The Architecture of Aging

In mid-March of last year, after the pandemic first began, I was talking shit with a close friend about college students who prioritized partying over public health. My friend made a point that ejected me off my high horse: she reminded me that as a white boy born, raised, and socialized with wealth in the U.S., I am not so distant from many of my “reckless, partying” peers. She said that collectively, young people in this country don’t seem to care much about the lives of the elderly, unlike communities in much of the rest of the world. Although it was a generalization, her reminder has lingered with me since. I began analyzing my relationship with elderly people—or lack thereof.

Growing up, I only really had meaningful interactions with elderly people on special occasions like B’nai mitzvahs and weddings. I did, however, have a lot of contact with my maternal grandparents, who moved to an assisted living facility near my house when they began their respective losing battles with dementia and Alzheimer’s. During that period of my life, I visited them every week and interacted with many older people. Before my grandparents passed away, I was able to catch a glimpse of what my life might look like one day if I reached old age. I tasted the meals that might be carted out to me. I listened to the classical music that might play while I rest in an electric reclining chair. I observed the people who might live down the hall from me. In many ways, their wealth afforded them a comfortable environment to undergo such debilitating diseases and live out the end of their days. During my visits, I still found myself wondering if this was how I wanted to age. Would I feel comfortable living and dying in a place like this? 

These questions have led me to considerations that go beyond the relative ease that my grandparents’ assisted living facility afforded them. Instead, I am drawn to thinking about the spaces in the U.S. where elderly people frequently end up, the physical space that seems to separate them from much of society, and the implications that this has on collective understandings of community. 

Although the sheer volume of congregate care (i.e. nursing homes, assisted living facilities, retirement communities, etc.) advertising makes it seem that these places are the most common housing destinations for elderly people, in 2010, “only 4.5% (about 1.5 million) of older adults [lived] in nursing homes and 2% (1 million) in assisted living facilities.” Contrarily, 93.5%, or 33.4 million elderly people live in their community, with nearly 40% (mostly women) living alone.

A 2014 AARP study draws attention to the housing desires of aging people, which are crucial for a better understanding of why elderly people might continue to live where they currently do. 78% of respondents “somewhat or strongly [agreed]” that they would prefer to stay in their current house for as long as possible. Approximately the same percentage declared they would like to remain in their local community for as long as possible, pushing against the idea that it is preferable to move to congregate care. Furthermore, while two-thirds of respondents agreed that they “want to stay home because [they] like what [their] community has to offer,” more than one quarter claimed that they “want to stay home because [they] cannot afford to move.” These responses indicate that people are primarily drawn to aging-in-place because of community attachments and/or financial reasons. Not only does aging-in-place deliver these particular benefits, but it also “promotes life satisfaction, health, and self-esteem, three keys to successful aging.” Being able to age in their own homes could allow elderly people more control over their future, and thus, the ability to feel more comfortable, while also positively impacting their health and aging processes.

On average, assisted living facilities cost $42,600 annually and nursing homes cost around $90,520, as recorded in 2010. Due to these high expenses, many “elderly people who enter nursing homes exhaust their savings over time, and must turn to publicly funded government programs to help pay for care.” Moving to a congregate care setting typically does not reduce financial burden, but instead may exacerbate it. In fact, in a Canadian study, researchers found that “when only formal costs are considered, home-care costs are, on average, 50% or less of the costs of residential care.” Since people often cannot afford to move into care facilities, many end up staying in their private homes, which are seldom held to adequate standards of accessibility and are thus unsafe.


After my grandparents passed away, I stopped visiting their assisted living facility. My life has become almost entirely devoid of interactions with elderly people. From my personal observations, this is a common experience amongst many young people I know in the U.S. Without meaning to generalize an entire generation—because I know this by no means represents everyone’s experience—I would like to talk about why I might have observed this phenomenon and what I find some of its implications to be. 

It feels important to first recognize that congregate care is essential for many people’s aging processes. I am not advocating to put an end to this type of assisted care living. Many people whose parents/elders need increasing care as they age cannot afford to devote the time required for their care due to the demanding hours of many peoples’ work days. I believe being forced to decide between supporting one’s family monetarily or tending to their elders renders visible a national prioritization of values that puts aging and the elderly toward the bottom. People are forced to sacrifice their wellbeing in order to attend to the capitalist and individualist demands of meeting material needs. How are these demands impacting the collective prioritization of certain bodies? How does this impact our ability to age and die on our own terms?

In order to truly remedy this devaluation of the elderly, I believe that there needs to be a large-scale radical reevaluation and re-prioritization, as well as a major shift in resource allocation in this country. However, until this shift occurs, I want to advocate for a society whose architecture and infrastructure facilitates more intergenerational exchange. I believe that the physical distance that separates and isolates older people from middle-aged and younger people disrupts the existence of intergenerational politics of care and community. Additionally, I believe that all young people should be taught to value relationship building with people of all ages from their youth. If these conditions could be implemented, not only might people be more thoughtful and caring in their decisions and actions, but we might be able to live out our lives in a way that is more conducive to self curation through our final moments of life.

These two ideas seem to seep into one another in addressing my primary observation: there seems to be a disjointedness in who we recognize as part of our regular community throughout life. As a young person in a college environment, I feel that aside from my family, my community is almost entirely comprised of other young people. How would my life be different if my community was equally composed of children, people my age, middle-aged adults, and elderly people? I know that in my grandparents’ final stage of life, seeing young people like myself gave them a strong sense of purpose and joy. Perhaps it was because it allowed them to be part of the larger intergenerational community that they once had. I wish that it had been easier for them to have felt this sense of community on a daily basis.

I have been lucky to experience an exception to this observation, which has given me a splendid taste of what life might be more like if people of all ages lived, moved, grew, and died closer together. Her name is Mere, and she is a gentle, fiercely caring, badass,  spitfire-of-a-person. Mere is my close childhood friend’s grandmother and she has lived in my friend’s basement since we were in middle school. As a result, she has been an important figure to my friends and me. Just the other day, I was on a walk and called a friend from home and our conversation naturally drifted to Mere. We wondered if she had seen her hilarious hairdresser recently, if she had been up to any puzzles (one of my favorite memories with her), and we contemplated how she might be feeling as a member of one of the most vulnerable groups of people living through this deadly pandemic. In retrospect, I’ve been able to realize how meaningful the relationship we all share with her is and how she has become an important presence in our community. We think about her and talk about her and miss her. And respectively, she lights up when talking with her granddaughter about how we are all doing. The gratitude I hold for Mere occupying this space in my life makes me all the more inclined to advocate for a more intergenerational existence.  

I have a deep admiration for the researchers, architects, and designers that are already at work in creating housing complexes and community spaces that are intended to be occupied by people of all ages. I also hold immense respect for those who build and maintain friendships that transcend their age category as much as possible. I think these people are able to learn important lessons that can lead to a life of increased fulfillment. I hope that one day it becomes commonplace for these relationships to exist in communities like mine, and the means by which this can be achieved are plentiful. In doing so, I think people of all ages could experience the benefits of more inclusive networks of care and community. 

Researchers have proposed two processes that should be at the core of creating spaces for elderly people: “experience-driven belonging and behavior-driven agency.” This framework suggests that a sense of belonging and agency positively influences the health and wellbeing of aging people. It also provides reinforcement for the study mentioned earlier, that the majority of elderly people wanted to stay in their own homes as long as possible (agency) and remain a part of their community (belonging).

The article “Inclusive Design and Elder Housing Solutions for the Future” proposes two metrics for how to assess (or construct) spaces for elderly people: Visitability and Universal Design. Visitability describes the ability of everyone in the community to visit the space, particularly those in wheelchairs. Within this term there are three standards that must be met: “1) a zero-step entrance, 2) wider doorways on the main floor (32-inch minimum clearance), and 3) a half bath on the main floor with enough space to fit a wheelchair.” Although increasing Visitability in housing would reduce some safety threats commonly found in U.S. households, this standard is not enough to make a space ideal for elderly people. For even better safety precautions, Universal Design is an optimal solution, which is a standard that ensures that everything in a structure is accessible to everyone of all abilities, ages, and sizes. More specifically, it requires accessible entryways (easy for people in wheelchairs to move through), closets stacked on different floors (allowing for an elevator to be installed if need be), countertops at multiple heights (enabling people both sitting and standing to access), front-loading appliances including washer and dryers raised off the floor (reducing the amount of mobility often required to do laundry), grab bars in all bathrooms (making it easier for people to stand up and sit down unassisted), non-slip surfaces (reducing the risk of falling), at least one roll-in shower, doors with either lever handles or automatic openers (making it easier for people to open and close doors with limited hand-wrist motor abilities), abundant light (increasing visibility), and a “liveable” first floor (allowing people who cannot move up and down stairs to eat, use the bathroom, sleep, and rest comfortably). Universal Design is a powerful model for how architecture in the U.S. can begin to prepare for a more sustainable nationwide aging process by addressing the accessibility needs of everyone from the beginning of designing a home.. If this design strategy became commonplace, it could maximize safety in a way that makes aging-in-place a much more viable option, and thus could allow people to better control their own processes of aging.

Another possible solution for elderly housing that architects and designers have been working on is intergenerational spaces. These spaces can “nurture or even ‘provoke’ new forms of belonging” through relationship building and increased stimulation (i.e. watching, listening, and interacting with children). The “Journal of Architectural Planning and Research: Volume 36, Number 1” shares a diagram showing how intergenerational space can connect the young and old and curate healthy and engaged living environments for people across generations. This visual highlights how designers and architects can approach creating spaces sociologically, using the tenets of personhood and contact theory (which suggest fundamental requirements that can improve the quality of human life) in order to best account for the needs of the future occupants. By using this model to critically plan, evaluate, design, build, and reevaluate, housing for the elderly can be more intentionally programmed in order to facilitate healthier aging processes, and maximize comfort and happiness. 

Bill Thomas is a designer who has already been working to try addressing the shortage of safe and accessible housing for elderly people through an aging-in-place model. Thomas is a “towering figure in the world of nursing homes … who has spent his life trying to make nursing homes better … and now he’s decided he wants to destroy them all”. He has imagined an alternative to nursing homes called the Minka, a modular tiny home designed to be built in people’s backyards (or on most small lots) in order to allow elderly and terminally ill people to live in their community, close to family, etc. This design is “what many people would recognize as a studio apartment. But instead of it being a studio apartment, it’s your house. And you can ... live where you want.” Thomas designed this house to be 3D printed so it is able to be mass-produced, which speaks to the urgency for housing an increasing population of elderly people. The Minka meets Universal Design standards, and thus is a space that accommodates people of all ages, abilities, and sizes. Some specific design features of the Minka include: a single-floor plan, non-step thresholds, grab bars and a roll-in shower, and large windows for abundant light. Thomas has commented that this design is merely an attempt at beginning a movement of “many better options.” Of course, the Minka is still relatively inaccessible in that it requires people to own their homes and have a backyard, but this idea of integrated modular housing is a step in the right direction. The Minka will hopefully draw architects and designers into the conversation of creating age-accessible housing and push the design world to become more engaged in addressing this nation-wide issue.

Sharon and Howard Johnson, two National Association of Home Builders Certified Aging-In-Place Specialists (CAPS), have also been working to increase accessibility for aging-in-place living. They design “lifelong housing”—a model that accommodates people in all stages of life. Similar to the Minka, “lifelong housing” meets Universal Design standards. Some of these features can be seen in Images 5-9 including: a spacious floor plan, widened doorways, non-step thresholds, easy-to-reach cabinetry, roll-in shower, lever door knobs, and ADA-compliant kitchen appliances.

 The Johnsons advise that it is time “to be thinking about retirement options and what type of living situation they want later in life” in peoples’ mid-50s because they have found that very few aging adults plan to live in nursing homes. For those looking to remodel or newly construct age-friendly housing, they recommend using the Rogue Valley Council of Governments’ Senior and Disability Services’ “Lifelong Housing Certification Standard,” which “covers exterior entrances, doorways, lighting, bathrooms, kitchens … and identifies 37 individual requirements for certification.” This list of standards can serve as a checklist for designers and architects to ensure that their work is accommodating the needs of elderly people of all abilities. 

Fostering an intergenerational community would benefit people of all ages. Younger people could have more folks to look up to and learn from, as well as more people caring for them. Older people would be more often able to live in places they prefer occupying and would be better looked after by those who are able-bodied. Perhaps the dynamics in my communities would look different during a deadly pandemic, and observing people making decisions without considering those most vulnerable would become rare. 

These cultural shifts could be greatly assisted by the designers and architects who create the spaces we, as a country, occupy. Housing could become more accessible for people of all ages, and could thus assist neighborhoods and communities to better facilitate intergenerational community bonds. Perhaps with increased awareness about the work of designers like Bill Thomas and Sharon and Howard Johnson, not only would other architects and designers follow their lead in designing for aging-in-place, but more people would pay attention to and benefit from intergenerational networks of care and community.

Snowed Floor; Snake Skins

The last time I saw you it was 5 a.m. in Burlington, early October. We kissed in your warm bed, and I lingered for as long as I could before driving the two hours back to New York for my 7 a.m. farm shift. We kept up the daily good-morning, good-night, I-love-you texts for a couple of weeks and tried to make plans to see each other soon. Then a few days went by and you were silent. Halloween, it was a blue moon. You called me while I was driving home from work and told me you couldn’t do this anymore. I pulled over, and we both sobbed on our separate ends of the phone line.

Then it was New Year’s Eve. We hadn’t talked in two months, and I called you because I wanted more closure. You said you still wanted to be friends. I said, okay, but slowly, Ryan, slowly. 

Now we are both in the Springs. Just knowing you are in the same place is tempting and my heart jumps at every stranger walking down the street that could be you. I didn’t do anything about it. But then you surprised me at that group picnic. Our mutual friend brought you without asking or telling me. It wasn’t a good setting to see you for the first time. After everything. Later, they told me that you said you still loved me. 

At the picnic, you didn’t share the other half of my blanket. I acted too normal, very conscious of how much my bare stomach peeked out from my shirt when I stretched out on the lawn. You said we should hang out, and I agreed. You texted me after the picnic, saying it was nice to see me. I asked if you wanted to go on a walk. 

Here I am, a few days later, sitting on the grass behind the student farm, imagining and reimagining how it will be when we are alone together. I mean, you’re the one who broke up with me, so part of me is upset that I was the one who asked to go on this walk tomorrow morning. But part of me needs to talk things out, and I just want to feel what it’s like to be in your presence again. 

I want to be sitting when I see you tomorrow. When I asked you to go on a walk, I really meant a sit. A long look and no words, and maybe a hug if we hold our breaths? And the floor. Maybe just to soften into. The way we cried on the phone the last time you called me and said you couldn’t hold me anymore. I should have known something was wrong before you told me that your body was breaking. 

Where will we sit and how? Your front porch? A bench? The stale french-fry grass near the river? But no one else. I want a void around us. I would really prefer nakedness. Somewhere to float in the maybeness of it all. Pure darkness. Almost-boiling consciousness soup. 

I want to decondition my joints from holding this maybe as a place of weakness. I can learn to say I don’t know with conviction. Every morning the sunlight reigns in a new color. I would never ask you to tell me what shade of pink will broadcast on the cloud at 4:43 a.m. tomorrow, and I would never ask that of myself, although I trick myself into thinking that I can predict the color of the clouds, that I can know how it will feel when I see you. I wouldn’t expect you to know, but I would close my eyes and ask you to tell me about the colors of the air and how it feels to be a cloud bumping into another cloud. I would ask you to close your eyes and tell me how the color red rises from spinal fluid to throat, then forehead. 

I am asking you.

And when I say I want the floor, I am not saying that I want the stripped lumber or nails or the ground beneath or a family of ants. I want breath. All the maybes. I want us to lay there, just close our eyes and catch the changing light. Now the heat is orange in my throat, rays blooming, soft, dark lilac, numbing fingers. And a bright white at my temples and a deep blue-blue black somewhere behind it all. 

My nails dig into the grass as the sun dips behind Tava. Her profile a flattened screen print in the last rays. I close my eyes, and it could be a dull summer morning, birds clustering above, throwing around their remarks. I open my eyes to the too-warm winter evening. 

I close my eyes, and I could still love you. I open them. I still could. 

How do I know, in this moment, if the air is getting warmer or colder? If dropped here, I wouldn’t know if winter is dying or stirring. If I woke up in the middle of the night in the middle of a month, and the moon shot out at me, how would I know if it is waxing or waning?

When I see you tomorrow morning, how will I know if I love you?  

When I drop out of dream-sky into body-realm tomorrow, I pray that I don’t start thinking right away. I hope that I slowly become aware of every moment of waking up as my body and soul once again sink into each other. I want to breathe and stretch in all the matter I am, then choose to open my eyes.

On the walk, you tell me that for the first five days after you moved in, you didn’t ask anyone to drive you to the store, and when Stevie asked, Ryan, dude, what have you been eating this whole time? You answered, not that much.

I used to press my skin so hard against yours. No opportunity for passage. No way for me to love the space between us. No way for that space to be a place of growth. I always had to be holding you. I couldn’t even drive without reaching for your hand. When we walked to the edge of Lake Champlain this fall in the bright cold wind, my hair still long, I had to hold your left hand with both of mine, even if it made walking down the street a little funny. I told you it was because I didn’t want one of my hands to get jealous of the other. 

A Fact: I found it easier than I thought it would be to separate the you that I loved from the you I saw this morning. I slid surprisingly easily out of the skin my body occupied when we made love. The skin of rain on rain. The skin of two fir trees growing trunk to trunk, a constant rustle against each other, my leg folded over you as we slept. 

Another Fact: I am terrified of how I build a wall around myself, of how easily I turn into a mason. Unconsciously preparing the mortar, catching stones overnight. In the heat of midday, I paint sunflowers on the outside wall and hang triangle flags around the rim. I think I am happy. I sing audibly. But painted sunflowers don’t grow.  

This morning before our walk, I was waiting outside your house, crumbling dried lavender between my forefinger and my thumb, holding it under my nose. Your door closed, I heard your footsteps behind me, my skin tightened. I turned around and saw you. Hi. The “us” skin dropped dead on the floor. 

I told you I am reading Wuthering Heights. I didn’t tell you that I am reading it in part because my friend Ella told me it is her favorite book. She was the first girl I like-liked. Just a few inches of desert floor between our hands. Ella and I, side by side. Eighth grade. We camped in Anza Borrego, our counselor talked through constellations, my pounding heart the only sound in the night. Should I move my hand to hold hers? 

Fact: I don’t feel any freer after seeing you. Not like the last time we talked on the phone when I pulled off at least some of the layers of my hurt. I made that call, after hours of sitting on my porch staring at my phone, New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t going to party or get drunk. I was going to call you. I needed you to listen. I was determined, angry, still not angry enough. I collected my hurt like unshed snake skins; I am ready to take those skins and weave them into a stack of rugs. I tried to describe to you the intricate patterns of hurt on each rug before shoving it into the sea. But a stack still looms, moored, sloshed at high tide. 

I cart all those skins. Through each sunray, I blink. I carry, grow, shed, and weave. I want to share with you each snake skin rug every time it flakes off, before I lay it to dissolve, peach fuzz in the waves. 

 Your hair was sopping wet this morning, like you ran out of the house without putting a towel to it. That’s one of my favorite things about having short hair, rubbing a towel on my head like I’m drying a dog. I wish I didn’t drop my skin this morning when we talked. I wish the sun was in my throat with all its dew, and I wish I told you I wanted the floor. 

Before I came to the Springs last week, my family and I were going through old photos. My mom picked up one of her as a baby in her dad’s arms. He is smiling, eyebrows raised, as if asking her a question. My mom looked at the photo and said, my dad loved me. And it sounded like she thought he really did. My throat tightened with longing. My grandpa left five years after that photo was taken. He ran off with my grandma’s best friend and never sent help to my grandma, even though her daughter was permanently in a wheelchair and her son had seizure fits. My grandma told me that after my grandpa left, she took his job at the court, started going back to college, got her tubes tied. She was only a few years older than me at the time. 

I asked my grandma if she remembers any major historical event from when she was a kid. She said, I had asthma. I laughed, that’s not a historical event. Yeah! It was historical for me! I went to the hospital a lot from my asthma. That night I dreamt that my grandma and I got the vaccine together. But when it was my turn, the nurse stuck one needle in right after the other. No curing time. The second needle pushed into an already forming blood bruise. 

The night before my 21st birthday, I wished hard for snow. By then, you practically lived in my room. I woke up to snow. I was experimenting with perfection, with getting everything I wanted.

On our walk, I didn’t tell you about my dream or my Grandma’s asthma. I didn’t tell you I have a hunch your body is rebelling because of your mother’s trauma. Didn’t her mother die early and violently? 

 Now it’s the morning of my 22nd birthday, and I wake up, twice. The first time, I don’t open my eyes. I’m drifting, half-dreaming. I feel like I have something to remember. Then the facts roll in: first, that it’s my birthday, second, that you and I aren’t a thing anymore. I fall back asleep and dream that I open the windows to a dusting of snow outside. 

I didn’t laugh on our walk. We didn’t laugh. I guess I don’t really remember laughing, like dying laughing with you, ever. We were always giggling. Making up little worlds and tickling each other in bed and giggling. 

I wake up for the second time on my 22nd birthday. I roll up the shades and pull back the curtain. Light flakes carpet the lounge chairs and sidewalk, a snow skin returning to the seafloor. 

Balmy

The sun grips my neck as I undress. I watch it. Grip my neck in the mirror. The sun fills the dust. It pushes into my eyes. I blink. I shut my eyes. The dust fills them. Sandpaper spectacles. I cry. My tears sink the boat. In the back of the mirror. Boat becomes blue beads. Beads on the small of my back. Balmy. Blue. Blue water beads slip down my spine. Blue water beads on white pearly bones. Beads on pearls. Rub together ‘til the bones pop. Blue water dreams ...

You grip my neck as I undress. I watch you. Grip my neck in the mirror. The sun fills the dust. Desire pushes through my eyes. I don’t blink. Pink fills my eyes. You love my spectacles. I sigh. Beads on the small of my back. Balmy. Blue. Your lips slip down my spine. Soft pink lips on white pearly bones. Lips on pearls. Rub together. Don’t stop. 

The floor grips my feet as I step. Into the pink tub. The sun sucks my finger. As I brace the side of the tub. Lemon nails. They chip like the ceiling paint. The zest bites the bones in my fingers. The bones grip the metal spring. The water taps my toes. The porcelain slips from under my feet. Sandpaper skin. Becomes balmy. 

You grip my hands as I step. Into the pink tub. You suck my finger. As I brace the side of the tub. Rose nails. You suck the skin on my fingers. Your bones grip my bones. My toes and your toes. Mesh. The porcelain slips from under your feet. Balmy skin. Becomes pearly. 

The water grips my hips as it fills. The tub. My back slides down. Into the balmy porcelain. The sun grips my waist. And my hips. My shoulders. Gently. I’m finally warm. The bird’s toes grip the windowsill. Grip hard. The paint chips. Paint chips slide through sunbeams. As my eyes sit. And gaze. At the window. Sweat beads sink down the glass. 

You grip my hips as I flip. Around. My mouth slides down. Into your balmy chest. I grip your waist. And your hips. Gently. You’re finally warm. The bird’s toes grip the windowsill. Grip hard. The paint chips. Paint chips slide through sunbeams. The bird’s eyes sit. And gaze. Through the window. Sweat beads sink down. 

The bird’s beak chirps. Chip-chip. The chirps become pink noise. The water burns. Until my feet turn pink. My body yearned. For this release. I am in. A porcelain rose. The sun licks my petals. Until they are balmy. My arms exhale. Pink water steam. My fingers sit. On pink water. Swollen. Pink fingers on pink water. My eyelids sit. On pink-veined eyes. Heavy. Pink lids on pink veins. Blue drops rub the windowsill. Down. Softly. Blue rains. Blue dreams. Wet rains. Wet dreams. 

We make pink noise. My throat burns. Until your feet turn pink. Your body yearned. For this release. We are in. A porcelain rose … You exhale. Pink water steam. We grip the sunlight. Softly. Your fingers sit. On my pink tongue. Swollen. Pink fingers on pink tongue. Deep. Pink finger in pink throat. 

I choke. 

Pearly throat In pink water Pearls in beads Rub together ‘till the heart stops Blue water beads fill Pink balmy lungs until they Release it—

I gasp. 

I gasp. For blue air. It fills. My pink lungs. I yearned. For this breath. 

I hear. The blue rains. Tap on. The pink boat. Crashing into. Yellow sand. 

I laugh. The blue air. It fills. My pink lungs. I yearned. For this laugh. 

I smell. Lemon zest. Yellow. Balmy. Coming from my nails. 

I drain. The pink tub. Until it is empty. 

I step. Onto the yellow tile. The sun meshes into my feet. Gently. I’m finally warm. 

The sun grips my neck as I dress. I watch it. Grip my neck in the mirror. The sun fills my desire. I blink. I shut my eyes. The sun slides off the mirror. Through my pink lids. Into my blue eyes. I smile. 

Wide Awake

Content warning: discussion of sexual harassment and assault

I’ve heard that the faces we see in dreams are always ones we have encountered in our waking lives. Human faces are far too complex for our minds to simply create one from scratch. But it’s amazing how detailed the ones that we have seen before, even briefly, can remain in our memories. 

He frequents my dreams whenever he pleases. This is when they turn into nightmares—nightmares that I can’t shake, even when my eyes snap open because they’re all too real. I pinch myself over and over because I want to wake up and forget, but I can’t because I’m already awake. By that time, it isn’t a dream anymore. It has crossed into conscious reality.  

I’ve tried so hard to forget him, but that’s exactly the problem. The things you try the hardest to force out are often the things you remember most clearly. For years, I’ve tried to forget the way he walked up to me, thinking I wouldn’t know what he was trying to do. I was eleven years old, yes, but I wasn’t foolish. For years, I’ve tried to forget how the foot of distance between us felt like millimeters and how the minutes he remained beside me felt like an eternity. His rough voice echoes through my ears and rattles through my ribcage to this day. His words are tattooed across my vision, like a smudge on my glasses that won’t come off, no matter how hard I rub. You’re pretty, you know that? Why are you here all alone? Where do you live? And the most memorable of them all: If your dad doesn’t come back soon, I can give you a ride home. 

 Something like that is hard to forget. I remember the way my dad’s face dropped when he finally showed up, how he stood taller than I’ve ever seen before. I remember realizing that this was the first time I’d ever seen him scared. He didn’t have control and I was at the center of it. But there are also details that fade. The scene has looped through my mind so incessantly and so frequently that it’s become distorted. It resembles more of a dream at this point. His face is fuzzier; I no longer remember the color of his eyes. I don’t remember how deep or how scratchy his voice was as he interrogated me. I don’t remember exactly how long I was trapped there. This man, slowly but surely, slinks out of my memory. 

But just last week, I was walking home with my best friend after a night together—one of those nights where men like him seem insignificant and far, far away, like more of a hazy nightmare than a harsh reality. I hugged her tight before we parted ways. I walked down an empty sidewalk lined with flickering lamp posts that loomed overhead. Distracted by a text on my phone, I took my eyes off of the sidewalk for a moment. Then suddenly, I was not alone. Not at all. One hand gripped my crotch, the other, my butt. I spun around, pushed him off of me, and sprinted the last block home. I remember looking into his eyes for a split second. No more than that. He was so unfamiliar, but at the same time, so familiar. This was years later, separated by half a country, but he was, at his core, the same man. It didn’t matter that he had a different name or that he grew up in a different state or that he had no idea the other man existed. They were the same. His smirk as we made eye contact is something I will never forget, hard as I try. He will forever exist in my mind, whether I am awake or asleep or somewhere in between. And the worst part is, he doesn’t just exist in my memory. This man is everywhere. That smirk is stretched across so many pale, flushed, hairy, clean-shaven, round, bony, old, and young faces. He exists out there, he exists in our minds, and he will live on, in the light of day at a family park and in the dark of night when everyone is fast asleep and you want to scream so loud that they all jolt wide awake. 

The Need for a Refresh

We’ve all been there before, stuck in school for almost eight hours a day. Teachers droning on and on, feeling hopeless while taking a standardized test because of how complicated the wording is and drowning in an infinite loop of notes, lectures, and tests. This is the reality of the American public education system. But why does it have to be so rigid? This system turns learning into a competition for GPA, rankings, and scores. It recognizes only the highest numbers as achievements and shifts students’ focus to results rather than the actual learning process, while damaging self-esteem. Following the thinking behind this system, we should be churning out mindless drones, unconcerned with personal growth.

This same system has shown time and time again that it favors privileged students at the expense of first-generation and low-income students who already have to shoulder an unfair burden and navigate so many more barriers just to get into higher education. One of these barriers is the lack of college finance literacy, mainly due to the complexities of and disparity in support throughout the financial aid process. Another issue is the psychological harm the college environment can cause. As a result, students have to rely on fierce self-advocacy to deal with information barriers and find support in the college application process.

Put plainly, our education system is deeply flawed: it perpetuates inequality and an ineffective, bureaucratic education run by the state and not by the teachers. We need to shift our understanding of education as we see it now and imagine the possibility of a new, ever-evolving system.

As Jonas F. Soltis says in “Humanizing Education: Dewey's Concepts of a Democratic Society and Purpose in Education Revisited”:

When human beings are treated more as cogs in a machine rather than as valued, free-thinking individuals, we justly feel that their humanity has been compromised. So we seek to right the balance by paying more attention to the feelings and unique characteristics of individuals and to their personal development.

One possibility for rethinking our education system starts with educational philosopher John Dewey’s belief that a school should be just as diverse as the society it’s in, and that students should learn not because they have to but because they want to. It’s not surprising that common day-to-day interactions in a diverse school setting will broaden a student’s values and perspectives. This directly aligns with Dewey’s vision of a democratic society in which everyone has equal access to education and the growth of every individual pushes society forward. Students aren’t just preparing to become well-informed citizens actively involved in the political process, they’re also realizing their potential along the way as they strengthen their imagination, creative expression, problem-solving, self-governance, and more. That way, students see themselves as a unique part of a group, each offering their own skills and abilities and thus gaining an appreciation for each other—education is a collective effort.

When students find personal and social motivation to learn instead of learning because of a rigid curriculum that dictates what we need to know in order to be “successful in life”, they’re more likely to see the value in what they do. Dewey saw learning as something that immersed students in solving real-world problems. The student didn’t passively sit back and take in information but was someone who meaningfully engaged with it. Instead of this meaningful engagement, we’re seeing classrooms with teachers lecturing at the front and students in desks simply taking notes, doing their assignments, and going to their next class. And these lessons are part of a Eurocentric standardized curriculum designed with a single audience in mind while rejecting many students’ backgrounds and the harsh realities they face in their communities. This same system allows the upper class to maintain control of their position rather than recognize the fact that disadvantaged students don’t have access to the same resources. They’re not brought up to be socialized the same as someone who lives in the suburbs or has access to a support system to fall back on in case they fall on hard times. Disadvantaged students have a different reality that requires them to be self-reliant to the point where they’re expected to shoulder any unfair burden that comes their way and accept that that’s how life works. 

Manya C. Whitaker and Kristina M. Valtierra speak to this idea in their book “Schooling Multicultural Teachers,” where they examine how the system maintains a social hierarchy and the concept of “critical pedagogy” as a way to resist this:

Society is unjust and exploitative … scholars argued various theories of social reproduction in which schools impose a view of the social order consistent with the social elite, and they do so by validating the cultural capital of the dominant society, which is indispensable for economic success and social mobility … Teachers who adopt this philosophical approach [critical pedagogy] are ultimately concerned with providing students an emancipatory education through which they reflect upon the world and take action to transform it.

Just look at the outdated history textbooks many schools still use and many of the important truths and persons that are conveniently left out. The white supremacy and cultural erasure that followed from Europe’s colonization of the Americas still seep into most aspects of today’s society and manifests as systemic racism. These damaging effects are reflected in what is written and what is erased in textbooks and curricula, which ultimately widens existing disparities and continues to keep people of color at a disadvantage. Our education system isn’t much different than the cramped desks students sit in. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy gives a more detailed explanation about this stark difference by citing Dewey’s “Between Two Worlds”:

There will be almost a revolution in school education when study and learning are treated not as acquisition of what others know but as development of capital to be invested in eager alertness in observing and judging the conditions under which one lives. Yet until this happens, we shall be ill-prepared to deal with a world whose outstanding trait is change.

So when we shift our understanding from what learning has been accepted to be (plain acquisition) to what learning should strive to be (personal development and an awareness of one’s cultural and personal background), what we have is a Deweyan approach that actually prepares students for a life beyond school and the problems that follow.

Although Dewey’s ideas were developed in the early 20th century, they still apply today. In an interview in “Discovering John Dewey in the Twenty-First Century,” renowned professor Daniel Tanner argues that a Deweyan curriculum is built on solving social issues. In a world where curricula can become outdated or irrelevant as soon as it’s implemented, a Deweyan curriculum is more inclusive and flexible because it recognizes the needs of the student and the society they are preparing to enter. In a Deweyan curriculum, learning is more hands-on and project-based in order to develop students’ problem-solving skills and, more importantly, prepare them with knowledge that is relevant to them.

This wouldn’t be a “you will get out of it what you put into it” curriculum, a line I once saw on a syllabus that I think describes much of the U.S. curriculum. In other words, it shouldn’t fall on the student to be entirely responsible for their learning and to stay motivated. They already shoulder that burden, and it shouldn’t just be on them. To say “you will get out of it what you put into it” implies that students aren’t motivated when in reality little thought has gone into making the curriculum relevant and engaging enough to ignite that motivation in the first place. It’s up to the teachers to design an inclusive and flexible curriculum that allows them to share their passions, be caring and understanding of a student’s situation, and spark student interest, not overwhelm them to the point where they lose motivation. As is often the case, there will be a few students in the classroom who feel as if they don’t belong for a plethora of reasons. It would be unreasonable to expect students to be inspired by something that ultimately damages their self-esteem. Rather than a curriculum that focuses more on itself than students, according to Tanner and Dewey, students learn through experiences that eventually guide them to what interests them.

Just imagine taking part in an interactive classroom that isn’t bound by traditional rules. A classroom that doesn’t rely on grades or scores to determine a student’s worth, where the learning experience isn’t limited to being in a room while students' minds wander from what’s in front of them. More importantly, we need a classroom that motivates students and makes school more enjoyable and immersive through hands-on and project-based learning because it's as they go through these experiences that they are able to find their motivation. That way, they’re not just another body to fill a seat with.

However, in today’s public education system, we have a curriculum that teaches to the test, which interferes with teacher agency. Tanner asks: “How do you quantify imagination?” When you put a number on any skill, that makes learning so much more competitive and makes it all about the numbers rather than personal growth. Like Tanner suggests, we should be asking ourselves whether a test is even a valid measurement of a student’s capabilities and preparing students to think outside of the box with open-ended questions that aren’t typically asked in the classroom, for example: “Here is a table of data. What’s the problem in the table?”

Tanner also believes that our public education system was and still is designed around a “… factory model emphasizing social efficiency… for workers who could read, who could write, who could communicate, follow instructions… but not form unsettling ideas.”  Just look at Colorado College and how some of its Deweyan aspects, including discussion-based classes and even the Block Plan, assume that students are already familiar with a liberal arts education. By the time students get to college, there is a gap (one of many) between those who have had experience with a Deweyan education and those who have not. This mainly speaks to the issues of outreach and accessibility, as a Deweyan education is usually exclusive to those who can afford it. Implementing aspects of a Deweyan-style education, requires time, capacity, resources, and the ability to break away from the traditional education system—all of which favor well-funded schools. This troubling model often manifests in white, upper-middle class students who are blinded by their privilege. And it’s usually these students who end up knowing what a liberal arts education can offer. I, for one, had no idea what a liberal arts college was until an older sibling of mine went to one. But even then, the private nature of these colleges, having to go above and beyond to even be considered, and testing requirements made it feel impossible to gain admission. Luckily, by the time I applied to my colleges, CC made the switch to become test-optional, which meant one less barrier in the admissions process. But what college ambassadors from selective colleges do you see going out to recruit students from low-income schools across the U.S. and make themselves known? Sure, their narrow outreach helps make them selective, but at what cost? The admissions process is designed to be ruthless and competitive, weeding out applicants who aren’t considered highly promising according to selective admissions criteria. The reality is that disadvantaged students are usually the ones who are unable to benefit from a Deweyan education in college—nobody is reaching out to them or their schools and making them aware of these colleges and how they could benefit from learning at one. These students are usually first-generation, low-income high school seniors who don’t have much help going through the bureaucracy of the college application process.     

Students with resources at their disposal, however, usually have access to this knowledge. And that goes against a crucial part of Dewey’s vision of a democratic society: accessibility. If only privileged students get to enjoy the perks of a Deweyan education while the rest are bogged down by barriers and trained to work hard but ignore the social conditions that create those barriers in the first place, then is it even a democracy at that point? And that begs another question: why is it that the lower you are, the higher you have to rise? We are taught that continuously grinding and struggling is normal, but never ask why it has to be so hard in the first place or how the status quo can change in order to make it even just a little bit easier for people to thrive. 

The classroom experience is just the beginning. You don’t need to spend time in a classroom to see that there are other problems plaguing our education system. Growing up in Missouri, I remember passing through affluent suburban areas in my hometown. With one glance at the exterior of the schools, businesses, and even the roads in those areas, I could immediately tell there was a gap between my experience in public education and the schools I was looking at. The infrastructure in poorer communities is just one example of how they have to bear the brunt of the effects of gross inequalities in this country. Whitaker and Valtierra expand on how ongoing segregation affects low-income communities, 

US public schools are more segregated now more than ever in history, largely due to White flight and mass school closures in neighborhoods of color … As school quality in low-income and middle-class communities lessened, wealthy families moved to the suburbs where they could ensure their children attend schools with qualified teachers, rigorous course offerings, and extracurricular activities.

These inequalities carry over into the college application process. In the study “Challenges and Opportunities in the Pursuit of College Finance Literacy,” researchers worked with 14 low-income high school seniors in New York to find out how they learned about college finance. The study defines college finance literacy as “… the ability to access, read, write, communicate about and critically appraise the financial texts that mediate college attendance.” The study concluded the obvious: that financial aid texts were hard to understand. On the other hand, upper middle-class students already had access to financial aid knowledge through “… individual and informational channels.” This disparity led to three main problems with the financial aid process for the 14 students: (1) inaccurate perceptions of college finance, (2) uneven support from counselors, and (3) complicated financial aid texts. All of which make the process of talking to financial aid offices more anxiety inducing, since disadvantaged students are less likely to be prepared for understanding financial aid terms. And when they reach out for help, they’re more likely to be met with resistance because they’re expected to learn how to navigate the process on their own. 

The high school from this study emphasized the importance of going to college but not how to pay for it, so the students had to rely on their friends and family. But even then, the students would have to know someone who went to college, which isn’t guaranteed for everyone. The natural solution would be students reaching out to their counselors. But the counselors at their school wanted to make the point that it’s the student’s responsibility to navigate financial aid while completely ignoring their own role, opting to throw them into the deep end instead in the hopes that they would learn on their own. Because of this lack of support, the students didn’t have a solid grasp on loans and grants, price of tuition versus cost of attendance, and so on. And in that financial aid process, financial aid texts are made internally and externally complex. Texts are internally complex in that students have to sift through the language with other financial documents and externally complex because students have to find the requested documents and explain to their parents, who may be unwilling to share such information, why they need them.

Focusing more on higher education, the academic study “The Experience of Low-SES Students in Higher Education: Psychological Barriers to Success and Interventions to Reduce Social-Class Inequality'' describes how upper-class cultural norms are entrenched in the college environment, creating many of the psychological barriers first-generation, low-income students face and ultimately shaping their college experience. The three main barriers described in the study are emotional experience, identity management, and self-perception. With emotional experience, these students often feel that they don’t have an outlet to talk about their negative experiences (ex. gaslighting, microaggressions), which not only allows these experiences to fester inside as they resort to internalizing their emotions, but leads to high levels of stress as well. When it comes to identity management, these students are more likely to feel as if they don’t belong in the college environment while struggling with their new identity as college students. This is commonly known as imposter syndrome, meaning first-generation, low-income students often feel they don’t deserve to be there because they are constantly reminded and made hyper-aware of their difference in background. Knowing that others had advantages in life leads to feelings of self-doubt, not being smart enough, or feeling behind. And external factors such as classism, “... negative attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors directed toward those with less power, who are socially devalued,” can lead to negative self-perception both of themselves and their capabilities. The fear of proving these views true ends up affecting their ability to reach their potential and be satisfied with their work because they’re always second-guessing themselves.

Taking a step back and looking at the bigger picture, behind these three barriers lie two cultural norms: promoting independent values (learning to express yourself and work by yourself) and prioritizing the “best” students in the admissions process. Thus, getting into college becomes more of a cutthroat competition where the upper-class can just buy their way in and use their resources to their advantage all in an effort to show that they are the best and most deserving of admission—no matter what it takes. At that point, higher education strays from its original purpose and becomes more of a business, perpetuating exclusionary behaviors and turning a blind eye to its students’ anxieties and their causes. To keep up with this competition, students are driven by an individualistic mindset, creating an environment that instills self-doubt in those who can’t keep up and are eventually left behind rather than promoting interdependent values such as learning to work together and adjust to different expectations. When there is more of a focus on high-promising students that are “the best,” those with untapped potential and under different circumstances are automatically excluded from consideration. These students have to rise to extraordinary levels just to be recognized, if they’re lucky. In schools that refuse to prioritize interdependent values, revise the admissions criteria, and dismantle privilege, not just in upper-class families but in the institutions themselves, they’re told to be resilient and find their own source of motivation in an environment where no one cares if they fail. Although practicing diversity initiatives and releasing antiracist statements to promote inclusivity and positive thinking has become more common in higher education, that doesn’t change the fact that disadvantaged students still feel the way they do because of how the college environment is designed and the psychological impacts it causes.   

With these psychological barriers and an environment that is inherently designed against these students reaching their potential, how are they supposed to stay motivated? What even gives them a reason to succeed if there is more of an emphasis on competition and individualism than cooperation for the common good, which is treated as if it doesn’t exist in the real world? In that sense, our idea of success is warped. Success becomes more about what we can measure to determine how well one can do something. Only judging a person based on how high or low any of these numbers are limits what you see about them. People are looked at according to what they can offer and what others stand to gain from them. This version of success blinds us to their ideas, lived realities, potential, imagination, and so on—capabilities that cannot and have no reason to be measured. Students do not feel prepared to enter the real world because of a system that cares more about these skewed ideas of success instead of their holistic growth. What education should strive to do is actually prepare each generation for a life beyond school and equip them with the confidence to navigate and eventually shape their future.

So the solution to rethink and reform our education system is in Dewey’s centuries-old ideas: personal growth and motivation in a project-based and in-depth curriculum that prioritizes learning by doing over learning by memorization, and a streamlined application process versus jumping through bureaucratic hoops. But as the old saying goes, “A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.” To call back to an important part of Dewey’s democratic society about equal access, learning includes an awareness of one’s personal and cultural background. To strive for a future of progress and innovation, we must address the root problems holding us back, including the same inaccessible and rigid education system that strips disadvantaged students of their confidence and self-esteem. It should be helping students harness their potential, not molding them into conforming candidates anxiously waiting in line to become a part of a machine-like working world—programmed with knowledge on what to do and how to do something but never to ask why. And thus, we are pitted against each other to chase success and be the best instead of cooperating for the common good. In realizing Dewey’s vision, we must take this understanding of learning and systemic inequities into consideration, especially because college is supposed to be the gateway into the middle-class for low-income students. Without this understanding, a Deweyan curriculum only serves those who have access to it.

Works Cited (MLA)

Greenfield, Jeremy S. "Challenges and Opportunities in the Pursuit of College Finance Literacy." High School Journal 98.4 (2015): 316-36. Print

Hildebrand, David. "John Dewey." Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. 01 Nov. 2018. Web. 15 Dec. 2020.

Jorgensen, C. Gregg. "Chapter 8: Teach the Way Dewey Believed: Daniel Tanner." Discovering John Dewey in the Twenty-First Century Dialogues on the Present and Future of Education. New York, NY: Palgrave Macmillan US, 2017. 109-16. Print

Soltis, Jonas F. "Humanizing Education: Dewey's Concepts of a Democratic Society and Purpose in Education Revisited." Studies in Philosophy and Education 11.1 (1991): 89-92. Print.

Jury, M., Smeding, A., Stephens, N. M., Nelson, J. E., Aelenei, C., & Darnon, C. (2017). The experience of low-ses students in higher education: Psychological barriers to success and interventions to reduce social-class inequality. Journal of Social Issues, 73(1), 25-30. doi:10.1111/josi.12202

“Schooling Multicultural Teachers: A Guide for Program Assessment and Professional Development.” Schooling Multicultural Teachers: a Guide for Program Assessment and Professional Development, by Manya Catrice Whitaker and Kristina M. Valtierra, Emerald Publishing, Bingley, 2019, pp. 21–31.

No Particular Destination

I was around six years old when my dad began to give me prompts at bedtime. I was often anxious around nightfall and could be found huddling under the covers in hopes that my comforter would ward off the shadows that crept into my overactive imagination. In an attempt to distract me from the nervous thinking that led to many midnight “Daaaadd”s and “Moooomm”s, my dad started asking me to create happy and uplifting images in my head. His prompts varied from “design the perfect dog house for Josie” to “imagine you were opening a special kind of bakery—what would make it unique?” While these prompts always helped me calm down before bed, I also believe that they sparked my love of dreaming—in my waking life—about what could be. I loved the creative flexibility that these reveries provided. There was no need for perfection, no need for speed, and no particular destination. I was free to explore my dreamscape however I wished. 

These early exercises in creating a world I yearned for shaped the person I am today. And while I continue to dream, the way I think about my aspirations and their limitations has evolved.   

As I grew older, I began to rely less on my dad’s bedtime prompts as my own curiosity and imagination became stronger. It was not uncommon for my seventh-grade self to wake up at one in the morning, flick on my lamp, and scribble a half-formed epiphany into the hot pink notebook that rested on my bedside table for this exact purpose. These ideas always centered on bringing light to the world in a small way: stuffed animals with a lavender scent dispensing system for kids who struggled with sleep or a pajama company that employed and empowered women. When I flip back through these ideas every now and then for nostalgia’s sake, I can’t help but laugh at the precision I put into planning such extraordinary and somewhat impossible schemes. I did draw out blueprints for the stuffed animal project, in case you were wondering. Nonetheless, as I flip through the wide-ruled pages, it brings me a sense of pride to see the ways my thoughts became more and more intricate over time. There is a tangible growth in the way I imagined bringing my dreams into the world. A slow, beautiful progression as I worked through my goals and hopes through my haphazard sketches and scribbles.

In high school, my dreaming process began to shift from inventing in my head and notebook to the collection and curation of fragments in the digital world. I started imagining my future life this way using Pinterest boards that I continue to fill with images today. I truly believe that in some way, these boards have become a form of dream planning by providing a space for me to gather concrete visuals of my goals and hopes for my life. Just like my pink notebook filled with inventions, these boards demonstrate how my dreams for the future have evolved with time. As I look back through my boards, I can trace the origin of my current running a colorful, creative, and community-centered store. My Pinterest boards hold the pegboard walls I one day hope to fill with local artisans’ products in my shop, activism-centered artwork that I hope to promote and create for good causes, and fragments of my own small business endeavors from throughout the years that taught me many lessons about marketing myself, my creations, and all I have to offer the world. 

In addition to my slight Pinterest obsession, my future planning also manifests in observing others who are living out slices of what I aspire to do one day. I watch Instagram stories of other creative small-business owners, read books about their triumphs and failures, and cheer for them as they open additional branches, redesign stores, and launch new products. Living in Colorado Springs, I find daily inspiration in the operations of companies such as Eclectic Co., Ladyfingers Letterpress, and Heartshake Studios which all uplift women, queer, and POC creators looking to make a social impact.

But just as the style of my dreaming has evolved, so have my doubts. As I come to the end of my first year at Colorado College, my dreams for the future have started feeling more impossible and insignificant than ever before. As a part of this community of intelligent and driven students, I often find myself comparing my hopes to those of my classmates who plan on becoming doctors, environmental scientists, documentarians, and so on. Their big dreams often make me wonder why I don’t also strive to enact change in big ways or achieve a high status or fame in my future career. Questions like this have flooded my mind over the past few months, often keeping me awake at night for far longer than I’d like. The shadows that once lurked in the closets of my youth have shifted into shadows of the future hanging over my head. I seem to be needing my dad’s prompts more than ever these days.

Because of these doubts, I have spent much of this year frustrated with myself for wanting to pursue my dream of owning my own store. As I was walking back from my friend’s room in the Loomis basement, I stopped to admire the neat handwriting painted on one section of the hallway. While looking closer at the crisp lettering that read, “Life is a journey, not a destination,” I realized that this quote, whose clichéd nature had always irritated me, was actually how I’ve always aspired to live my life. I want to value my natural exploration and progress more than the conventional milestones that I feel pressured to focus on. Of course, opening a store is big, but what I really crave are the memories that will come with it, the progress I’ll make internally, and the relationships I’ll form with my community. I have always wanted to focus on the everyday victories of life. I now realize that this quote has upset me in the past because it feels hypocritical, like an impossible standard. While variations of the journey and destination trope are pinned all over schools and workplaces, these are also the environments that focus the most on the destination––the graduation, the test score, the major, or the promotion––rather than the small steps that add up to great things. 

As I approach an age where I am expected to start picking my destinations, the carefree dreams of my youth suddenly feel overwhelmed with deadlines, leading to the uncertainty I’ve been experiencing all year. Yet, understanding where my doubt stems from is pushing me to work through it. I am working to embrace the fact that my destination will come only after a long journey. I do not need to have it all figured out right now. Though my dream may not hold the same status as that of some of my peers’ futures, I may one day inspire a generation of younger kids who step through my shop’s doors as I pursue something I love.

I can already hear the bell at the door of my shop ringing as I flip the “OPEN” sign to welcome the community in. One day, I’ll gaze at the deep teal walls I’ve painted with care as I restock cheerful and inspiring prints, pottery, and other joyful products made by artists I know and adore. I’ll greet my regular customers with gratitude and look forward to every new face who walks through my doors. I’ll plan for what is to come, even if it’s just in my head, notebook, and social media for now. Sure my goals may change with time, but I will continue to dream of them every day. I will choose to believe in a beautiful future for myself.