Where I Grew Up

One of the questions that makes me fumble over my words is “Where are you from?”

I have served as a writer for the military in some form throughout my entire career, which means a lot of moving around and lacking of a place to be “from.”

The more I talk about it, though, the more I realize where I’m from is not where I grew up.

I claim Ohio, since I was born and raised in Cincinnati, but I’ve lived as a legal resident in three different states over the last 10 years. So, it’s not exactly true to say I’m from there. But, I’m not a Georgia peach and I’m not an Alabama or Texas southern Belle, either. So, from? Well, it’s quite the story.

I moved around for journalism. I served four years as a soldier, but the other six were as a journalist.

It’s difficult to answer because where I’m from is two Army bases where I lived in hotels and completed internships for college; then two more military installations in Georgia, including one where I donned the uniform and was sent to a base overseas. I also lived in two Alabama homes just across the state line from the Peach State with unexpected roommates who were my friends. Finally, I’m from a $425/ month apartment in a tiny town in Texas where the whole town knew my name and face from a column I wrote about living at a campground my first week in town.

But all of this doesn’t fit in an introductory handshake conversation, at least not before I’ve gauged if they care to hear it.

I’m a Cincinnati girl, branded by the experiences at Riverbend Music Center and kayaking adventures with friends in the Whitewater River, as well as Easters with family and celebrating a birthday at least every month with cake and a song sung by the whole family. But that’s not where I grew up.

I grew up having $15 to spare from my first career-job weekly paychecks and surviving off the free summer squash given to me by a coworker from her garden in Texas; I grew up rolling the windows down and slapping my face in the middle of the night to stay awake as I drove nine hours from my home to visit the closest family I had; I grew up posting what I thought was an innocent social media post about hating that a call from a bill collector could make me cry only to be sent a check from a family member that supported my dream and didn’t want to see me drown; I grew up learning the hard way that not every character who joins your story makes it to the proceeding chapters (and I’m still learning this one).

Not only that, but I grew up going to work after having crashed my car on the commute in because I didn’t have anyone to rescue me; I grew up making friends in new states because I know it takes a whole lot of support from a whole lot of different people to make it on your own; I grew up sometimes not getting the invite because no one knows you and you don’t have a clique to be a part of; I grew up missing family members’ last breaths because no mode of transportation can get you where you need to go in an instant. I grew up choosing different priorities in different moments, but somehow living the best life because of it.

I’m no military brat and I’m not even sure that I’m done moving, yet. My story is changing with every decision I face. Right now, it’s that I got tired of watching my family’s lives happen as if I was on the outside looking in. My niece and nephew are growing up and my brother and his wife are getting gray hair. And it was all happening through the posts of a social media feed. I wanted in.

So, now, where I’m from is a place on Polly Lane in Lafayette, Louisiana. I did a whole lot of growing up before I got here, but now I’m in the Bayou State to be a bigger part of the family I’ve been watching grow up from afar.

The people who were a part of it can invisibly put their name in this post. They know where I’m from and when that smile flashes across my face when I’m asked this big question of “Where are you from,” they know all the things flying through my mind because they’ve been a part of my story.

I know where I’m from, and I know where I’ve grown up. This is where I’m at and where I’ll continue growing up.

And from where I’m at, I’ll keep chasing my dream, too, as everchanging as it is.

My Uncle Mike

The last time I believe I saw my Uncle Mike. He and my Aunt JoAnne were part of my welcoming committee at the airport when I got back from a nine-month deployment.

My Uncle Mike Niesen had been sick for a while. All of 2020, in fact, and a bit before that.

I would get news from my mom via text message about how he was doing. It never occurred to me that there was a possibility we could lose him.

I face worst-case scenarios head on in my life, but usually that’s with things like ‘if I don’t win the lottery…’ or ‘if my leadership won’t let me go home for Christmas…’ but losing someone is not something I can ever confront in my imagination.

The Good Old Days

I wish somebody would have told me, babe
Some day, these will be the good old days
All the love you won’t forget
And all these reckless nights you won’t regret
Someday soon, you’re whole life’s gonna change
You’ll miss the magic of these good old days

-Song by Macklemore feat. Kesha

A lot of us are turning 31 in 2020. I can remember days before being 21 with the group of friends that I now have. That means I’ve been friends with most of them for more than 10 years now.

Never enough time

I wish coffee never got cold.

I wish friends’ trips never came to an end.

I wish trips home didn’t fly by.

I wish my nieces and nephew and friends’ kids didn’t grow up so fast.

I wish heart-to-hearts with my mom would last forever.

wish my 20s didn’t turn into me being 30.

A loved me

When I had so much trouble making friends that stuck in high school, I thought I was bound to be one of those kids who just doesn’t have a lot of long-lasting friendships in her life.

This Christmas…

I’ve got so many people supporting me and helping me stay positive during this entire adventure.

I’ve got Shelley sending me zodiac predictions and checking up on me randomly (like she just did a few hours before I started writing this), not to mention sending me winter comfort items and food.

Small doses

My multi-city trip this September was broken up into seeing a large amount of people in small doses of crazy little adventures.

I’d like to take a moment to thank…

I want to make sure I give credit where credit is due:

When I finally began packing, it was like I was back in college trying to convince myself to finish an essay I had put off writing all freaking day. Nothing sounded better than a nap once I had myself home and was “ready” to dedicate a few hours to what needed to get done.
Instead of giving into my procrastination efforts and napping, I assigned an accountability partner: I text Courtney and asked if she wanted to come over to help me pack. She told me she’d be over after her event she had with junior league. There was my motivation.

What’s Next: Kayaking

I started kayaking when I was young with my cousins during the summers our families would take us camping at Mohican State Park.

Just down the road at Mohican Adventures, we’d all stand in a line in the gift shop, our uncle would usually pay our fee and we’d go wait outside the barn until we’d walk through to pick up our life jackets and paddles. Once supplied with the accessories, a staff member would ease our kayaks into the slope and push us in the water. From there, we waited on the remainder of our family and friends before we made our way down the Mohican River. During these days, I spent more time chatting with family members and family friends than I did observing the wildlife. Other than snakes in the water, we didn’t see a lot of life anyway. I think the most lively characters during these trips were the campers sitting along the river bank offering beer or a friendly wave along our way.
When I got older, I realized how much I enjoyed the couple miles of paddling. Not only did I enjoy it, I was good at it. My competitive spirit and adventurous side would have me paddling hundreds of feet in front of my relatives and friends just taking in all the sites and sounds of the river. If anyone were to catch up to me, you can bet they’re arms would be be sore the next day. Hey, it’s not bragging when it’s a known fact that you’re good at something.

Back in those days,