world of academia like never before, and my duties as an undergraduate researcher have endowed me with skills and knowledge that I would have never otherwise had.

Additionally, the WE²ST program itself is a well-organized wealth of wisdom, perspective, and support, all of which have been tremendously beneficial to my confidence throughout this difficult year. I know that in the WE²ST Scholar program, I am valued for both my current value and my future potential — and more than that, I am constantly encouraged and cultivated towards that greater potential.

Although the WE²ST program itself poses no drawbacks, I had reservations about pursuing the program further for reasons outside of WE²ST. These reservations fell into two categories: time and confidence. A major reason I wrestled with my commitment to WE²ST this year was time. The external draws on my time came from three sources: my employment at Victoria’s Secret, my commitment to my fiancé’s family as my mother-in-law lost her long battle with brain cancer, and my duty to planning my own wedding.

All of these time commitments were legitimate ones, but they are not ones that will plague me next year. Though I greatly enjoyed my time at Victoria’s Secret, I carefully considered my future career path, and deemed that I was immensely more likely to benefit from and pursue a career in research than I was in retail. Consequently, I have quit my employment at Victoria’s Secret in order to devote more time toward research and family. Tragically, we lost my mother-in-law on March 10, and held the funeral over Spring Break. I will thus no longer be making frequent trips to Minnesota. Finally, while wedding planning still occupies the vast majority of my free time, I will be tying the knot six weeks from now, concluding that duty and relinquishing the hold it had on my time and passion.

Another reason I struggled with my future in WE²ST was my level of self-confidence in terms of research, which was admittedly abysmally low. However, through discussions with Dr. Research Professor, Chance [my graduate student], and the wonderful staff of WE²ST, I have been able to put my accomplishments in terms of what they actually are: growth. Thus, I can evaluate these hesitations with the assurance that next year, my time will be my own to direct, and my confidence will be there to guide my path.

Knowing the benefits of participation in the WE²ST program, and with my concerns over my ability to commit to the program in the future sated, I can confidently say that I wish to be considered for continuation in the WE²ST Scholar program next year.

[Author’s Note: My aspirations to pursue graduate school died the following semester, when I finally realized that I actually hate research and engineering.]

How have you personally contributed to the WE²ST Center?

Quite honestly, I feel that I have not contributed to the WE²ST Center significantly over this past year. This question, when I first read it, disheartened and discouraged me to the point of tears because I am exceedingly frustrated at my relative lack of contribution to the WE²ST Center. Everything that I do, I try to do 110% — but this year, it felt as though I had 110 commitments each drawing that level of devotion. Obviously, I was unable to give 110% to each of these commitments, so each of my obligations suffered — my relationship with my fiancé, my schoolwork (regardless of my grades), my family relationships, and almost most of all, my research and membership in WE²ST.

I would like to believe that the few contributions that I have made — naming Wild West Science Night, buying the small water filtration stand, coming to the Center when there are cookies — show possibility of a brighter future: that even though my time is limited, my heart is in WE²ST. I guess that is my biggest commitment: heart. I can’t accurately claim that I have contributed great ideas or lots of time, but I can say that I care a lot — so much so that it pains me to have not contributed more to the Center this past year. Unfortunately, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Only time will give me the chance to show how much I care.

[Author’s Note: Apparently, my desperate plea was enough. Blaire responded to my reapplication with a one-line email:

“What beautiful responses. Love your writing….Ahhhh….”

I saved that email, just like I saved all of Blaire’s emails. They are all I have left of her. Less than a year later, she died of the same affliction that took my mother-in-law.]

April 5, 2018 — A Journal Entry to My Son

[Author’s Note: This piece was originally a handwritten entry in the journal that I keep for Borealis. I allude to some elements of his entry into the world — the full story of which you can find in my series The Birth of Borealis.]

Hey Bo,

I write this lying beside you on the family bed (formerly the marriage bed), which is made up with the quilt that I made your father for the first Christmas we spent together… I hope it’s still around, and preferably less covered with spit up than it is currently.

I wanted to write down some of the adorable/frightening/frustrating/[undetermined adjective here] things about newborn life while you are still so young. Obviously, I’ll leave out lots of things, unintentionally, but I’ll try to be honest at least.

I’m still not sure yet whether I like you. I mean, obviously I love you, in the sense that I’ll do anything for you and will provide for you, but I didn’t have the big “bonding” moment that everyone talks about, and that I had expected. part of me still thinks it’s because the first hours of your life were anything but “restful”. it also doesn’t help that you can’t smile yet. I’m hopeful that you and I come to a better sort of understanding soon.
I now have to decide whether to go back to work. I’m thinking yes — I miss Regulatory Affairs, in honesty. But, your father would prefer that I stay home, but for the money.
- [Author’s Note: After I expressed an interest solely in part-time employment, my former employer chose to pursue other candidates to backfill my position.]
We all sleep in the same bed. This is an issue for intimacy with your father and me (sorry, TMI), but it’s also a social problem because sleep sharing is frowned upon in the United States (although it’s normal around the world).
And you hate sleeping on your back. (So the “Back is Best” embroidered swaddles feel especially judge mental, since we put you down to sleep on your tummy.)
And you refuse to be swaddled.
You’re a long baby — like, 95th percentile. Our best guess is that you’ll be 6’3”.
Sometimes you’ll do an involuntary smile in your sleep. I’m gratified to see that you’ll have dimples.
You look SO MUCH like my dad. Absolutely everyone thinks so — except for, ironically, my dad. (And my mom.) But not, like, my dad as a baby… You look like my dad, now.
My mother buys most of our diapers. I’m hoping she’ll continue to do so for your younger siblings.
- [Author’s Note: My mother still buys diapers for when we visit her house, but I buy the majority of our diapers now. Most of them come from either grocery store clearance or Goodwill.]
All the roommates are moving out by June! Samara and Trent decided to move out just after their wedding (May 19th), since being newlyweds in a bedroom under an infant’s nursery isn’t actually their idea of a good time.
But your uncle will be moving into the basement, since your father thinks it would be financially irresponsible to have this whole house on our own. He better be clean….
You have massive baby hands.
You were born into a house with five adults, two dogs, a bunny, and hedgehog, but the hedgehog has since moved out.
You still prefer me to your dad, which makes me kind of sad. I’m hoping it won’t be long before being in his arms will also bring you comfort.
- [Author’s Note: Don’t worry. The reverse is now true.]

April 7, 2011 — Oklahoma: Day 245

[Author’s Note: I wrote this journal entry on an old iPod Touch that was incontrovertibly MIA at the beginning of this month. Luckily, Taylor finally found it in a big stack of stuff on top of our washing machine. I was equal parts elated and embarrassed.

My sixteenth birthday took place in Enid, Oklahoma, on (apparently) my 245th day of residency in the state. What follows is the diary account of my “sweet sixteen”, nine years ago.

Oddly, I left out some pretty important details. But I’ll get to that part later.]

Today was good. It was actually a bit mundane compared to what I expected, but at least it wasn’t bad. 🙂

I got to school early because State Competition [for choir] in Tulsa would require quite a trek. In preparation for the long trip, I went to use the bathroom. Catastrophically, though, as I entered the bathroom, someone else was leaving, and she dropped her half-full grape juice cup into the trash can. The liquid exploded upwards and outwards as the door slammed behind her, splattering my white cotton dress with purple stains.

Then I proceeded to get on a charter bus and sit by myself for two hours. Admittedly, my day did not get off to a great start.

It got better, though. The singing part was fine, but uneventful, except for a rather big occurrence at the beginning.

After Mr. Choir Director gave us our starting notes and we opened our mouths to sing, we all heard a loud thud and turned to see the cause of the disturbance. To our surprise, it was a soprano, Sophie, who had apparently locked her knees and consequently had fallen flat on her face, causing her chin to bleed profusely. After our initial shock had worn off, and Sophie had come to, she was led off stage and we were left to sing.

It turned out Sophie was ok, but she would need stitches. Mr. Choir Director decided to bring Sophie to get the required stitches at the ER (per the request of her father), while the rest of us would go to the Tulsa mall (the original plan).

At the mall, I hung out with my choir buds. We ate (I mooched off everyone else) at a Japanese joint, then walked to Forever 21, and by that point, it was time to go.

Unfortunately, we had to wait for quite a while before the medical paperwork was done, and as a result, we got back to school much later than I had hoped, and track practice was over.

My coaches were still there, however, even though everyone else had already gone after they completed the abbreviated, pre-meet workout. We chatted for a bit before Mother arrived, and when I went home, I ran two miles on my treadmill, to ensure that I stay toned but not tired.

My parents were wonderful — they got me lots of presents and whatnot, and were also very accommodating regarding dinner (I had asked for salmon).

I’m really nervous and excited for the track meet tomorrow. Aren’t I always? 🙂

[Author’s Note: A cute story, right? Yeah, I thought so too. Unfortunately, the written record glosses over several relevant aspects of the day.

Firstly, I hadn’t been able to find my “choir buds” before getting on the bus because: 1) I was attempting to clean grape juice off my white cotton dress, and 2) they had all gone together to sign up to be May Pole dancers for May Fete (an old English tradition that apparently lives on only in Enid).

While it was, of course, my responsibility to see the informational posters, I remember feeling betrayed that none of my friends had texted me, “Hey, we’re all going to sign up to be pole dancers — wanna come?” I would most assuredly have said yes.

Secondly, once we were all aboard the charter bus, those same friends called me from the back of the vehicle (where they were seated) to wish me happy birthday. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but I do remember that, despite my friends’ awareness that it was my birthday, I remained alone in a seat at the front of the bus for the remainder of the ride.

Thirdly, I left out the part where, for the bus ride home, I once again sat alone in a seat toward the front of the bus. I think I was waiting for an invitation that was not forthcoming, which suggests that I should have just gathered my courage and asked to sit with someone.

With these additional facts brought to light, the real question here is this: what kind of birthday was I expecting, that I characterized this one as “good”!?

Oh, and lastly, you can read about the aftermath of my anticipated track meet in April 29, 2011.]

April 7, 2020 — A Pandemic Birthday During Holy Week

Today is my 25th birthday, which means that I’m officially out of my early twenties.

Admittedly, I haven’t felt like an “early twenty-something” for a quick minute. Now that I have two kids, I feel a lot closer to 35 than I do to 25.

As a multiple-of-five year, my 25th birthday was *supposed* to be pretty special. We had plans to spend last weekend up in the mountains with my family, and I had tickets to go visit Calgary next week. But, both of those trips have been put on hold indefinitely (i.e. canceled).

In the great scheme of things, it’s a tiny loss. People are losing much, much more than that: weddings, and income, and jobs, and even lives. What is a birthday compared to all of that?

The answer is, not much. Even within my own life, a canceled birthday is pretty insignificant — but its spiritual impact doesn’t have to be.

Every earthly loss I sustain is a reminder — a reminder that every earthly misfortune, no matter how severe, is inconsequential compared to the eternal loss I would suffer without the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

It’s especially poignant that my birthday falls during Holy Week this year. When I truly consider Easter — like, really meditate on it — how could I be anything but grateful?

To paraphrase Psalm 73:25, how could I want anything in heaven or on earth besides Jesus? The Son of God lived the life I couldn’t live and died the death I should be dying. Even the best birthday is literally nothing compared to an eternity of communion with my Maker — a gift that I’ll receive not because anything I did, but entirely because of what He did for me.

So yes, I’m slightly bummed that I didn’t get to go to my favorite restaurant for dinner, and I’m a bit sad that all the birthday wishes are virtual. Even with the best attitude, a pandemic birthday is just not very fun.

But, more than anything, I am so wildly, deeply thankful that infinite birthdays await me in paradise.

April 8, 2015 — Differential Equations: A Study in Change

[Author’s Note: Spring semester of my sophomore year, I made the mistake of enrolling in Honors Differential Equations. Unfortunately, I discovered quickly that “Honors” had less to do with my grades in Calculus (good) and more to do with my overall affection and affinity for math (bad).

The teacher, Scooter, was an amiable — if scatterbrained — PhD candidate whose primary interest seemed to be geeking out on “cool math stuff” with his students. We watched a lot of YouTube videos.

Scooter held the somewhat misguided notion that we all could grow to love math as much as he did. [Spoiler: It didn’t work for me.] To that end, a major chunk of the final grade in the class was allotted to our keeping a personal math journal.

What do you think of when you hear the phrase “math journal”? Too late, I found out that when *Scooter* said “math journal”, he basically meant, “unassigned homework that you struggle with until you feel that you have gained proficiency in a certain area of mathematics”.

In my mind, however, a math journal was simply a record of my thoughts and feelings about math class, with a bit of DiffEq thrown in.

So, that is what I created. In retrospect, I can see that writing a math journal in Microsoft Word might have been a red flag. It’s not like that application really screams “differential equations”. Also, the fact that I gave the document a flowery title like Differential Equations: A Study in Change is quintessential proof that my goals just didn’t line up with Scooter’s.

What follows is the first page of my Honors DiffEq math journal. Unfortunately, the remaining thirteen pages are irretrievably mathy, and truly, I’d hate for this blog to veer too technical.

Oh, and one last thing — notice how I am writing to an imaginary audience. Even though this math journal was to be submitted to my teacher, I referred to him in the third person, as though I were writing to someone completely unrelated.

Well, dear reader, maybe I was just writing to you!]

So I signed up for this class (MATH 235 — it even has a different course identification than “regular math”) on the strong exhortation I received from my professor for Calc I and II. He waxed long on the many benefits of richer education, etcetera etcetera, until I relinquished and enrolled in Honors DiffEq. Unfortunately, I am now a sophomore in a class predominated by freshmen, all of whom seem to already know: 1) each other, 2) Scooter and his many quirks, 3) how to piss me off, and 4) everything that will be covered in this class. (Like, seriously, is there class on Tuesdays and Thursdays as well that I’m missing?)

What is a differential equation, anyway? I enrolled with a vague concept of the topic and a single phrase of description: interdependence. It’s an equation that depends, in some context, on itself. I’m looking for a function that changes based on itself. It’s like looking for a friend that I know only on the basis of how he walks relative to other people. (A bad analogy, I’ll grant you. I’ll continue to work on it.) Luckily, Scooter is fairly good about “wordsing it for me” (a common command I issue in relation to math and/or physics). A differential equation is an equation in which a dependent variable and its derivative both appear.

[Author’s Note: Yes… I realize that my preceding notes dwarfed the actual “story” in length, and you have my sincerest apologies.]

April 11, 2020 — Bo’s First Egg Hunt

[Author’s Note: This story now lives here.]

April 14, 2017 — Process Control Class Goes to Coors Lab

[Author’s Note: This story now lives here.]

April 15, 2013 — A Poem to My First Boyfriend

[Author’s Note: This piece was one of the many undelivered letters that I wrote to my first boyfriend — although, I seem to remember that I actually read this poem aloud to him. Ironically, as is the case with much poetry, the words still exist long after the sentiment has faded away.]

Just when I feel at last
That you are mine, my grasp
Begins to slip, and now
I simply cannot tell how
You feel. Do you love me?
So you say. And yet you are free
To say what you wish,
And play me the fool. With relish
I rush unto your side,
If only within my cloistered mind.
I fear that you grow weary
Of my company. But sincerely
I say to you — do not spare
My feelings with an affected air
Of caring. You are still so new,
So alien, that to make you
Inconvenienced is a thing
To be avoided. The sting
Of rejection, of ignorance, would
Be too great, too harsh. Could
It be that I will ever know
Your thoughts, your heart? Oh,
How I long to be yours,
And you, mine. Yet life’s course
Takes many turns, and today — tonight —
All I can do is hold you tight.

April 18, 2018 — Another Journal Entry to My Son

[Author’s Note: The following was originally handwritten in the journal I keep for Borealis. It immediately follows the entry for April 5, 2018.]

Hi Baby,

We are both currently lying on the bed, waiting for my parents and sister to come pick us up for our trip to Dallas. It’s not the first time you’ve flown (we went to Oklahoma over Easter), but it’ll be the longest that you’ve ever been away from your daddy (since he’s used up basically all of his vacation). I’m hopeful that you’ll be really excited to see him when we get home.

In other news, you smiled at me, sans-play, for the first time today (as in, just the sight of my face triggered a social smile from you, which is still a rarity). You’re getting much more pleasant to be around, although a recent growth spurt has had you hungrier than ever.

You make solid eye contact, you have expressions that suggest positive emotions (although you’re still on the whole a pretty serious baby), and your alertness and growing physical control mean that it’s actually possible to play with you (ish).

You’re also getting cuter, with well-complexioned (though dry) skin and appropriately proportioned and spaced features. I think you’re starting to look more like me, which probably means that you just look even more like my father.

We’re working on getting you to sleep more in the playard (rather than in our bed), although what progress we’ve made will probably be lost while staying at the hotel. At some point, we’ll actually have a nursery for you… but by that time, we’ll have your uncle living with us, too.

Well, I guess we’ll see how it all goes!

[Author’s Note: An update on some of the topics addressed above….

Borealis was, in fact, excited to see Taylor upon our return. It was the first time he showed a preference for the person who is now his favorite parent.

Bo is still a relatively serious kid, but obviously he’s much more emotive now. He loves to play with Taylor and me, and his giggles are absolutely contagious.

My son is now the spitting image of me as a two-year-old. The best way to tell our toddler selves apart is by photo quality.

Our roommate Leroy moved out approximately a month after this entry was written, and his bedroom became the nursery. Bo was totally out of our bed by six months old… which will probably not be the case for Australis. (I blame the cold weather.)

And, lastly, with regard to Taylor’s brother… It actually worked out really well. We’re even still on speaking terms.]

April 21, 2017 — An Explanation of My Incomplete Homework Assignment

[Author’s Note: On April 21 of my senior year, I turned in a homework assignment with only one of the four problems completed.

This behavior was not like me at all. Normally, I prioritized schoolwork over everything else — sleep, food, relationships, etc. But, this time was different.

Even still, I felt compelled to give a reason for my delinquency, so I wrote an explanation and stapled it to the single completed homework problem. The letter was originally addressed to the graduate student who graded our homework, but as I was walking toward my academic building to drop off the assignment, I happened to cross paths with the class professor — so I handed the following note to him, instead.]

Dear [Graduate Student],

I only did problem #1 on this homework assignment, but I don’t want you to think that it’s because I was lazy and/or careless. I knew Tuesday night exactly how much time I would have until the assignment was due on Friday afternoon, but I chose to spend the time on things I really care about — my people. This is my last E-Days, and I wanted to be with my friends. I hope you have a good weekend as well.

Warmly,

Holly

[Author’s Note: It only took four years, but I had finally decided that relationships superseded schoolwork in my priorities. The friends referenced in this note were the same ones who star in Process Control Class Goes to Coors Lab.

I guess it bears mentioning that my incomplete homework assignment was for Process Control, and the professor was the same one that — only a week beforehand — I had coerced into canceling class so we could all go drink beer.

Oh, and one last thing — I never regretted not completing that homework assignment. I still got an A in the class.]

April 23, 2009 — An Eighth Grade Track Meet

[Author’s Note: The following journal entry is the oldest piece in this anthology. I have left the absurd paragraphing unaltered because it is just so bad. Most notably, the final body paragraph contains a full conversation with three speakers. My inner editor died a little bit at the discovery that my past self could commit such an egregious writing faux pas.

So, a bit of background. In fall 2008, I tried out for the eighth grade volleyball team. There was just one problem: I was terrible at volleyball — and every other “-ball” sport. (I have poor depth perception. It’s part of the reason I’m such a bad driver.) So, I didn’t make the team.

When spring rolled around, my mother gently and wisely suggested that I go out for a no-cut team that was projectile-free: track. (I stayed away from the shot puts and disci.)

That year, I joined and stuck with track simply because I loved being part of a team. (I didn’t even like running!) I had no idea that the sport would become my entire life — that track would be the source of my best friends and my bitterest defeats; that I would go on to become a collegiate athlete; or that God would eventually lead me to quit the Mines team so that I would meet Taylor, instead. (Confer April 24, 2013 and April 29, 2011.)

But, those are all stories for a different time. In eighth grade, I was still carefree, and I had no idea that any of those things were coming.]

I had a track meet today. I ranked second in triple jump, with 26’ 5” (ish). [Author’s Note: A cursory internet search suggests that my performance was feet below average, so apparently this was a low-competition meet.] My teammate Maya beat me, which I’m glad of, because she’s currently got issues with her Achilles tendon and seriously needed the victory. Last week, I jumped 28’ 9”.

Although I am glad for my accomplishment, my favorite part of tonight was probably reconciling the issues between two of my other teammates, Harry and Coop. Coop has been my friend for quite a while, and Harry and I have been friends since track started, so about three weeks. So I talked to both of them, and it seemed neither of them liked (or like) each other, so I may have said to Harry that he should be nice to Coop, and also asked him if he was a Christian (it was an innocent question! I was just checking!), so he went and talked to Coop, and (temporarily) smoothed things out between them. So later, I went to talk to Harry. He’s such a great guy. We have definitely not gotten along in the past (even I don’t know all the details), and I don’t know if our friendship will continue past track (we do have math together), but right now I love him. Not love love (although he is pretty cute), but friend love.

So he was like, “Yeah, Holly was mad at me earlier.” And I said, ”No I wasn’t,” and turned to my friend Ski and asked, “You know when I’m mad at you, right?” He replied, “Yeah; it’s when you don’t talk to me for a week.” So Harry said, “I would not be happy if you excommunicated me,” and I was shocked. I asked Ski, “Why do people care if I don’t talk to them?” So he answered, “Because you’re fun to talk to.” I said, “No, I’m not,” but he said, “Yeah, you are.”

People like me!

[Author’s Note: Not long afterward, I developed a full-blown crush on Harry — but, alas, it was not reciprocated. I remained firmly in the friend zone the following year, but we drifted apart after I moved to Oklahoma in July 2010.

So… I guess it’s been almost a decade now since we were friends. Crazy how time flies.]

April 24, 2009 — An Eighth Grade Short Story

[Author’s Note: The following piece was one of my early forays into fiction writing. Unlike most of the incomplete stories in my eighth grade journal, this one actually has an ending — albeit a goofy one.

As with my other eighth-grade piece, I have left intact the original (i.e. unrefined) paragraphing, punctuation, and grammar.]

I dropped my pencil involuntarily as I studied the first problem on my math quiz. “How in the world am I supposed to do this?” I thought desperately to myself. I continued to stare blankly at the seemingly random assortment of x’s, numbers, and signs until I thought my eyes would pop out. I vaguely wished that I was back in Spanish, breezing through the simple vocabulary check.

I completely failed the quiz. Luckily, it was the first of the semester, so I still had time to bring my grade back up, and with the participation and homework grades I already had in the evil class, I would not be in too much trouble; I could squeak by with a C-.

At lunch, the cafeteria line seem to take twice as long as usual. The person in front of me shared my aggravation, nervously tapping his toe and muttering to himself. I caught the words, “Who in the heck knows ‘casa’ means house? I mean, come on! We’re not like, professors or anything…”

“Didn’t do too well on the Spanish quiz?” I guessed.

“Maybe,” the beefy guy replied. I recognized him as the second-string quarter-back for our football team.

“I’m pretty good at Spanish, but I don’t get Math. At all. Like, it takes all the focus I have to remember sine is opposite divided by hypotenuse.”

To my surprise, the guy replied, “Oh, it’s easy if you know the story of Chief Sohcahtoa.” He then related to me a story of an Indian mathematician and by the end, I found myself thinking, “Well, I guess that makes sense.”

I considered him for a second. What was his name, Carson? He did not strike me as the type who could handle 2+2, but here he was continuing into why the equations were useful and why trigonometry was important. When he paused for breath, I quickly said, “Casa looks like case, and cases house things.”

This struck him dumb. He looked at me with his mouth still open, blinking. He cocked his head to the side and mumbled, “Gee, I never thought of it that way.”

I smiled.

THE END

[Author’s Note: Carson was an actual classmate of mine — although, he was good at both math and Spanish, and everything else besides. I’m not sure why I used him as the foil in this story.

Also, it’s a bit ironic that mathematics is the antagonist here — years before I realized that I *actually* hated math. (Reference my DiffEq journal.) Apparently my eighth grade self was onto something.]

April 24, 2013 — A Letter to My First Boyfriend

[Author’s Note: During my final season of high school track, I was on target to qualify for the state meet in the 800, 1600, and 4×8.

But then, on April 22, those plans were suddenly thrown into jeopardy.

I sustained a pretty serious injury, but oddly, the mishap occurred while I was simply running — running normally. I didn’t trip or misstep or anything. One stride I was fine; the next stride, I heard a pop, and my left foot suddenly refused to bear my weight.

A variety of medical specialists — an ER doctor, a physical therapist, a family practice physician, a sports medicine guru, and an orthopedist — each offered a different conjecture. Nothing serious was evident on initial x-rays, so everyone was optimistic that I had only endured a bad sprain or strain.

The following letter was written to my first boyfriend during the interminable wait before my injury was officially diagnosed. There was a chance, however slim, that the situation would remedy before Regionals.

As was the case with most of my letters, this one was never read by its designated recipient.]

Dear First Boyfriend,

I am exhausted. Physically and mentally. First of all, crutching around all over the place is freaking hard work. I should have worn shorts. I’m sweating up a storm. (I know you must love to hear that.) I probably burned more calories already today than I will at track practice… ever again.

But no, it’s not just the corporeal fatigue (and that’s bad enough). It’s the primal, instinctual fear that floods me as well. I’ve got it under wraps; I don’t have to give in to the terror. Nevertheless, it’s always there, and when I let my guard down, it consumes me.

The issue is that I don’t know what my hope should be. Should I hope that God heals me? Should I accept what He has made and not try to get better? I don’t know. I’m trying to listen for His guidance, trying to trust Him, but it’s just so hard. I’m so weak. Putting on a brave face is so difficult when all I want to do is sob into my coach’s arms.

God wouldn’t want that though. I prayed for this. I prayed to be a witness. I don’t want to waste this opportunity, this last best chance, to show my team God’s love. I don’t want both my track career and their souls to be lost.

Oh, and there’s another thing, too. Being away from you is so draining. Like, it is actually work. The only thing harder is thinking about being away from you for four years. There is no solution, First Boyfriend, and I think you know that. I think that’s why you balked at the idea of getting me a promise ring. You don’t want to be committed to something that will undoubtedly be hellish torture. Maybe you, too, think that it would be easier to… just let it end.

I don’t want to put you through the gauntlet for something you might not even want.

Love,

Holly

[Author’s Note: Several days after this letter was written, secondary x-rays confirmed my worst fear — that one of my bones was no longer continuous. Seemingly, overtraining had weakened my metatarsals past the point of no return, and one of them had finally given out.

My season was officially over. No one comes back from a fracture in just two weeks.

My relationship with First Boyfriend outlasted my high school track career and, indeed, dragged out until mere days before my departure for Colorado. Coincidentally, he is now also married to someone named Taylor. (Except, his spouse is a girl.)

And, as for my foot… it eventually healed. I ran collegiately at Mines for a full year before I left the team.]

April 27, 2019 — A Life Update Addressed to My Pen Pal

[Author’s Note: It seems like, in books, it’s always super obvious when best friends or lovers meet for the first time. There’s usually some mention of prolonged eye contact, immediate chemistry, or shared esoteric knowledge.

But, of course, that’s not how “real life” usually works, and typically, these first meetings are pretty mundane. For example, it took several interactions before Taylor registered in my mind as anything other than “tall boy”.

Such was also the case with a good friend that I’ll call Markel. He was a year behind me at Mines, and he had the distinct misfortune of being one of my students during my first semester as an electromagnetics TA. (I was terrible.)

Accordingly, we never spoke to each other about anything apart from the class at hand — and even then, our dialogue was limited to the bare minimum. Frankly, I was intimidated by his cool hipster glasses.

Fast-forward two years. Markel and I sat close to each other in Engineering Economics, and time and proximity finally forged a friendship where electromagnetics could not… even though he still wore the same intimidating glasses.

I graduated at the end of that semester, but Markel and I continued to get together frequently. (We were both still in Golden, after all.) He graduated the following May, and then — as most people do — Markel left Golden.

Nevertheless, we’ve stayed friends. An interesting aspect of our relationship is that, even when we lived in the same state, the majority of our communication was via long texts. We’re modern-day pen pals.

The following piece is excerpted from an even longer text I sent Markel a year ago.]

First of all, happy late birthday, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. We’ve been taking advantage of the warmer weather to work a lot in our garden(s), and Bo’s resistance to napping has not been conducive to my responding to all of your missives. Even my blog writing usually happens in five-minute increments, which means that the task of final editing is often a nightmare.

I have been afforded this extended opportunity to write to you as I wait for my flight to Oklahoma City (and probably as I am *on* the flight to Oklahoma City).

[Author’s Note: I did indeed complete this missive while in the air. I sent the final product to Markel while my plane taxied into Will Rogers World Airport.]

One of my high school besties has decided to run the OKC Memorial Marathon very last-minute, and so I also decided (very last-minute) to fly out to support her run. I have traveled to all of her Nationals races (but one), so this seems like a more appropriate celebration of her time in college than would my attendance at her graduation.

The most unique thing about this trip is *not* that it’s only about a day in Oklahoma (since that characterizes many of my trips to OK), but rather, that Taylor generously encouraged me to go alone. This will be both the longest I have been away from Borealis and also the farthest that I have been from him. At nearly fifteen months old (and nine months of gestation), this will be his first day without me. I guess that means that I might be doing another one of these trips in about a year and a half, since I am pleased to tell you that we are three months pregnant with Baby #2 (Australis).

Now to respond to your actual texts. I was actually wildly sick on my birthday. I guess it was just a fluke cold, but I had to go in to UrgentCare to get tested for strep and the flu. I saw your texts come in, but I was virtually incapable of responding. I do appreciate your sweet birthday sentiments, though!

I appreciate your assurance that writing partnerships will eventually coalesce, although I fear that my tenacity has degraded somewhat since college. I am quite glad that I pursued your friendship, however — it has been quite worth the “initial investment”. 😉 How crazy that we’re past two years. It feels as though my senior year was the last piece of “real life” I experienced before unmooring into the unknown of parenthood.

Speaking of the Chemical Engineering Department — I was able to work with one of the professors emeritus to put together a page-long piece for the ChemE history book. Unfortunately, the original story was about seven pages long, so the abstracted version feels quite skeleton and flavorless, comparatively. I wrote it about the time that I convinced Damien to cancel Process class and come with us to Coors instead.

[Author’s Note: Sound familiar? The story referenced above is Process Control Class Goes to Coors Lab.]

I am fairly certain that the first entry in my “inspiration journal” (my graduation present to you) discusses the concept of home in a rather existential way — similar to your views as presented above. I have had a very similar experience since graduation — but with regard to identity, not home. In the past, I used my grades as an identity crutch (i.e. that I *was* my performance). The problem with that is that grades (and intelligence, humor, beauty, etc.) aren’t things that are guaranteed from year to year — or even day to day. So lately, I have been making the change to assess myself in light of God’s unchanging love for me, rather than in my own fleeting accomplishments.

I love those pictures [of us at your graduation]. You and I took very few photos together, but the few that I can recall offhand are good ones.

Here are some recent pictures of Bo:

And I’ll be sure to send some OKC pics as well.

[Author’s Note: I never sent those promised pictures of OKC. Sorry, Markel.]

April 28, 2017 — The WE²ST Research Symposium and a Contemplation of My Post-Graduation Fate

[Author’s Note: So, remember how I was a WE²ST Scholar back in college [April 3, 2016 and April 30, 2015]? As a member of that research group, one of my duties as a scholar was to submit weekly summaries of my WE²ST-related work. Not surprisingly, I exploited these writing opportunities for personal catharsis.

When my beloved Blaire was the director of WE²ST, she was the recipient of these update emails, but she did little to discourage my editorializing. In fact, she usually responded with something like, “Oh how I needed your report to make me laugh this morning, thanks!” or “Ever considered a career in writing? I might actually read more news articles if they were written by someone with your style.” (Those are actual quotes.)

But, then Blaire passed away in December of my senior year, and someone else read my emails. (Admittedly, though, I also had a good relationship with Blaire’s replacement.)

Coupled with my uncertainty about the future (but more on that later), the pain from Blaire’s death rendered my research updates a bit raw and gritty — and the excerpted piece below was perhaps the rawest and grittiest.

Oh, and you don’t really need to know what my research was about. Frankly, I’m not even sure I remember.]

This was the week of the Research Symposium, so it was difficult for a multitude of reasons.

First of all, we got back our metals data on Sunday night (i.e. the day after my senior E-Days), and it was basically useless because of issues with the internal standard recovery. Since I wasn’t involved with the addition of internal standards, I’m fairly confident that none of it was my fault. Regardless, it still meant that my data analysis was extremely hand-wavy.

Secondly, I absolutely can’t stand posters. I want them to be reports that stand up, but they’re more closely aligned with, like, comic books — not one of my skills. So, I’m terrible at making posters and I am always told that I need to add more pictures, which means that, originally, I had devised a poster that was both boring and uninformative (due to our bad data). But, then I added some pictures, so the final product was still uninformative, but maybe not boring.

Thirdly, I found out ten minutes before the Symposium that I wouldn’t be receiving an offer from Schlumberger, although I had expected that outcome.

Here’s what happened. It was a multi-day interview, and I totally had it in the bag until the exit interview, when the recruiter asked why I hadn’t put down my favorite segments (frac and wireline) as my preferred segments. I told him that I couldn’t be away from Taylor that long (possibly fifteen days at a time), and the recruiter answered, “I think that you’re sacrificing what you really want for what’s most important in your life.”

Of course I am. How could I do anything else? If I can’t have both, I’ll always pick my family.

Finally, the Symposium was on what would have been Blaire’s birthday, and it just felt so pointless being there without her. She had always somehow convinced me that I didn’t hate research, but with her gone, I can’t be fooled into it any longer. There was a flower arrangement over by her temporary memorial that reminded me of the mini arrangements she made for the Symposium last year, and my heart just hurt.

Then the co-leader of WE²ST got up to say a few words, and I was just overcome with these big, ugly sobs, but no one else was and I wanted to yell and scream and make a scene because why is everyone ok when Blaire isn’t even here anymore? But instead, I stepped out into the hall and cried quietly alone.

It was quite subtle — I’m sure my judges had no idea that I had been crying when I greeted them with a completely flat affect and a blotchy red face. Hopefully they thought my presentation was very middle-of-the-pack… That would have been ideal.

So now, I’m learning to cope with having no plans for the indefinite future. I don’t think that my near future holds an engineering job — at least, that’s what it seems divine intervention has been affecting in my life for the foreseeable future. It’s definitely more challenging than anything I’ve had to work on in the lab, and it’s new because I didn’t really resign myself to this fate until I heard back from Schlumberger.

[Author’s Note: Kinda raw and gritty, huh?

In the overall scheme of things, this moment was important because it marked the point at which I stopped fighting God.

About a month into my senior year, I had gotten a strong feeling in my spirit — like God had whispered into my soul, “I’m not going to give you a career. I’m going to give you a family instead.”

But, I wasn’t sure I liked that deal. (And I was dumb enough to think that I might know better than God.) I wanted the prestige of an engineering job, even though I hated engineering, and I guessed [accurately] that there’s little prestige in being a mom.

Schlumberger was the last of maybe a dozen interviews my senior year, and by April, I was exhausted from resisting something that God had seemingly laid so heavily on my heart. Nevertheless, I went into the overnight interview with teeth and ambition bared.

The ordeal was in Oklahoma City, which made me incredibly homesick. Maybe twenty candidates flew out on a Wednesday afternoon, and the “official” stuff got underway around 6pm… and lasted until 2am. Then, we had to get up at 7am and go on a full-day field trip to an oil rig.

You see, a major part of the interview was to probe for weaknesses revealed via sleep deprivation. The good thing was, I don’t have any weaknesses!

HAHAHA. Just kidding. I literally cried for about two-thirds of my hour-long exit interview, which was probably even more uncomfortable for my interviewer than it was for me. (At some points, he had to ask me to repeat my tear-slurred answers.)

I was suddenly in the unenviable position of having to fight for something in which I no longer believed. Schlumberger made it so binary — family or career. And granted, many people have both. But, I finally realized that I wouldn’t — at least, not immediately. (Or possibly ever.)

So, I didn’t get the job, and it was good, because I finally broached the subject of kids with Taylor.

As usual, I was very subtle. I said, “So, I’ve been feeling for the past eight months that God wants us to have kids instead of having me work, but I didn’t want to tell you because I was scared you would say yes.”

Taylor grunted a few times, then responded, “Ok, let me go pray about this.”

I was surprised when he was only gone for a few minutes.

“I have a good peace about it,” he announced. “Let’s start our family!”

The next day, I made an appointment to get my IUD removed, and a little over a month later, we were pregnant.

And now, here we are, three years later. I have two kids and no job. However, the odds are high that, even if I hadn’t botched that interview, I still wouldn’t have a job right now. I heard from a friend that Schlumberger has laid off half his coworkers, and I might have been one of them — and then I would have had no job and no kids.

In summary, I’m just really thankful that God prodded me down the road of having a family — even if I went kicking and screaming.

These days, I hardly ever kick and scream. After all, that’s Bo’s job. 😉 ]

April 29, 2011 — Oklahoma: Day 267

[Author’s Note: Heads up — this is another raw and gritty journal entry.

As was the story of my sixteenth birthday, the following entry was sourced from my sophomore-year iPod Touch journal.

In that birthday post, I alluded to being a bit nervous about the next day’s track meet. Little did I realize that I should have been *very* nervous.

That meet, I sustained a quad injury that would eventually end my track season — which was devastating, because over the course of a single year, I had magically become pretty good, and I was gutted to lose the glory of being one of the fastest girls.

However, more painful than seeing myself replaced on three State-bound relays was the agony of being once again on the outside. I had moved to Oklahoma at the beginning of the school year with no friends and no social skills. At a big, scary new school, I had no place to call my own.

But then, track season started, and all of a sudden, I was surrounded by people I immediately loved — and more importantly, they liked me too.

I had done off-season track, so the throwers knew me. I was fast, so the relay girls accepted me. I was funny, so the sprinter guys laughed with me. I was naive, so the cross country guys proselytized me. [Spoiler alert: They succeeded.] And I was dedicated, so the coaches tolerated me.

In truth, I don’t think anyone’s opinion of me actually changed because I got injured. (Well, except for my head coach’s. He was pretty pissed at the timing of my misfortune, and I temporarily got caught in the buckshot of his wrath.)

Nevertheless, I felt like I no longer mattered, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that my worth was directly predicated on my performance. Many of the journal entries surrounding this one feature prayers in which I grappled with trusting God through what had been my worst adversity to date. To have [seemingly] everything taken away, twice in one calendar year, felt like more than I could bear.

Interestingly enough, those sophomore year wrestlings were a foretaste of those from my senior year, when I was facing the truncation of my entire high school track career, rather than that of just a single season. Apparently, April is just not a great month for me.

This specific entry was the emotional climax of my sophomore-year-injury arc — i.e. me mostly coming to terms with my loss and [kind of] deciding to move on. The narrative features a whole slew of my old teammates — most of whom I have not seen in nearly a decade.

Here is a brief cast of characters to facilitate your reading of this piece:

Burt: extremely popular and kind senior sprinter boy; also in Honors Choir with me
Shiloh: funny and flirty junior sprinter boy
Irma: reserved but sweet long-distance girl; one of my first friends in Enid
Gertrude and Rosie: hilarious and loyal sophomore thrower girls; also some of my first Enid friends
Hans: very fast and likable sophomore sprinter; not very engaged with actual schoolwork; my male counterpart senior year, when we were de facto team captains
Grayson: intense and slightly scary senior sprinter boy

One last thing — besides names, I changed a bunch of the paragraphing and punctuation, but barely any of the actual content. So, the story below is virtually unaltered from how it was put down nine years ago.]

Today was very out-of-the-ordinary. It was difficult, but memorable. And it’s been exactly three weeks since that fateful track meet. The day that was both so good and so terrible.

Today started with the Tri-State competition for choir at the First Assembly of God Church. I drove myself there, and mingled with the choir until our time to sing came. I mostly stuck with Johanna, my best friend in choir. Before she arrived, though, I stood awkwardly in the midst of a group that contained Burt. He was playing the piano. When someone asked, “Don’t you have a track meet today?”, he responded, “Not until later.”

I whimpered a bit at that point, and quietly emitted something along the lines of, “I wish I could come.” Somehow, that caught Burt’s attention, although he has so many friends that I don’t understand why he would pay me any notice.

“But you stand a good chance of going next week, right?” he asked, concern touching his inquiry, softening it.

“No,” I breathed. I continued at a more audible level, “No, I don’t. I’m out the rest of the season. No jogging even.”

Burt responded appropriately. “What!?” he cried, outraged. “That’s not fair. I’m sorry, Holly.”

To myself, I thought my classic, I am too.

The performance went well, and afterwards, invigorated by the promise of a car, a license, and an entire day excused from classes, I — with the permission of dear Mother — set off for Da Vinci’s (my favorite coffee shop in Enid) for a quick drink before making my way to school.

I never made it there; I quickly became lost and changed my goal to be my safe arrival at school as opposed to a warm drink.

Once I finally found the school (the total trip took over twenty minutes when it could have taken seven), I parked, changed in my car (a task made more difficult due to Johanna’s latching of the hook-and-eye at the top of my choir dress), and finally went inside. It was the passing period before third period, so I had only missed Math and Spanish.

Unfortunately, very little was accomplished in either AP Bio or AP Euro, and throughout both the classes I bemoaned my unnecessary presence at school, threatening the entire time to leave and go to Da Vinci’s.

I stayed, though, but I did take advantage of being excused. I made the rebellious decision to skip Choir, and instead, I remained with my team as they waited for the bus to come take them to Stillwater [for the Conference track meet].

God orchestrated a number of serendipitous coincidences in order that this should actually occur and be fulfilling: I was excused all day, allowing me to actually be out of class without consequences; the bus came late, giving me a nice, long amount of time with my team; Head Coach didn’t come outside till everyone else was already on the bus, so no one shooed me off; and all my teammates were very hospitable.

In fact, they were more hospitable than I could have even hoped. I had seen Shiloh earlier, and had said, “I think I might come see the team off, but I don’t want to seem desperate, you know? Like I’m trying to make myself fit in.”

He responded, apparently surprised, “You do fit in, Holly.”

Aw! So sweet.

But it wasn’t just him. It was everyone, so much so that I feel like it was a conspiracy. From the first, when I went outside, two of the cross country guys were like, “Are you coming? You should!” The question was mimicked several times, with my sad answer of, “No, I’m just seeing you guys off,” to each repetition.

The time, though, was wonderful, because everyone was gathered in one place. However, I mostly stuck with my two groups, of course — my girls and my guys.

My gal friends were the first people I saw by the bus. I wished Irma the absolute best of luck, though from what she said later, she didn’t do quite as well as she would have wanted. (It was very windy.) She accepted the encouragement graciously, but Gertrude and Rosie had a different idea in mind.

“You should come, like, really,” Gertude said.

“You are excused the whole day!” Rosie added cajolingly.

“Hmm… I’ll ask my mom!” I exclaimed, excited.

I ran (equals a weird mix of galloping and jogging) to my locker to retrieve my lunch box, which always contains my phone. On the way, Hans intercepted me and asked, “Do you know anything about Chemistry?”

“Of course,” I responded automatically. (I think I would have said that to any question Hans would ask.)

“Will you help me?” he continued.

“I’m not going,” I replied out of habit.

“Will you do it for me?” he countered.

“No!” I exclaimed. “Maybe Monday? I gotta grab my phone,” I finished, then proceeded to do so.

After a quick call home, during which I received positive feedback, I barged into the guys’ changing room.

“Whoa, Holly, I was getting ready to change!” Shiloh said.

“You still can,” I said, holding up a hand to block him from my vision.

Luckily, he didn’t strip, but I did have pretty much everyone’s attention as I made a beeline for Assistant Coach Johnson.

“Can I go to the meet?” I blurted.

“That is not up for me to decide,” he equivocated. “You’ll have to ask Head Coach.”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” I asked desperately.

“Nope.” Johnson didn’t even pause to consider. “He’s in a really bad mood because of the wind,” he explained.

“Ugh!” I shouted. “Well, where is he at least?”

“He’s over on the other side of the building. But if I were you, I wouldn’t go find him. He’ll be here.”

I flopped down on the benches, content to wait. All my guys were there, and most of them shot consoling glances my way. However, it was still the boys’ locker-room.

“Um, I still have to change,” Shiloh hinted.

“You can,” I said, turning my back to him.

“No!” exclaimed Burt. “This is the boys’ locker-room. Get outta here!”

Back outside, I continued to mingle, but for me, the atmosphere was more tense, colder. My guys came back outside shortly afterward, and that added some levity to the atmosphere, but I still knew that I had already lost.

I hung with my guys, of course, waiting for Head Coach’s appearance. Somehow sex came up. (It always does.) But I learned something good — Shiloh, like Burt, wants to remain chaste till marriage. 🙂 And I was like, “Me too! And Burt!”

Burt was like, “Yeah, if I get married. Girls don’t really like me.”

Shiloh said, “Yeah, me either.”

I snapped, “Shut up. Both of you. Stop being stupid.”

I can’t believe they would say that. Especially Burt. EVERYONE loves him. And Shiloh’s got a girlfriend! What’s up with those two? They then proceeded to fake cry into Hans’s shoulder.

Dear Hans. I love him so. In the brother way. 🙂

Later, Shiloh was flirting with one of the freshmen (“You’ve got something on your face… Oh. I guess beautiful doesn’t come off.”), but she wouldn’t play Chicken, a game where two people put their faces closer and closer and whoever pulls away first loses.

As I have absolutely no qualms with either personal space or kissing Shiloh (ok, maybe that second one’s not entirely true), I was very good at the game. However, this was because we found that it was possible to reach a stalemate, with the two people’s foreheads resting against each other. Haha.

And then the bus came. I managed to keep my composure through most of it: I withstood all the pleas of, “Holly, you should come!”, Rosie’s picking me up to carry me onto the bus (an attempt I foiled by screaming loudly), and wishing everyone who got on the bus either fun or luck, all without leaking from my eyes.

However, when Head Coach came out, I couldn’t help crying a bit.

“It’s ok,” he soothed. “We know what it is now, and you’ll be better by next year, and you’ll be able to go and run and do everything again.”

I can’t say I agreed with any of those statements, but I appreciated the hug, and I nodded in compliance.

I could have asked to come. But it just didn’t feel right. I had him on my side right now, and I didn’t want to alienate him. So I retreated to the fence to wait for their departure.

And that’s when it got really hard. With my mind already resolved to stay, my teammates started entreating my heart to betray me. Along the side of the bus facing me, the gals put up their hands along the window in either the sign-language symbol for “I love you” or in a two-handed heart. I signed back, sobs beginning to threaten my composure. As I watched, Grayson got up and started walking toward the front of the bus.

Sit down, Grayson! I thought, assuming he was going to speak with his mom, who is an assistant coach. The sooner you’re sitting, the sooner you all can leave, the sooner I can break down.

I found out later why he was standing. It was for me. He had said, “If Holly can’t go, I’m not going.”

Assistant Coach Netherland, my worst enemy, responded, “Then pack your bags.”

Grayson had, and moved to leave the bus until the coaches had told him to cut it out.

Have I ever had such loyal teammates? Ones that would stand up for me when I’m not even there to hear them?

The bus left soon afterward. I waved until they turned the corner, then talked on the phone to Rosie for another few minutes.

After I hung up, I saw I had a text from Irma. It read, “After we left, everyone was like, ‘If she can’t go, we shouldn’t go,’ and ‘She’s so nice, she should be allowed to come.’” As if my heart wasn’t already broken.

The bell for the next class caught me mid-cry. I wiped up the worst of the mascara, then went about the rest of the day lifelessly. I was so glad to complete physical therapy during seventh period, then be able to return home and go to bed early. I talked to Rosie for about an hour beforehand — she’s who told me about Grayson, and I appreciate her so.

It was a long day. For sure.

April 30, 2015 — Application to Become a ConocoPhillips WE²ST Scholar

[Author’s Note: If you’ve read this entire anthology, you might remember that I did undergraduate research through the ConocoPhillips Center for a Sustainable WE²ST during my time at Mines.

But, before I ever discovered that I hate doing research, I first had to apply for the scholarship. (And then reapply for the scholarship.)

Most of my college-era applications were merely stodgy self-promotion, and the following excerpt is no exception. However, this piece is [possibly] worth reading because it provides a more detailed (and more flowery) explanation of my decision to become an engineer — an event which I described briefly in another scholarship application.

Note the irony herein — my decision to become an *engineer* reads like an excerpt from some overwrought memoir.

Well, some things are more obvious in hindsight.]

Pick an experience from your background and explain how it has influenced your educational and/or career goals.

When I was twelve, I went with my father to the 25^th National Space Symposium. As he chatted with coworkers who were also in attendance, I stared wide-eyed at the seemingly magical displays that filled the symposium. I remember one in particular — it was a computer simulation showing how, within a twenty-four hour period, a certain set of satellites could monitor every geosynchronous satellite in orbit.

I was stunned. Who could figure out how to do that? I wondered. Slowly, the answer was revealed to me — on nametags, in snippets of conversation, on signs. Engineer. An engineer could figure out how to do that. Later that night, one of my father’s friends asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. Though earlier that day, my answer would have been, “An artist,” I knew at that moment that something within me had changed. “I want to be an engineer,” I replied, and I knew that what I had said was true.

That day has influenced the rest of my life. I entered high school knowing that I wanted to be an engineer. I took classes that would prepare me to apply to a top-notch engineering school. Here, at Mines, I have continued to learn as much as I can in order to prepare me for a career as an engineer. Thus, the 25^th National Space Symposium helped me make the decision to become an engineer — a decision that has shaped the rest of my life.

[Author’s Note: I guess it just goes to show that you shouldn’t always let eighth-grade-era decisions guide your entire life plan. I was very much in love with the idea of being an engineer… but then I actually found out what engineers do.

So now, if my father’s friend were to ask again what I want to be when I grow up, I would respond, “Definitely an artist. The engineering thing just didn’t work out.”]

April 30, 2017 — An Introductory Memorandum Preceding My Final Senior Design Report

[Author’s Note: In the closing days of April 2017, I posted up in my department’s computer lab with a bottle of Merlot and Sleepyhead playing on repeat.

Over the course of several days and dozens of hours, I wrote the 30+ pages of our senior design report. Since I had already sworn off *actual* engineering, the marathon writing session was basically my only contribution to the project.

On the last day of April, I finished off our final senior design report with this flippant and overly personal memorandum to a professor that I had truly grown to love — a professor who, at one point, admitted to futon-surfing, and claimed that it was a classier version of couch-surfing. (That comes up later.)

I cannot read this letter without grinning like an idiot. It signifies the culmination of so much hard work, and most importantly, I did it with my best friends. (You probably read about some of them in Process Control Class Goes to Coors Lab.)

So, basically, it sums up the two main things I got out of Mines: several excellent friends, and a renewed passion for writing.

Oh, and I guess I got a husband, too.]

Dearest Professor,

It’s been a hell of a ride. I can honestly speak for all of us when I say that we’ve learned and grown so much from this experience, and we hope we’ve taught you things too. We could not have done this project without your wise counsel and personal conversations. Even still, it sometimes seemed like we might not in fact be able to accomplish the nearly impossible: breaking down a vague concept for which our manager wants an articulate and clever design, holding together a disparate team of brilliant and frequently scatter-brained individuals, persevering through months of being ignored by our manager, and finally, submitting a design that is likely more wrong than not.

But here we are, at the end. We’ve done it, and our idyllic design follows. I hope you read this letter, and I guess I hope you read the rest of it too. Our hearts and souls have definitely been poured into this design and report.

I guess, if we did really well, then we can look forward to futon-surfing for the rest of our lives. Apparently, that’s what the best people do.

All our best,

Wild Naphtha and the Middle Distillates

[Author’s Note: Oh yeah, I had forgotten about our goofy team name.

It just feels really fitting that this piece should be the last one in my throwback anthology. It was the end of one thing (college) and the beginning of another (motherhood), and I am so hopeful that this post will once again mark the end of one thing (quarantine) and the beginning of another (???).

Only God knows what lies ahead.]