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She sits adjacent to the dark hallway that leads to a dingy bathroom in a humble middle class ranch home in a small town in Nebraska. With her folding chair positioned just slightly – deliberately – outside the invisible cord that serves to bind this gathering, she’s taken her place among the women from St. Boniface who have formed a tight, informal circle – a circle that includes both friends and acquaintances.

‘The Book of Revelation’ is the theme for tonight’s first meeting of a new 10-week session of Bible study. Her heart is racing. Despite her outward appearances to the contrary, she silently and vehemently curses her decision to ‘step outside her comfort zone’, done so largely as a nod to her daughter-in-law’s incessant urging to involve herself in activities, to get herself out of the house, to ‘enjoy life’, to find her passion. Ever so slightly, she closes her eyes and, inhaling deeply, she shakes her head. Exhaling now, she nervously looks around, hoping that no one has taken note of her discomfort.

The regret she feels about coming here tonight is palpable. She had many opportunities where she could have changed her mind – backing out of the garage, turning onto Bradley Street where tonight’s proceedings are being hosted, maneuvering her car to park, stepping out of the vehicle, navigating the uneven brick walkway leading to the front door and – finally – ringing the cracked, unlit doorbell. Still though, she had continued to put one foot in front of the other and well, now, here she is. Dammit.

Her stomach is twisting and churning. She loathes calling attention to herself and, more than anything, she is afraid that someone will call on her tonight to lead the group in prayer. Or to read a passage. Or to answer a question. She is terrified that someone will ask her to provide her opinion on the topic at hand: What do you think, Betty?

Seriously, why HAD she come here tonight?

She’d been consumed by fears for much of her life, always cautious – usually more so than was ever warranted, always afraid, always apprehensive.

Her reticence about life had, she was beginning to see, robbed her of life.

It wasn’t just the usual stress-inducing situations most people become anxious about: scenarios involving water, questionable judgment and electricity or strangers at the front door at midnight while at home all alone or white-knuckle driving during a brutal Midwestern snowstorm.

No. It was more than that.

She was unable to account for the lack of anything even resembling a spark – let alone a fire! – in her belly relative to a single, solitary facet of her life, save her two sons. Her boys, now grown men, were her Life, her All, her Everything. Tim and David were her pride, her joy, her springtime, her blue skies. She hadn’t considered that perhaps she should have tended to her own needs with the same enthusiasm and devotion, and provided herself with a reserve of sorts, to shelter and nourish her when the time came – which it had, long since past – for them to move on with their lives. And now, she was reluctant to acknowledge, she had little else to show for her seventy-plus years on this earth. Nothing, anyway, to lift the fog of gloom that had wormed its way into every opening, every crevice of her very being. The world before her now was gray and hopeless and tired.

Her husband, a good man, and her sons, both of them loving and attentive, could only do so much to try to fill the void in her life. She knew (but did not want to know) that they felt helpless to alleviate the growing depression that now overwhelmed her. She also knew (but did not want to know) that the lack of joy and purpose in this life of hers was HERS to resolve, to fix, to deal with. Old habits die hard and it was easier to expect others to provide her with what was needed to move forward than to accept the responsibility for making herself happy.

And now she finds herself committed for the next hour or so to sitting here as scripture is discussed. She’s uneasy thinking in terms of actually participating in said discussion so in her mind’s eye she frames these next sixty minutes in a detached manner, as one would in observation of some event rather than in taking part of it. Inwardly she sighs – and trembles.

She knows (but truly wishes not to).

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Blanche Dubois proclaimed, in A Streetcar Named Desire, that she had ‘always relied on the kindness of strangers’. I don’t pretend to understand this film, mostly because the first and only time I ever watched it I was in my early 20’s. Note to Self: Add this to my Netflix ‘to watch’ list. That said, this particular line of dialogue has always struck a chord with me. My gut reaction to Blanche’s social situation and how she dealt with her world was one of dismay and annoyance. Was she someone with so little self-esteem that she milked sympathy from others and used her helplessness to her advantage rather than finding (or being able to?) garner strength from within?

Regardless of whether my read on this film hits the mark (and I’ll be the first to admit that it most likely does not) I still maintain that there do seem to be people, sadly the majority of whom appear to be women, who enjoy playing the victim. Truth be told I’ve probably played this role myself at times especially early in my adult life, coming off a hasty marriage and subsequent divorce at a very young age which left me as a single parent and not a clue what I wanted to do with my life. Because I, apparently much like Blanche, had so little self-confidence and was sorely, SORELY lacking in self-esteem, I made many poor choices but never had the wherewithal to question my own contributions to the sad state of affairs that was my life.

Wow. Methinks this might turn into something I hadn’t quite had in mind when I started out…

And so I plodded along making mistakes left and right, friendless and rudderless indeed. My own family was, I’m certain, frustrated and annoyed with my antics (to say the least) and I felt so very alone. If not for my son, the only real joy of my life during that dark, dark time, I may have been (additional) fodder for the gossips wagging their tongues at water coolers and on the production line in the factory where I worked.

The real turning point for me was when I decided to quit my job to enroll in the drafting program at our local community college. I was a Bill of Material coordinator and, having worked closely with the engineering group at our company, I thought drafting might be a good fit for me. I was mistaken but wouldn’t discover that until a few months later. In any case, as a non-traditional student and single parent I was able to qualify for student aid and earned several scholarships along the way. My first class, taken in the summer, was an intermediate algebra class. When I received a ‘D’ on my first exam I was despondent and certain that I’d (yet again) made a colossal error in judgment in quitting my job and embarking on such silliness as thinking I could actually go to ‘college’. However, I was encouraged to take advantage of the tutoring services that were offered and that little nugget of advice made all the difference in the world.

Once I realized that drafting wasn’t for me I did, at the same time, realize that I had a knack for math. Who knew? In high school I took the easiest courses I could to satisfy the mathematics requirements for graduation. With the help of tutors and a strong motivation to succeed, I eventually moved on to take the required courses for a degree in mathematics. I even became a math tutor myself and was designated the honor of Outstanding Math Sophomore. (Fun Fact: My husband, a natural whiz at most everything but especially in math whereas I had to work my tail off to get good grades, was also bestowed the honor at the same time. Both our photos hung on the bulletin board outside the math office where we often studied together. Remembering that makes me smile).

Ultimately I switched my major to Management Information Services and Bill and I both transferred to Iowa State University to finish our studies and obtain our degrees.

This single decision, to quit my job and go to school at the age of 34, a decision my then-boss tried to talk me out of as he thought I was making a grave mistake, was the best, the most important thing I ever did to improve my lot in life. Where I was once overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy, success in school gave me a lifetime allotment of self-confidence. Going to college significantly boosted my earning power as well and, best of all, I met my husband in the process.

I’m a little easier on myself now than I was in my late 20’s and early 30’s. How to separate youthful indiscretions from soul-wrenching errors in judgment, it’s hard to say. Through it all, my son – who deserved better than what he got – to this day sees me as his hero. I can now reminisce about the truly good times we did have together and how I did do right by him in many, many ways. He tells others about the wonderful memories we shared together, how we went camping and spelunking and how he enjoyed and has such an appreciation for the music I loved while he was growing up and our love of movies and yes – film dialogue, to come a bit full circle here.

A few years ago someone, in what I perceived as an attempt to excuse her behavior and poor choices in life, lamented that she was ‘a victim’. She seemed almost to revel in it and I recall thinking of the words Blanche uttered in that famous film. It was, perhaps, then that a seed was planted and I realized I never wanted anyone to perceive me in that way, if ever they did, ever again.

Strength of purpose, clarity of self, motivation to succeed and the drive to challenge oneself are more empowering than the fruits of any stranger’s kindness could ever bestow. Sometimes, though, I do forget these things for myself. Being human I occasionally allow myself to wallow in self-pity but it is an ugly blanket with which to cover oneself and thankfully the mood eventually passes.

While I was taking that first summer math class I befriended another non-traditional student who planned to pursue a degree in engineering. We chatted one day not long after the class first began and she told me she was struck by my self-confidence that very first day and commented on how self-assured I appeared to her.  She said I seemed to ‘have it all together’.  I was dumbfounded. Surely she was referring to someone else. I cannot begin to convey how heady it was to hear someone tell me that. But I tucked it away and reflected on her words many times as I navigated the course of academia to arrive at that amazing day when I received my degree. What I take from that now and wish all to know and consider is that we are often more capable than we realize. It’s scary to try something new. It takes courage to step outside our comfort zones. I am, however, a firm and true believer that the effort is often worth it in the end – even if, nay, especially if the end result is a stronger, more self-assured YOU in the process.

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See that small, geeky, shy girl with the cat-eye glasses and deer in the headlights look on her face? That was me growing up and how I presented myself going into the fifth and sixth grades, a time when I began to notice how the popular girls were dressed. The Age of Aquarius wasn’t far behind and the three M’s dominated women’s fashion: the Mini, the Midi and the Maxi. I wasn’t brave enough to give the Mini a try and it’s highly unlikely Mom would have let me board the school bus ‘dressed like that’. I really wanted a Midi skirt and may have had one. I just don’t remember but I’m fairly certain I had a Maxi skirt or maybe it was a dress. Something peasant-like in its detailing as I recall.

Sadly the desired effect – looks of admiration from both the boys and the girls – was not to be. Instead I was a laughingstock and, I’m fairly certain, the butt of many jokes. My parents had neither the money nor the inclination to allow the six of us girls to dress as fashionistas and besides I was pretty much clueless about the process. I had no idea about how to pull a look together or about how to style my hair or to apply make-up. Jewelry? Wasn’t even on my radar. Being the oldest I had no one to guide me in these important matters. Nor was Mom someone to show me the way as this was definitely not one of her strong suits either.

In my 20’s the walk of shame continued but this time I was unaware. I didn’t know what I didn’t know but – key to the embarrassment I didn’t realize I probably should have felt – I now thought I knew what was what. I read Glamour and Cosmopolitan and Self and even (gasp!) Playgirl after all so I assumed reading these publications bestowed upon me a certain sense of sophistication.

After having been starved for sartorial splendor in my earlier years I now had a new tool to obtain the clothes I read about and craved and drooled over in all those women’s magazines: credit. Credit cards and in-store credit – and oh, how I made use of these fun little gadgets! My closet overflowed. Shirts and pants and dresses and shorts and blouses and jackets and shoes and sandals! If the red espadrilles were cute then I just had to have them in blue and green as well. Well, you know where this is headed. It wasn’t long before I was in debt up to my eyeballs. It took many years but I ultimately I was able to get this monkey off my back. Word of advice: Don’t do it. I know all too well the temptation to keep up with what your friends are doing (and wearing) but being a single mom in a dead-end job I had no business racking up so much debt. But I digress.

With regard to the clothes I wore in my 20s, those years could be summed up in three words: trying too hard. Laughable now but I cringe to recall some of the things I wore (and did!) during those tumultuous times and so that’s pretty much all the ink I need to devote to THAT particular decade.

Moving on…

The year I turned 30 things started to turn around for me a bit. In my early 30’s I had a fun group of friends and we enjoyed going out for drinks after work, crazy parties (usually with a theme of some sort!), camping trips and other grand adventures. When I was 34 I decided to quit my job and go to college. Without a doubt this was the best decision of my entire life. And this is when I started to figure out who Julie was and more importantly who Julie wanted to be. Because I was no longer gainfully employed I didn’t have the money, during college as a non-traditional student with a 15-year-old-son, for discretionary spending that I’d had before and while I continued to use credit to buy clothes now and then it was definitely not the problem it had been for me before.

As I continued along the academic path I’d decided on for myself my confidence grew. I started to pay more attention to color and fabric and I had a better idea of what looked good on me and what didn’t. Oh, I still managed the occasional fashion faux paus (and I am positively chagrined when I see some of my hairstyles back in the day!) but I was definitely better able to pull a look together. I graduated from college and got married and started my new career. One of the reasons my decision to quit my job to go to school was such a fabulous idea is that I now had money – actual MONEY! – with which to buy clothes. I no longer needed to rely on a credit card. I could now pay with good, old-fashioned, cold, hard CASH.

Once again my closet and dresser drawers were filled with clothes. LOTS of clothes. During my late 30’s and throughout my forties I became, once again, a clothes horse – I love clothes. I’ll admit it! Christopher & Banks was a particular favorite. At one point probably 95% of my wardrobe came from that store. I loved the style, the colors, and the fabrics. And yes I think my love affair with clothes is very much because we had nothing really as kids, almost always wore hand-me-downs and rarely ever had any new clothes.

Then something strange happened.

While I still love clothes at some point I just – stopped. I rarely buy anything new anymore. You could argue – successfully perhaps! – that the reason for this is because I truly don’t NEED anything new. And if I’m honest my attitude now is ‘Meh – this will do’. I still like to dress well and when I feel that I look good in what I’m wearing it helps me feel more self-confident. Some will argue there should be no correlation. Our self-esteem and sense of pride shouldn’t be based on something as shallow as what one is wearing. And yet I’ll argue that if a person doesn’t feel good about how she (or he) looks it’s difficult to feel self-confident, to walk with your head held high or to have a spring in your step, a bounce in your pounce.

So. I guess I’ve evolved over time from someone clueless about clothes (the care and feeding of clothes, the how to, the what and when and where) to someone who obsessed over them to someone who became comfortable in her own skin to someone, now, who is at peace. I’ll still shop for clothes, I’ll still add to my wardrobe but here’s the thing. If I never did again, that would be okay too. Now there’s something 20-year-old Julie could not ever imagine herself saying!