Listening to the Echoes

“What do you want to do after high school?” The question parents love to throw during the senior year. I was ready. I knew deep in my heart what I wanted to become and spend my life doing. I turned to my mom, confidence radiating from me. “I want to become a writer.”

A heavy cloud of thick silence dropped between us. I expected her to encourage me to follow my heart. Instead, her serious gaze shattered my dream. “You need to find a serious career. Becoming a writer will not help pay the bills.”

I lowered my head, staring at the shards of my future. Each piece carrying my story ideas, grounded for eternity. Why can’t she be supportive for once? Is it the color of our skin and the difficulties minorities face which create the fear in her to allow me to pursue what I want? She shared the racial inequality in our country and kept it as a reminder. I hesitated to continue. The question floating in the air, seeking an answer. I shake my head in concession. “Teacher. I enroll in college to become a teacher.”

A smile broke over her lips. “Well, you do enjoy working with children.”

Thirty years later.

I sit within my assigned four walls for the remaining 90 instructional days. I brace myself for the energetic group of students who are swapping stories about the happening the night before outside the closed doors. Whether through digital video games or group chats, they continue conversing. Meanwhile, I am looking over what I have prepared for them on the day. The bell interrupts my thoughts, signaling my requirement to open the door and usher them into the room. Once they place their belonging in the proper location, I begin with our morning circle. This is the career path I chose and have followed for 20 years after abandoning my dream of becoming a writer. However, 2024 issued a change within me and it all began eight years ago.

I have been entering writing contests since 2016. After each contest, there is feedback and I have continued watching my progress. Witnessing the improvements to my writing. I opened 2024 enrolling in a Pocket MFA writing program, wrapped in the question: will I become better? Will it continue to spark joy for the craft? Ultimately, will I be able to change my life to leave the classroom for a career in writing?

The program was a success for me. It motivated me to transform from writing as a hobby to writing as a career. It guided me to other writers and the importance of becoming a part of the writing community. I learned how to critique other writer’s work with constructive, positive feedback and listen to others who genuinely want to see my writing improve. However, the program was not enough for me to bid farewell to my career in the classroom. Years of complacency kept me stationary. I needed more to break up my daily routine and dive into the fear of change.

April 2024. My heart broke. I returned home from school, dashing to my 20-year-old cat hiding spot under the bathroom sink. Her frail body made it difficult for her to walk. How she even climbed up under the sink in my absence was an enigma since she struggled to leave where she had been resting all day. I helped her out of her sanctuary and held her in my arms. She refused to struggle like she normally would, wanting me to hold her instead. Cradle her in my arms. Warning me what was to unfold in the following minutes. Gently, I placed her body in a large plastic drawer full of old clothes. She often hid in the drawer when she was younger. The familiar smell of the clothes would make her feel safe, I rationed. I stayed by her side, stroking her fur with one hand. She returned her gratitude in purrs. For a moment, after witnessing her refuse to eat for over two weeks, there was hope she was going to turn it around and be the cute, energetic little furbaby I raised. There was hope she would pop her head up and jump out of the box, like she did when I took her in 20 years ago. A small kitten, full of curiosity. Would she surprise me again with that same excitement? No. She laid there on top of the clothes, breathing steadily in and out. Purring to each of my strokes. In a blink of an eye, her breathing stopped. Her stomach was dormant, no longer rising and dropping. Motionless. My fingertips continue to stroke the vibration from her purrs. Confusion toyed with my mind. Had she passed away? Or is she still alive? I placed my ear over her body to where her heart is, hoping a beat would easy my concerns. Silence delivered the final verdict. She had left me. Alone. My one reason binding me to the four walls of education, now moved amongst the stars. Her passing became the first sign to move on and chase a dream I lost many years ago. Only, I refused to listen.

November 2024. An email from a literary journal caught my attention. I clicked on it, bracing for the usual disappointing news every writer becomes immune to. The first delivered shock instead. “Congratulations.” A smile stretched over my face. It happened. One of my piece was about to become featured in a literary journal, for the second time. I filled out the acceptance form and began my marathon of sharing the news with people I know. Published. Casting your name out in public for people to see and recognize. Ultimately, manifesting my dream on my own. Another sign. This time I chose to listen.

2024 has shown me a lot. I endure a rigorous writing program and discovered the power of participating in a writing community. The passing of my best friend encouraged me to prepare for my retirement from the field of education and follow my heart and passion instead of staying with the status quo. My published piece verified I am can lead a fulfilling career in writing. Fall of 2025 will mark the beginning of my final year of teaching. I will retire summer 2026 after 20 years of service and follow the advice I preach to my students: Follow your dreams, if you are willing to work for it. Thank you, 2024.

Sidenote: You can read my published piece: Matching My Reflection