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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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I sat at my kitchen table, the midday sun streaming through the window over the sink, on a hot and humid 4th of July. My son was playing with the neighbor girl next door and I convinced myself that I had important work from the office that needed to be done. But that was merely the excuse, the rationale for why I sat there, alone, with no offers from friends (I had none, really) to lay on the beach or to enjoy patriotic festivities that afternoon or the fireworks to come that evening.

I can picture those rays of light and the dust motes suspended in the stifling heated air while I puffed myself up into a weakly pathetic semblance of self-importance – reports from work and other papers spread out before me – but my heart, my spirit was broken, or nearly so as images of my sisters and their significant others and people that I knew from work, laughing and smiling and surrounded by friends and family – with carefree abandon and that elusive quality of fitting in and feeling oh, so comfortable and at ease – indiscriminately thrust relentless daggers into both my heart and my psyche.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so incredibly alone as I did in that moment. Alone and lonely, lost, defeated, unsure of where I wanted to go with my life or how to get there. Wondering, in moments of gut-wrenching pain, just what it was that was wrong with me, trying to figure it out: why did no one want me? I was simply struggling to find hope and love and purpose, companionship and intimacy of the noblest kind – and acceptance.

My twenties were difficult. Married at eighteen, then divorced at twenty with a small child in tow, I was just too young, so naïve and incredibly clueless. But wanting, always wanting. It was the most difficult and disheartening time of my life, sometimes punctuated with fun and laughter, a few good times – some forced, some naturally occurring and far, far too many misguided. I was truly my own worst enemy. Mistakes? I cringe to recall the many stupid, humiliating and self-destructive moments from those years, the failures on so many levels. My son, especially, deserved so much more.

Somehow, I did make it through those rough years. Life improved for me once I started making better choices, exercising more sound judgment which in turn fed my rock-bottom self-esteem. That’s not to say I didn’t still go down the wrong path from time to time. I continued – don’t we all? – to make mistakes (and do still). Perhaps I was just a slower learner than most people, though, when I was younger, a very slow learner. In any case, spending time in a solitary fashion was something I eventually began to enjoy unlike that bleak yet sunny Independence Day. Lunch or movies or a walk in the park – by myself – was time alone to unwind after work or to think through my problems or simply to savor the moment, often in the embrace of the woods that I so enjoyed. Over the years, I developed a taste for this ‘me’ time.

Some people that I love, that I care about are faced with their own realities of being alone and feeling lonely. I can’t speak to what they want for their lives but like most of us they probably just want someone to love, to spend time with, someone to love and accept them for who they are. However, no one can do for them what only they themselves can do to fill the void.

While it’s tempting to burrow oneself into the false comfort of cynicism, negativity and self-pity, a positive outlook and cheery disposition will always win the day. As difficult as it may be to do otherwise, isolating yourself and feeding your wounded soul with junk food, alcohol or drugs and not being physically active does nothing, really, to further your cause. Eat healthy, get proper rest, drink lots of water, incorporate exercise into your daily routine and, perhaps most importantly, find or nurture something to feel passionate about!

Listening to others, too, is so important – really listening, actively listening – and not just sitting there nodding while contemplating what you wish to say next or thinking about your own concerns or troubles or what you plan to wear to work the next day or what color to paint the living room. Truly listen to others. Make (and maintain) eye contact. Show a sincere and genuine interest in what the other person is saying. When you exhibit kindness and show others that you care, not only do you elevate yourself in their eyes, but you will do so as well in your own.

That said, I do recognize that there is the flip side to this where people will take advantage of such thoughtfulness and consideration, people who have no concept of returning the favor, of reciprocity. They will monopolize conversations and never, not once, stop to extend to you the same courtesy you’ve shown them. These are Takers, my friends, and I seek to avoid them when and where I can. Difficult, however, when you work with said Takers or, worse still, when you’re related to them!

Despite all your good efforts to do right by yourself, to be a good and kind person, to put yourself out there, LIFE still happens. We have to learn how to roll with the punches. My favorite prose is the Desiderata. It contains so many nuggets of goodness and wisdom. One that comes to mind, now, is this:

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue or loneliness.

And yet, in the quiet and never-ending stillness that comes with day after day of a forced solitude, it can be soul-wrenching to be, always, so alone. In those moments, like the countless ones I endured in my most fragile of days, I held on to a mantra – two of them actually – that continues to guide me these many years later. One: Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Forward momentum. Don’t give up. And two: Things change. It’s impossible to know where life will take you. There were times, far too many I’m afraid, where – were it not for my son – I may have contemplated my own Final Solution. Thank goodness I did not! My life today, it’s good. I’m happy. I’m content. I’m at peace. And even when I’m alone, I rarely feel lonely. A cherished solitude, that which helps to nourish and feed and provide a quiet comfort, allows me moments of gratitude and contemplation. I welcome it, I seek it. For it was not always so.

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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.