Every once in a while you just need to bench yourself
There’s a bench at my undergrad that no one knows exists.
I first sat on it in the fall of 2009. I was a freshmen. My mother had just called me to tell me my grandmother had died. She wasn’t my real grandmother, but I still called her Grandma. That’s all that mattered.
I was lost; 18 and dislocated. When I shook my principal’s hand at my high school graduation he said to me, “Keep going,” words that rattled around in my head during that first semester of college.
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