you go on and i'll be happier.

Today, dear readers, I did a hard thing.

Today, I stood up for myself.

My friend, who has been in my life since we “dated” (I use that word lightly) in 2021…is no longer my friend.

Then again, was he ever really my friend?

We haven’t spoken since we had dinner (this was mentioned in the last post), and he left the last message I sent him on read for about a month. 

All I could think was…this is it. He’s ghosted you again…or he’s at least getting ready to do it. I’d sent his daughter a box of school supplies without a response that he received the package. I waited for a message…something…anything…to indicate that he was still alive. I’m sure part of this silence has to do with the fact that he’s dating again, which helped me come to the realization that he only thinks I’m worth speaking to whenever he’s single and bored.

He’s not single, so therefore, he doesn’t need me right now.

So, I sent a long message to him, knowing that it would either go ignored or he just wouldn’t care about my feelings. Long story short, I told him that I wasn’t going to put up with another ghosting (especially after the previous ghosting lasted almost a year), I said that I was putting myself first, I mentioned what I stated above about only being his friend when he’s single, I said that I was tired of the back and forth and being treated like a joke, and most importantly, that I hope he finds his happiness in this life. 

And I do. I truly do hope he finds happiness. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. Once upon a time, I naively thought I would be the one to make him happy. As I admitted, also, in my previous post…I was more enamored by him than he was with me when we met. 

To my surprise, he sent a brief message back, and claimed he wasn’t ghosting me…but that if this decision is what I wanted, then he and his daughter (whom I will really miss) enjoyed knowing me.

That was it. No acknowledgement of my feelings, no admitting that he was sorry for anything. Nothing. The same lack of communication from him…a true hallmark of our friendship. I didn’t bother responding back to him.

Friends, lovers, whatever…

I was a joke to him and I always will be. 

I don’t want to end what we were, contrary to what he might think. I just felt like I had no choice but to end it before I was hurt even more by him.  I was the one who tried so damn hard to keep us afloat. So for him to be so cold and dismissive…well…it is what it is. That’s how he acted when we dated…I shouldn’t expect him to act any differently in this case. I guess I had hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d be honest with me…but I was mistaken. 

I know that when his birthday passes this September, I’ll sadly still think of him and mentally wish him a happy birthday, since I told him I won’t message him anymore.

Same for his daughter’s in October.

But mine will pass in December and he’ll go on like he always has - and never take the time to wish me a happy birthday. Christmas will approach and I’ll spend it like I did last year before he decided to come back…with the people who truly do value and love me as I am. 

I’m sad. I’m heartbroken. I’m in tears. I’m riding out the emotions and I’m trying so hard to be strong so I can get through another week of school. He doesn’t care. He never did.

I’m going to take time for me and focus on my new school year, continuing therapy and navigating my relationship with my dad, making better dietary choices (I’ve started seeing a dietician), exercising more, helping one of my dearest friends out with her final wedding preparations before the ceremony in November, and completing my graduate certificate course work for teaching English Learners (this is being paid for by the county I teach in). 

I had an incredible first week back to school with my students and although I’m exhausted (there is no kind of tired like first week of school tired), I truly felt a spark again as I got to know my new pupils. They actually seem excited about learning history so I’m going to do my due diligence and be the best teacher I can be…and not channeling my energies into wondering if my “friend” gives a shit about me every day is going to help me immensely in giving my all to my career this year. I can’t wait to document more of my adventures this year with this group of kiddos…I really can’t.

I’ll always care about him. I’ll miss him and his daughter so, so much, but really, he and I don’t fit. We never did and I’m tired of trying to make us fit. So me ending it, as much as it pains me to do so…this is just all for the best…for both of us. 

I’ll use the words of the song inspiration for this impromptu blog post (A Fine Frenzy, “Happier”) to end my ramblings for today:

You go on and I’ll be happier. You’ll be gone and I’ll be happier.

Many happy returns. 

-kate.

coffee cup and i'm sailing out to sea

Y’all, I tried so hard to draft my Rome entry while I was still in Italy…but the trip kept me busy, so I did not achieve my goal in wanting to write as I was traveling. No matter - everything has been documented and I can’t wait to share the rest of my adventures now that I’m back stateside! I had an incredible two weeks in Europe and the travel bug has bit me once more…I’m thinking…Portugal? Summer 2025? We’ll see.

I feel like I do now have some energy to continue this site, at least, for the foreseeable future. The history I took in while traipsing across Europe did reignite my passion for learning and teaching. I, however, know that I do need to actively search for other potential career paths…and I have started to apply for openings on USA Jobs. My father (we’ll talk about him in a moment) may get what he wants after all and have a daughter in the civil service.

Maybe then he’ll finally be proud of me.

Personally, things have been strange since I’ve returned from Europe and many old wounds that I thought have healed are now reopened. Of course, I am still going to therapy, and at least I have that as part of my coping mechanisms, but I was not prepared for the emotional upheavals I’ve experienced this summer…

So what better way to decompress than by having story time with y’all?

To begin our story time, I received a phone call from my mother just before her birthday. This was during the week I had returned. I already had started the week adjusting from jet lag and recovering from my annual exams; the Pap Smear, unfortunately, exacerbated my pelvic muscles and I was bedridden for two days as I suffered through painful cramping. When I finally felt better, I decided to start going on daily walks to get my 10,000 steps in…and my body was grateful for this positive choice in attempting to get some exercise. During one of those walks, my mother called, and immediately apologized for what she was about to tell me.

Confused by her words, I stopped talking and listened to her.

Apparently, my mom and dad had an argument about how my dad can be racist towards Mexicans. My mom, then, accidentally used the wrong wording about how I also think he’s racist (side note: I have never said that to him). My dad got offended by this accusation, even though I wasn’t there in the room with them to defend myself. He told my mom that he was going to stop by my house to yell and give me a piece of his mind.

I knew what my mother was trying to convey to him regarding that statement. A few months ago, while I was visiting for Sunday lunch, he’d gone on some rant about (shocker) all the Mexicans coming in through my hometown of Laredo. I was taken aback by his offensive words, gestured to my mother and I, and said we’re right here. I never, however, told him in that incident that he was a racist.

When my mom made that phone call, I was planning to visit later during the week so I could celebrate her upcoming birthday. She and I both realized it would be best for me not to go to their house until he cooled off and she could get him to understand that she misspoke. She also advised me not to text her as he sometimes has her phone and sees her text messages. So, I spent that week frustrated with my mother, in fear of my father potentially coming to my house to tell me off, saddened by the fact that I wouldn’t be able to celebrate her birthday with her, and…mainly…

Heartbroken by the realization that, after thirty-two years of being on this earth, my maternal ancestry is still something that my father has not accepted. I texted my history nerd friends in our group chat about what had happened. They know my story; they have helped me work through my feelings towards my relationship with my dad throughout the years.

Lisa: Holy shit.
Me: She was angry at him for making Mexican comments and let the comment slip.
Keith: Sometimes the truth can hurt. Then one is apt to blame someone else rather than taking the responsibility of owning it.
Me: He has said hurtful things, don’t get me wrong. But I never actually said he was racist, my mom made a mistake in the heat of the moment…and now he’s super angry at both of us.
Lisa: It sucks you got pulled into it.
Me: So much for her birthday plans this week…I’m definitely not going over to their house now.
Lisa: Probably best to not.
Keith: Oh, I believe that. The problem is that many racists don’t realize what they are saying is racist.
Me: Nope and unfortunately he’s in denial.
Keith: How can someone be racist against Mexicans, and yet be married to someone with Mexican descent?
Me: Ding ding ding!

EXACTLY. Like Keith said…why does my dad say these hurtful things about Mexican immigrants when he’s married to someone who is Mexican and, furthermore, has kids who are Mexican?

I spent the week grappling with my feelings. Some of my other friends were telling me to have a heart to heart with my dad about this incident. Those other friends, however, aren’t quite at the level of understanding that Lisa and Keith are regarding my dad. Those other friends don’t get that there is no such thing as a “heart to heart” when it comes to speaking to him. Part of me wanted to finally bring up the fact to my dad I know about the blood test his mother wanted when I was born to prove I was his daughter. My parents have always known my blood type (AB+). My sister, however, once asked what her blood type was and they told her they didn’t know it. She was upset that they didn’t know hers but knew mine. She pulled the they must love you more card.

For some reason, years ago, on my 26th birthday, this was the conversation of choice at my birthday lunch. I then started to truly wonder…why do they know my blood type and not my sister’s?

When we got home from lunch, my dad disappeared to take a nap. I found my mom and while we were alone, I decided to ask her about the blood type debacle.

She looked at me, with sadness, and said that if she told me, I better not tell my father that I’m aware. So, I promised her I wouldn’t say a word to him.

And when she told me…that’s when I realized…they don’t know my blood type because they love me more.

(You were mistaken, dear sister).

My paternal grandmother, prior to my birth…sometime during the summer of 1991…wrote a letter to my dad explaining that people should marry their own kind. She was not happy with his choice in a Mexican bride and had no qualms giving her opinion. When December arrived and my mother was about to give birth, she decided to come to Texas and (as I so stupidly thought when I was growing up) offer the family support during labor. To this day, I still have a photo of her, with us in our former Laredo home, documenting that same visit.

Only now I know she didn’t come to Laredo for genuine reasons.

On the day my mother was discharged from the hospital, my dad came to her room and told her that my grandmother wanted a blood test to prove his paternity. My grandmother truly believed my mother was a gold digger trying to trap my father into a marriage with an illegitimate Mexican child.

Me. I was the illegitimate Mexican child in question.

The blood test was performed. My dad didn’t refuse my grandmother’s request. My mother, probably mentally and physically exhausted out of her mind after having just given birth, acquiesced so they could leave the hospital ASAP. Blood test or not, I am my father’s child.

The birth of a little brown Mexican girl tainted my paternal family’s bloodlines, legitimately, and it was just something they were going to have to deal with.

Thirty-two years later and I’m tired of carrying this burden. I’m tired of not being enough for the men I date as well as not being enough for my own father. I’m tired of holding onto this pain of knowing that I was not wanted by my father’s family the moment my mother married him in the spring of 1991, simply because of my heritage. I’m tired of the past because it keeps messing up my present…and preventing me from having the future I so desperately want.

My father’s frustrations and narrowmindedness also translates into him not wanting to meet the men I date. I’ve said several times before, his refusal to meet any man I want to bring home has destroyed possible relationships from developing. Although I would be okay with keeping a distance and cutting off contact should he not accept my choice in a potential spouse, the man I’m with would also have to be okay with not knowing his future father-in-law. I would never expect anyone to convert to Catholicism on my behalf, but I would hope my faith would be respected. I would want any children to be baptized, of course, for the sake of saving their souls if God forbid, something awful happened to them in their youth. I’ve learned though, that my father still would not want to meet any boyfriend of mine, even if he was Catholic, because he would just find some other reason to dwell on as to why the man is not worthy of me.

Perfect transition then, to part two of story time!

My friend I once dated (the one who cancelled lunch plans before my trip) and I have had some interesting and open conversations about relationships. We’re okay now; we’ve discussed our disagreement about making plans/maintaining a friendship since I returned from Europe and are on speaking terms again. He once brought up that when we dated, he was enjoying the options online dating was giving to him and eventually concluded that perhaps he was taking too much advantage of these many options.

We had dinner this past weekend and he asked me if I had finished a book he’d loaned me about dating. I brought up that the subject matter in the book made me feel uneasy about the way some men approach dating; that they seem to focus on intimacy, which makes dating difficult for me. My goal is to date meaningfully…that just because I don’t want to be intimate, that doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with my decision.

I then, explained to him (yet again) that when we dated, I wasn’t trying to be intimate with him right away because I was simply trying to enjoy, you know, actual courtship…so obviously, we were both looking for different things when we met. He, however, had never been upfront about what exactly he wanted with me…even when I had asked where things were headed between us.

I also then explained to him that I hope he understood why it took me so long to process the end of whatever we were, and that was really, about the extent of our discussion. We found another topic to dwell on, enjoyed our dinner and beer and, as always, we had a nice time together. Clearly, we ARE capable of having hard, yet respectful, conversations while maintaining (I pray) a legitimate friendship.

After having had this talk with him, I realize now that I was always way more invested in him than he was in me. Three summers ago, I was catching real feelings for him…I was falling in love with him.

No, I’ll be brave and admit it now. It won’t change the outcome.

I was in wholeheartedly and unconditionally in love with him. I would’ve, back then, done anything to make him happy because I was so in love with him.

I know now, based on his admittance that he was having all the fun with online dating, he was not trying to date me “meaningfully.” He sure as hell was not falling in love with me! He could throw out every excuse he wanted to…my father, my faith, my health issues…

(In love with me? HA. He wasn’t even in like with me! Wow, I was so optimistic - gotta take off those rose colored glasses…am I right, y’all?)

Bottom line - I was never going to be good enough for him to be his girlfriend. I wasn’t someone he viewed as serious or worthy enough to be with in the long run. When we first met, he wasn’t focused on commitment and I was. I guess, all I was that summer was someone he was passing time with…to cure his boredom (and other things). At least, that’s how I’m perceiving it now that he’s told me that the summer we met was his summer of simply having fun with every single girl he matched with online. He claimed that he “cared” about me once while we dated…but I know that was a lie.

I was never special to him.

I was only one of who knows how many useless and worthless girls to him…a name lost in a sea of feminine names. I was trash, really, and he threw me away.

I was, and forevermore, nothing to him.

There can never be ‘what could have beens’ between us. I honestly fell in love, hard, and he didn’t even like me anywhere as much as I thought he did when we dated. At least I learned this hard and emotional truth this summer…although I wish I’d known it three summers ago…instead of placing all the blame on my father and my health as to why he left me.

No, he just didn’t want me in any sense because he wasn’t even thinking about embarking on a serious relationship that summer.

I wasted so much time praying and hoping for more from him…when I should’ve realized he was, from day one, never considering me for the long-term. I went home after that first date enamored and hopeful while he went home and probably asked out another girl on a date…without so much as a second thought of me.

Wow. Seriously, what a “come to Jesus” realization for me.

And even now I’ve only figured this out, on my own, with the limited evidence he’s given me: his admittance to how he approached online dating that summer we first met. I know that he’s probably never going to take ownership and point blank tell me the truth about his intentions/how he felt about me, apologize for how he treated me, or even admit why he came back after the 2023 ghosting (I wish he would just be candid for once…I think it’d make our friendship even easier to navigate, but again, I don’t want to risk pushing him away).

Three summers ago, he treated me no better than my teacher ex that I dated pre-Covid by letting me believe that that there could’ve been a chance…when clearly he had so many better options available to him.

And oddly enough, that statement is the perfect transition to the third emotional and odd moment that will conclude story time.

I thought I had finally put my teacher ex in the past. We’d mingled at happy hours scheduled by our mutual work friends and had made peace (we’d shared a friendly embrace with each other at the last happy hour we attended). I found out that he’d been in a serious relationship for almost two years and even had a child with his partner! I was happy for him that he seemingly had matured and settled down. I was proud of him.

Just before I jetted off to Europe, I learned that he was cheating on his partner/mother of his child by actively using online dating profiles…

And that he, more than likely, may have roofied and taken advantage of a girl he took out one evening.

When I told some of my girlfriends and my mother about this, they all pretty much said the same thing to me:

Can you imagine if you had continued dating him? Can you imagine if he was doing this to you while harming other girls? Can you imagine how much worse it would’ve been had you married him?

As painful as it was to navigate the end of that ‘relationship,’ then yes, I can only imagine what would’ve happened had we continued to date. I would have been absolutely miserable…just like I’m sure, right now, his partner, who apparently has decided to stay with him (more than likely, for the sake of the child) is feeling.

And as awful as he treated me, I didn’t think he’d ever go that far as to drug and assault someone.

When I heard about what he had done…my mind finally…finally went back to the year that he and I dated.

2019.

Whatever happened that year seems like it was an eternity ago, especially because of Covid.

I then remembered an event that I experienced not long after we broke up.

An event similar to what he had just done to this girl he met through his dating profile.

An event that, while I have started to come to terms with it by writing it as a part of the novel I’m attempting to draft

(Please note, some names have been changed but everything else is true).

…Is something that is, I think, preventing me from truly wanting to physically entrust my body with anyone I date…

…And is something, I pray, that one day, I can forgive myself for…although I know the Lord has already seen to forgive me.

But yes, that all being said, this has indeed, been a strange summer of emotions.

Dear readers, I’m grateful I’m able to unload and unfold my life here to you on this site. I’m glad I have this site as an outlet to help me cope. You’ve no idea how much your reading of these posts means to me. Thank you for supporting me through my ups and downs, my mental issues, and my uncertainties as to what I truly want in this life.

Somewhere, in all this mess, this passionate history nerd is wanting to come out and just true to herself again. I pray she’s still there in this mess. I know deep down, she is still there.

I promise, next post…it’ll be all about Rome. Until then -

many happy returns…

-kate.

P.S. The title of this post is a line from my new favorite ‘go-to’ song from one of my favorite bands, Ride (shoegaze experts extraordinaire). There’s just something about this particular line that soothes me…grab a cup of coffee, casually sip on your brew as you try to tune out the noise and chaos of the world while, at the same time, attempt to find and enjoy the stillness and tranquility that life can offer you - if you look hard enough.

I don’t know, at least that’s how I’m interpreting this line from the lyrics. Really, this song does calm my nerves and makes for excellent driving music!

i need your grace to remind me to find my own.

Three days. Three days.

THREE days.

And then, I’ll be sitting on an international flight bound for a quick layover in Dublin (low-key kinda wish I was staying in Dublin on another Irish adventure, but oh well) before I arrive at my final destination of Naples, Italy. Michelle and I will be making Naples our home base for about a week while we traipse all around my “fatherland” and get in touch with my paternally inherited Italian side of the family. We’ve got a day set in Capri, the Amalfi Coast (ahem, Pompeii), potentially Florence (hello, Michelangelo’s David), and of course, a day dedicated to the beautiful city of Rome, with stops scheduled at the Colosseum and, where every Catholic dreams of going…Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica. 

Will I meet the Pope? Probably not, but still, just to be in the Eternal City…the center of the Roman Catholic Church? I can’t believe my return to Europe is just in a matter of days…but indeed, it is.

We’ll spend some down time in Naples proper, enjoying Neapolitan style pizza and hopefully basking in the night life (and maybe meet some charming Italian men) before we then board a plane to Paris/Charles de Gaulle for a quick layover in Paris. This is where Michelle and I will rendezvous with Lisa (and her daughter) before we go to our final final destination - Normandy. Lisa, Michelle, and I booked a day excursion in Paris; we’ll hit up the Louvre, Sacré-Cœur (French for the “Sacred Heart” of Jesus) of Montmartre Catholic Church (my mother already said to try to find her a rosary here), the Eiffel Tower (this is where we will probably act like idiotic Americans abroad taking gratuitous selfies), with a cruise along the River Seine to end our day. The next day, Lisa’s picking up the rental car, and we’re going on a road trip to Normandy…with a pit stop at Versailles!

We booked a charming airbnb in the commune of Port-en-Bessin-Huppain within driving distance of the major D-Day sites. On Sunday, we’re going to the D-Day Experience museum in Carentan - 

Cue Captain Lewis Nixon’s quote and uppity French pronunciation from Episode #1 (Currahee) of the epic war mini series - Band of Brothers (and duh, I’m rewatching the mini series to, you know, help me historically prepare myself for my visit):

“Airborne’s [101st] objective, gentlemen, is to take the town of Cah-rhen-tahn, or Carentan, thus linking Utah and Omaha into a single continuous beachhead.”

I’ve been waiting like, forever, to use that quote, and I fully intend to use it once we’re in Carentan for the museum visit. You can listen to it in all its Ron Livingston deadpan delivered glory since I decided to link it here (to the exact minute of the quote).

There will, of course, be other quotes from the book/series to use as we make our way through Normandy.

After the D-Day Experience, we’re going to drive over to Omaha Beach to see Lisa’s other, older daughter, perform with her high school band for a performance in honor of the D-Day 80th Anniversary commemorations. 

We will also be doing a day trip to Bayeux, where we will hopefully see the legendary Bayeux Tapestry, which tells the story of the conquest of England by William the Conqueror, and also visit Mont Saint-Michel (Saint Michael). I’m keeping my fingers crossed that we drive over and visit the Pointe du Hoc and Sainte-Mère-Église (Holy Mother [Mary] Church). Sainte-Mère-Église was the first town liberated by the Allied forces after the invasion…it’s a must-see for any World War II history nerd. 

On our way back to Paris to catch our departing flights, we’ll most likely detour to Rouen, and then it’ll be time to head back to the States.

Two weeks seems like forever…and the trip anxiety right now is real. I don’t want to say goodbye to my family, I am apprehensive about leaving my house and my comfortable bed, I’m scared that Ike and Mamie will forget all about me, I’m nervous about my luggage and the long haul flight…and I’m disappointed about the way I left things with my friend who came back into my life. We were supposed to have lunch, but of course, I’m the one who suggested to hang out and have this meet up in the first place. He finally gave me two days we could make this happen, and I went with Saturday. Then, he tells me he can’t do Saturday due to some house stuff, but can do Friday evening for dinner. Okay, cool. 

Friday evening dinner then somehow became Friday at 3 PM for lunch. Fine. Whatever. 

Then, Friday afternoon, he tells me he can’t even do 3 PM due to some work stuff delaying him from leaving his house. When I asked him why we couldn’t just move it to the evening (as he’d already earlier suggested via text), he told me why (he was going on a date) and I just felt like, once more, that I’m being taken for granted by him. All I wanted was to see him before I left. That was it. One lousy dinner. And there I went…making the plans, trying to accommodate him…but yet I’m the one who was passed over and forgotten about. 

He already accused me once of still wanting to be with him.  

And while that ship has sailed…a long, long time ago…I just thought maybe, after all this time, he at least valued my friendship enough to at least keep his word, especially since I’m leaving for awhile, and just wanted to say my goodbyes. Especially after I decided to try to trust him again once he returned at the end of 2023 and ended his disappearing act.

I don’t ever want him to think I don’t want him to find his happiness. Of course I do. I want nothing more than for him to be happy, and find the girl of his dreams (and I would hope he wants me to be happy too), but right now, it seems like it’s all going to be at my expense. Here I am, trying to make things easier for him and his schedule…like a friend should, and yet, he couldn’t even be bothered to take into account my schedule. I’ve been running around getting my trip details set and packing my suitcase, all while trying to finish this insane school year, but I still tried making time for him and worked with his schedule.

Let him be angry, let him think whatever he wants about me, let him think I’m a bitch like he thought I acted as to why he stopped talking to me the last time. I don’t care. I’ll never understand why he does this to me…why he doesn’t understand how I feel. Why he even came back. It hurts. I want to trust him, I want to rely on him as my friend, and it’s like I’m burdening him and asking for too much. I hope he knows that I’m sorry, but I also hope, this time around, he will finally understand how I’m feeling.

So right now, I’m going to use this time and this space away from him and focus on my historical adventures. I’m going to go off on this epic trip of a lifetime with people who do value my friendship, who don’t take me for granted, and will be by my side as I finally fulfill this dream of mine. 

Maybe, just maybe, this trip is what I need to revive my heart…my passions…for living, breathing, loving, and teaching history. I may not have the love of my life accompanying me, but the way this trip is happening, with Lisa and Michelle, is more than I could ever ask for.

I pray to God that this trip will save me from this slump I’ve been in…and I put it all in His hands. If I’m meant to live this life solo, then I only hope to spend my time now by exploring the unknown and making my own adventures with the people I love most in this life. So I’m taking a moment here to thank you, dear Lord, for these blessings you’ve bestowed on me…and I’ll try not to take this life for granted.

I’ll be bringing my laptop with me, and hope to find downtime to blog and write as we make our way through Europe, so please…stay posted for updates, Band of Brothers themed quotes, and all the amazing pictures. 

many, many happy returns…

-kate. 


take a sad song and make it better.

My feelings from the previous blog post have not really changed. I’m still numb and haven’t found a renewed joy in teaching. I don’t feel like continuing with my writing, whether it be here or with the book I’ve been trying to draft. Things have really, only worsened since the school year began in August, so I felt the need to just let all my feelings out here to help me decompress. My students, for the most part, have been fabulous; however, the students who have presented me challenges are incredibly apathetic and/or insanely disrespectful. I’ve had objects thrown at me, demands, insults, and negotiations screamed at me, I’ve been recorded without my knowledge for TikTok…

It has been a long, long year.

As I write this post, I have 15 school days left with this group of seventh graders. 

15 school days of daily being told by one volatile boy how weird I am and what a shitty teacher I am, just because I asked him to follow a reasonable request.

15 school days of having kids push past the teachers in the hallway as though we are inconveniencing them from their socializing.

15 school days of wondering another fight in the bus loop will break out and result in a student going to the hospital in an ambulance (as what happened just this week).

15 school days of monitoring bathroom passes and essentially, being a glorified babysitter instead of you know, actually teaching history. We’re in one of our best units yet, our Civil Rights unit, and my students could not be bothered.

15 school days of waking up at 5:45 AM so I can get to work on time.

15 school days of simply surviving.

Nothing’s changed with my dad. We argue, we still can’t agree with everything, and any choice I make in my life to him will never the one he wants…the one that will make him happy for me. I go to my parents’ house on Sunday, have lunch, make small talk, and go home. It’s just a routine, really, at this point.

For a brief while in late February, I thought I had a glimmer of hope with a guy I had started seeing. He seemed too good to be true; a bonafide Southern gentleman who took care of me, who didn’t see my faith or my anxiety/depression (and pelvic issues) as a detriment…someone who actually wanted to be seen with me in public. His communication skills were excellent, he took me on dates that I enjoyed, he sent me gorgeous flowers and encouraging texts whenever I was having a bad day…

He thought I was beautiful.

And for someone who has rarely been told she’s beautiful, for someone who struggles so much with her appearance and self-worth…who has dated men who make her feel like she is nothing…who has been with men who only viewed her as a one night stand, rather than commitment worthy…

For the entire month of March, he let me feel like I was his everything.

And the best thing of this man was that, even though there were some ideological differences, we had so much more in common, that I truly believed we could have made it work, as long as we were willing to put in effort.

Then, spring break came along…I was off from work, he wasn’t. He had, so he claimed, some busier days at work due to a coworker being out sick, and wasn’t able to go out with me as much. He still texted me, and I returned his messages…until I started to feel that my return messages were overwhelming him. 

So, I gave him space and took a day to not to respond to his messages so he wouldn’t feel like I was being a bother.

When I finally broke my silence and explained to him how I was feeling…he chose to ignore me.

Eventually, we talked it out and I apologized. I thought we were okay; we spent the next week after spring break exchanging messages and planning dates once more.

Until the first Friday in April when I left work with a break-up text from him…explaining that yes, I had been annoying him with messages before I took my voluntary space. Furthermore, he didn’t appreciate the passive aggressiveness of the space I gave him, even though, clearly, he was already bothered by my texts!

There was no way of winning this argument. Either way, in his eyes, I’d messed up. There was no redemption. My texts annoyed him, even though he never actually told me this, and my way of trying to take space also annoyed him. He also claimed that my political ideologies bothered him, but this had already been addressed when we started dating. I never hid my beliefs from him, so I didn’t appreciate him using it as more ammunition to dump me. 

I, however, reminded him that I had forgiven him for some awful comments he’d made at my expense…especially one about my race…but yet, he couldn’t forgive me for texting him too much when I wasn’t even aware of it…or for trying to give him space.

So, that was it with the seemingly perfect Southern gentleman. We haven’t spoken in over a month, I’m sure he’s moved on with someone who can, I guess (and hopefully) read his mind…and someone whose race he’s not bothered by. I’ve gone on a few dates here and there…but truly, this encounter has made me realize that no matter who I find, no matter what I do…

I’m still scared to fall in love again. 

I’m mortified to make a mistake if I do date, because my mistake will end up not being forgiven.

I’m worried that I’ll meet another guy who will not want to meet my father, accept my belief system, or use my health concerns against me. 

I keep telling myself…maybe I shouldn’t date anymore. I ask myself every day…

Isn’t it just easier, then, to live my life on my own? Is it easier? Or am I giving up? Am I settling?

My thoughts are always offered up to God. Sometimes, though, it’s difficult to let God take over…I do have my moments where I wrestle with my faith, but I know He’s protecting and looking out for me. Ultimately, my life is His will. 

I would hope I’m not settling if I opt to live this life on my own. Settling would be choosing to be with a man for the sake of being with a man…not because he’s a man who makes my soul happy, respects my belief system, and checks all the “boxes” of what I’m looking for in a relationship.

At least I’m not as lonely as I was in July.

I adopted two cats who were in need of a home, and even though the tortoiseshell female, named Mamie (after President Eisenhower’s wife) is legitimately psychotic, she and her furry black haired brother, Ike (named after Eisenhower himself), have brought so much love into my heart again. I don’t feel as empty when I get home, knowing that they are waiting for me to be with them. Just this morning, I woke up with Ike, safely cuddled away in my arms, enjoying the fact that his “mama” was able to sleep in with him after an especially long and exhausting work week.

The love from these two cats may not be the type of love I’m hoping and praying for, but it’s love nonetheless, and I’m blessed they came into my life when I was really struggling back in July. 

And as for my friend who fell off the face of the earth?

Well, for reasons still unknown, he decided to come back to the planet.

On Christmas Eve, I went to mass with my family. I remember kneeling on the pew and adoring the altar, decorated with fresh red and white poinsettias…and the offertory candles lit and luminous…

(Christmas is always my favorite time of year at church, not Easter. I chalk it up to being born in December; the Advent season is always so special to me for that reason, especially when the church is decorated and prepared for the birth of our Savior). 

I started my prayers and thought of my friend and his daughter.

How the previous year, we’d been on speaking terms and I’d sent them Christmas gifts…

Oh, how things can change in a year, I thought, as I prayed and prepared my heart for a Christmas without being able to wish them good tidings and cheer. I wondered how they were celebrating Christmas that year and hoped they were doing well. I was focused so much on my thoughts and the beautiful altar that I didn’t even notice I’d started crying during my prayers. 

I composed myself, wiped away my tears, and ended my prayers with a sign of the cross. I sat back in the pew and smiled at my family…because in that moment, despite my tensions with my father…I was with them, we were together and at peace, and I wasn’t alone.

We all spent Christmas Day as a family as well. I came over to my parents’ house armed with Starbucks iced coffees for myself and my sister, and the last few gifts I’d needed to wrap. My mama and I made breakfast tacos, we prayed a rosary as a a family after we ate, and then we exchanged gifts. I sent text messages all morning to all of my friends, but not to him, and truly had a joyous and blessed day. I went home that same night so Ike and Mamie weren’t alone, put my new Christmas gifts away, and settled in for the evening.

Then - a familiar, but unsaved number appeared in my iMessage app.

A simple “Merry Christmas.”

From him.

I was texting my friend Julie on and off that day and I told her what message I’d received.

She advised me not to text him back. To just enjoy whatever remained of my Christmas with the people who actually, you know, wanted to stay in my life. 

But, I didn’t want to be a jerk. I returned his text with the same energy - two words. 

Merry Christmas. 

I didn’t hear anything from him for a few days and then he reached out again. We chatted casually on and off about what we’d been up to over the year; apparently, he and his daughter had also adopted a cat, so of course, I had to tell him all about Ike and Mamie. By that Saturday, he’d asked if we could grab lunch…the three of us…and I agreed.

Lunch started a little awkward, but his daughter was happy to see me (and vice versa). We then grabbed some ice cream and conversation kept flowing. The tension started to melt. It felt as though an entire year hadn’t even passed since the last time we’d spoken. When we parted, he explained why he’d ghosted…that he didn’t like that I’d called him out on him standing me up last minute when we were supposed to hang out…in January…that I’d come off as “bitchy.” I offered my rebuttal - when you’re not given any indication on the day we’d planned to get together that you couldn’t make it…and you’re the one who had to reach out to ask if everything was okay…only to find out that the reason he stood me up was because he didn’t feel like driving out…of course I’d come off as “bitchy.”

He apologized, and I did too, if my frustration had been perceived as bitchiness - however, I then asked him:

Why now, why after a year?

And to this day, I still never received a clear answer.

We’re back to our routine; we hang out, we grab lunch or dinner, we have a nice time. I feel though, like I’m still the one making the effort to reach out/text more and make the plans. Before he’d ghosted, he’d been more diligent in coordinating our hang outs and I also feel like he’d been more communicative via text. 

I’m grateful and happy we’re friends again. I truly am. But right now, I am also still wondering what his motivation was in coming back after a year. If you recall from my July post…I was perfectly fine with his choice to forget about me. It wasn’t easy processing the fact that he decided to cut me off, but I spent the entire part of 2023 embracing my life with my friends who accept me…all of me…and my shortcomings. Not a day went by in 2023 when I didn’t think of him and his daughter, especially, praying that she didn’t think I just forgot about her. So to have him come back, and still not clarify and be honest about why he chose to come back…is so confusing. I don’t want to ask him or push the issue because I’m scared that’ll be license for him to walk away again.

Part of me has been living with a fear since his return that he’ll ghost me once more and I don’t want to lose them a second time. Oddly enough, despite the way we ended in 2021, he has become a dear friend, and his daughter means the world to me. He’s in my life for some reason, and although I may not know why, I do know that God put him, and his daughter, in my life (and God keeps having them come back into my life so I pray that they stay in my life) for good. I pray that we continue to be friends…that we don’t let pettiness, communication struggles, and potential significant others, get in the way of our strange, but fruitful, friendship. I just hope he’s able to make the same efforts that I do so we can continue to cultivate our friendship in the years to come. 

So, life is pretty much the same as it was before July. He’s back, my dad and I can’t get along, and teaching is still stressing me out. But at least, over the course of the year, I made some new friends at work, I’ve kept true to my faith, I’ve adopted two little furry friends who bring me a joy I’ve never known, and on a brighter note:

My passport was renewed, and Lisa and I, along with one of our amazing friends from school, Michelle, are about to embark on the most epic trip of our lives.

We’re going to Europe, and I’m going to be in Normandy, France for the 80th Anniversary of the D-Day landings this summer. My bucket list item…the one that I dreamed would happen with a husband by my side…is finally being fulfilled in a way I never expected…

And like I always say, God works in mysterious ways, so I wouldn’t now want this bucket list item planned out in any other fashion. Husband who? Going to Normandy with Lisa and Michelle is how He has made my bucket list item come true, so…

Stay tuned, because I pray that while I’m in France, my joy of learning and teaching history will revive itself…and I can find momentum to truly continue my career, as well as this blog, for good.

Brace yourselves and be ready for the insanely nerdy historical posts! 

many happy returns…

-kate. 

my star is fading.

You would think that even with a slightly better school year, a group of 7th graders who show improved behavior compared to last year’s students, and the fact that I’m only teaching one subject would have reassured me yes, I want to stay teaching for the long term.

My last post was all about making this year my ‘year of grace.’ I was optimistic that this year would erase the negative feelings I had towards teaching during a pandemic for the past year and a half. I was hopeful that my new school and supportive administrators would enable me to enjoy being an educator once more.

I’m sorry to say that my year of grace - and we’re not even at the half way point yet - isn’t shaping out the way I prayed it would. I’ve found myself browsing at federal jobs, applying for contracting jobs, and considering going back to school, if only for a little while, to obtain a certificate in technical writing. I still have no energy to stay after school and offer tutoring to my students, stick around to support them in their sports and fine arts activities, and hang out with my friends.

My goal at the end of my school day is to get home, curl up in bed with my laptop ready to stream a favorite show (more than likely Downton Abbey or King of the Hill), enjoy a Dr. Pepper (the soda fix has been insane lately, much to my closet’s dismay…I’ve gained a few pounds), finish my daily prayers (at least my faith is still strong), take my medications, and go to bed. If I’m in bed by 8:30, I call it a success. 9 PM is pushing it…9:30 PM is late for me. 

I find myself unwilling to get out of bed in the morning, even if I have been going to bed earlier. I can hear my mind telling my body ‘no’ and I end up sleeping through my alarms. 

I am sure most of my lack of energy is due to my past medical diagnoses. I still haven’t figured out physical therapy (it’s rare to find someone who specializes in pelvic floor therapy nearby to where I live), a biopsy I had over the summer only left me in more pelvic pain, and I’m finding it difficult to complete simple chores around the house because of how much pressure the bending and kneeling (example: cleaning the bathroom) places on my pelvis. I still get my chores done, but I’m in a lot of pain afterwards.

I know I need to try to get some exercise in - yoga has been recommended to me as it doesn’t place as much pressure on the pelvic floor - but once I’m home, having been on my feet most of the day at work…exercise is the last thing I want to do.

I have no energy to be the best for myself because I exert most of it at work. I want to be the best I can for my students…but even then, I find myself struggling to give them my best.

Then I factor in my personal life, and oh dear lord, I really just do not feel like trying anymore. 

I feel like I’ve lost any sense of who I thought I was. I truly believed turning thirty was going to be a wonderful year of growth, happiness, and settling down…and it wasn’t.

My thirtieth trip around the sun was spent with too many medical visits, questionable dating choices, arguments with my dad about my dating choices, and an extreme amount of doubting of my career. If I hadn’t been holding onto my faith, I know I’d be feeling even worse about how this year went. 

A couple of months ago, I had one particularly terrible week that started with a Sunday visit to my parents’ house. I found out from my father that a family they know at our church recently hosted a wedding. The eldest son of the family just got married and we found out that the bride was not even Christian, let alone Catholic. I was surprised when my mother told me this, because I thought, based on how devoutly Catholic this family is, that the groom would have married a Catholic girl.

This discovery then caused me to wonder…if this family can accept a non-Catholic/Christian daughter-in-law…why can’t my father accept a non-Catholic/Christian son-in-law? I proposed this question to my mother.

We decided to have this discussion away from my father’s ears. What started as an honest and calm discussion led me to burst into tears, not in anger (and not directed at my mother) and tell her that I am honestly scared to date and fall in love again because I could not bear to:

#1 - lose my relationship with my father over my choice of husband, should he turn out not to be Catholic.

#2 - have someone leave me again because my father would not want to maintain a relationship with a potentially non-Catholic (or Christian, even) son-in-law. 

While I was able to get past a good guy breaking it off for me for this reason last summer (as he claimed at the time of the break-up), and eventually become friends with him, I do not wish to have someone else provide this as a reason to not pursue a relationship with me, as a choice of my father’s is something that is 100% out of my control. 

It took me awhile to get myself together and drive home after that conversation. My mother checked in with me all week, but I knew that mentally, I was struggling. I had paused on seeing a therapist while I was recovering and going to a chiropractor after my car accident last year…but this break down helped me realize it was time, at least, to restart my mental health care journey.

I asked my friend for the contact information of her daughter’s therapist and before I knew it, I was signed up for my first session to see if we would “fit.” Thank God we did; I’ve had four sessions with her now, and while I’m still struggling, she’s been giving me some amazing coping strategies. Most importantly, she’s been reassuring me that I’ve come a long way since my initial start with mental health care three years ago (wow!)…and that I should be happy with the progress I’ve already made (even if there are days where I feel like I haven’t made any progress).

I turned thirty-one just this past week. While it wasn’t as festive and fun as my thirtieth birthday celebrations were, I’m relieved that as I started this new trip around the sun, I’m aware that I’m struggling with my life choices and where I’d like to be in my life right now. At least I’m trying to start some sort of recovery and plan by resuming therapy. At least I know that I have a fear of dating and falling in love again - even though having a marriage and my own family is something I’ve always prioritized. It’s not immediate progress, but it’s progress nonetheless, and I’m sure I’ll have some setbacks as I continue to make progress. 

I’m empty. I’m faking it for all it’s worth right now at school, and my coworkers don’t suspect anything…but I know I’m not myself anymore.

I’m not the feminine, constantly in a dress, perfectly coiffed girl I was always noted to be the past few years - as much as I adore putting on makeup and wearing heels and stockings, even during the winter.

I’m not someone who is willing to open her heart, wax poetic about literature and history, and immediately fall in love with the first handsome history nerd she encounters.

I’m not the optimistic, bright eyed, history loving educator, that I started my teaching career as, five years ago.

Right now, I don’t have any semblance as to who I am, and that scares me…but I’m hoping this first small step of progress with my therapist (and being able to recognize my struggle) will help me gain momentum once more.

Like that Aesop’s fable about the tortoise and the hare…

I’m the tortoise and right now, I must echo his mentality: 

Slow and steady will win the race.

God willing, I pray.

many happy returns (and a blessed and merry Christmas)

-kate.

in three days i'll be out of here (& not a day too soon)

Hello dear readers,

I remember when I received an offer to transfer to a different middle school just this past February. I had been incredibly frustrated with administration problems and was, to be honest, tired of having to work in the same building as my ex-boyfriend. Two years of no conversation, icy and judgmental stares from his end, and inappropriate gossip (also from his end) that had been spread to the staff (luckily, no one believed his story) was enough for me to say I’m out

A new middle school was projected to open in the county I teach in for the 2021-2022 school year. I submitted my application for transfer, and soon enough, I was asked to interview for a history position. The interview, really, felt more like an easy conversation - when I was asked to discuss about a proud moment as a teacher, I excitedly talked about Lisa and I taking our History Club in the fall of 2019 to lay a wreath at Arlington National Cemetery’s Tomb of the Unknown Soldier - and the next day, I received an offer from HR to teach combined 7th grade US History II and Language Arts. 

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the split curriculum, as I believed I was interviewing only for a history position (Language Arts, of course, is my second passion). My mom encouraged me reach out to the principal and ask about the split position before I decided. He was extremely gracious and full of helpful answers, and with his promise that once enrollment numbers increased the second year the school was open that I would only teach history, I gladly accepted the offer! Lisa also interviewed and received an offer. As nervous as I was at the idea of moving to a new school and having to begin again, I knew that having a fresh start would be (of course) challenging, but welcomed. Since it was a new school, every staff member would be no better or worse off than me - we were all at square one. At least I knew Lisa would still be by my side!

I shared my good news to my colleagues once my acceptance became official on my new school’s Twitter feed. I was thrilled to finally say, after two years of trying to make it happen: I’m leaving. What a mic-drop worthy moment that was when I told administration about my plans for the new school year!

As the final months of my term dwindled, I started feeling more bittersweet about my decision. My colleagues, even teachers whom I rarely encountered on a daily basis, stopped by my room and told me how much I was going to be missed. And their well-wishes sounded genuine, you know? They weren’t the generic oh, good luck to you, we’ll miss you messages. I didn’t think I’d made that much of an impact at my school (administration not appreciating my efforts made me truly believe I was replaceable), but based by how many people were taking time out of their day to stop by and say something kind...I guess I was mistaken. The fact that, during the Year of COVID, they risked social distancing to visit my classroom and tell me that my presence...my cheerful demeanor, sparkling and optimistic eyes (yes, this was verbatim commentary from a colleague!) and never-fading smile...was going to truly be missed. 

If they only knew how much I faked that smile during most of the school day. These colleagues, making these lovely comments, were definitely not teachers who were close enough to me to know about my struggles with anxiety and depression...and the fact that I still see a therapist. 

I, however, simply smiled back and thanked each person who came by to spread some positive vibes.

My history nerd team (Lisa, and our “work dad,” Keith - we kept our fourth Musketeer, Thomas, in the loop through group chat while he was on active duty this past year) knew the truth behind my fake smile and positive demeanor - they were aware of my more personal reasons to transfer. Lisa, of course, was also saddened at leaving our school, but her reasons were not fueled by a broken heart. She had more reason to be frustrated by the administration than me. She wasn’t quite as torn up by the transfer, then, as I was. 

Keith was devastated that “his girls” were seeking greener pastures, but both he and Thomas were thrilled that a better change had been bestowed on us. Lisa and I were going to miss Keith terribly - he was, really, the main reason we didn’t want to leave, so we decided to get him a “parting” gift (as if he could quit us; he lives in Lisa’s neighborhood and I saw him quite a few times this summer). Keith, though, because he is probably the sweetest person in existence, had a similar thought and gave us parting gifts on the last day of school.

Lisa: I’m not crying, you’re crying!

The prospect of leaving my ex behind, for good, certainly outweighed all the emotions I was feeling about saying goodbye to the school I started my career at - it was time to move on with my life. 

I remember I made a Spotify playlist, filled with songs about farewells and accepting change (and accepting our past mistakes) a couple of days after I accepted the offer - when it truly hit me that I was leaving! One song particularly resonated with my feelings after I had processed my new life change - (so much in that the lyrics are the title of this post) - Supergrass’s underrated hit, “St. Petersburg,” from their 2005 album, Road to Rouen. I added the song to the playlist, and once a day, during my drive to work, I listened to it, relating more and more to the lyrics as the time came closer for me to say goodbye to my final year at that school.

I mean, when I accepted the new position, it was more like in one hundred days I’ll be out of here, but hey! It was the sentiment of the song - and not a day too soon - that I could identify with. Three days, a hundred days...it didn’t matter. It was time to go as soon as my contract ended. 

June 8th, 2021 - three days before my last school day on the 11th - you bet I blasted “St. Petersburg” during my morning commute. My three day mark had finally arrived.

But if I could’ve left on that three day mark, I totally would have

I spent all summer, trying to fall in love again (and failing miserably - and I am not surprised), visiting my friends, cat sitting Patton, Pershing, and Millie whenever my parents went out of town, getting interior improvements done at my house, eating all the ice cream at my local ice cream place, in and out of the hospital and many doctor’s offices for follow-up appointments, teaching summer school (ca$h $$$), going to a post-COVID concert (Green Day and Weezer with Lisa...could it get any better? Rivers Cuomo, is the man, by the way!), growing closer with God and reading more scripture, and daydreaming about my first day I’d be allowed to set up my literally sparkling brand-new classroom. 

That day finally arrived a couple of weeks ago on Monday August 9th.

And it still smelled brand-new as I eyed every empty wall - a blank canvas just waiting for me transform into art...so I could make it my cozy home away from home. Out came all my history and literature posters from storage, many many Command poster strips, pocket laminator, glue gun, and my trusty Cricut, armed with fresh rolls of vinyl and my amazing collection of cardstock. I went in to school, before the work week started, to begin my decorating. My mom even came in with me one day to help me organize all the supplies she’d gifted me after she retired from teaching at the end of the COVID school year. She was so impressed by the state-of-the-art building and technology. You could see the pride in her eyes - my daughter gets to cultivate her career here - as we walked around the school. It felt amazing (and reassuring) that at least one of my parents is genuinely thrilled with the life choices I have made so far. 

I promised myself, after the guy from the previous post left me, that I would (as I usually did after a heartbreak) dedicate my energies even more to my career.  What did he matter, really, I kept asking myself as I lovingly arranged each poster to the walls. He can go ahead and hate me, I said, as I tacked twinkle lights to one of my dry erase boards to make it look more festive. Let him be happy with someone who can give him what he wants, I repeated out loud as I ran Cricut project after Cricut project with my MacBook. My true love of teaching and learning had never abandoned me - it shaped me into the weird and awkward girl I am now, and I’m not ashamed. I hope, should I ever fall in love again, that the man I meet will understand that my passion and heart truly do belong to teaching. I felt safe, once again, ensconced my little classroom corner of the world, ready to embark on my fresh start. I deserved a fresh start, and there it was, literally staring me back in my face in the form of a newly constructed classroom. 

Desks and chairs have been arranged, my technology has been plugged in, (my new docking station is incredible) although I’m still waiting for my new SMART Board to be configured by our IT guy, the teacher work week ended just this past Friday with so much food (seriously, a breakfast or lunch was provided every day!), new school swag (I lost count of how many t-shirts I was given), tons of positive energy, and, of course, socialization with my new colleagues (although, I will admit, I have stayed by Lisa’s side throughout the entire time...she also, like Keith, can’t quit me), and most importantly, my classroom is ready for my new students. 

My anxiety is rising, only because it has been a long time since I’ve actually, you know “teachered.” I haven’t been in front of more than six students in a physical classroom since March of 2020. What is classroom management now in a post-Zoom only world, I ask you? Nervous is an understatement, but I met some of my students and their families at our Welcome Back event during the work week. I loved seeing the excitement and joy in their eyes at the prospect of returning to a regular school year...especially in such a stunning new building. 

So, yeah. I’m nervous, but in the best way possible. 

This is God’s plan, unfolding right before my eyes. Maybe I still don’t get to have the opportunity to fall in love and start my family. Having the chance to open a new school, with my best friend at my side, teaching my favorite topics, and working for an administration who truly treats us like a family? I can’t take my life for granted right now. Sure, like I said last time, the shoe dropped in my love life when he finally decided to leave me. Maybe this new school thing is too good to be true, but then again, would God really drop another shoe and want me to be unhappy in both my personal and professional life? Can we really have it all?

I’d like to hold onto hope that one day, I can have a fair balance of a fulfilled personal and professional life. Sacrifices must always be made, but I know I’m willing to be flexible should I have to choose having a family over my career. A supportive husband, though, would allow me to have both, if I truly wanted to be a working mother. For now, I don’t have to think of that possibility. I’m a long way from a marriage, let alone having a child. I get to focus on being the best version of me. I will continue to fight my anxiety and depression waves. I will nurture my teaching career. I will regain my strength, get more answers to my fertility questions, and start my physical therapy in September so I can have more energy to be on my feet all day and fit in exercise. I will, most importantly, strengthen my relationship with my faith and take care of myself

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It’s about time I finally fulfill that last promise. 

Be ready to see this history nerd in action - my post featuring my first week (& classroom pictures, but you get a sneak peek of my door - sponsored by Cricut - today) is coming...as well as a reflection on how I feel about teaching Language Arts again. Click on this Twitter link (or my Instagram) and follow my new adventures there too!

Many happy returns,

-Kate


nobody said it was easy.

Hello dear readers,

I can’t believe I promised I’d return to updating this website over a year ago...only to have failed in doing so. I will say, COVID knocked the momentum out of me. I spent the rest of the summer getting the most technical I ever had in my teaching career...as I knew I was going to be faced with the challenge of virtual teaching come September of 2020. I focused on teaching virtual summer school and learning about every single new online platform that could be used to (hopefully) keep my students engaged. I think I’ve had enough of Zoom for my lifetime, but based on what I’ve been hearing for the 2021-2022 school year...Zoom is not going away from the classroom just quite yet. Ay.

All my school days (before, during, and after our contract hours of 8 AM to 3 PM) and my weekends were either spent in virtual Collaborative Learning Teams (CLT) with my fellow history teachers (oy, did our ‘off the record’ meetings we had at each other’s houses get snarky…and filled with so many expletives), trying to do lesson plans and create assessments, converting PowerPoints into read aloud videos for our hard-of-hearing/Special Education/English Language Learner students, figuring out fillable fields in Microsoft Word for the students to have access to guided notes (not that they did the guided notes, but hey, the resources were there!), becoming a super expert with our “love it, but hate it at the same time” learning management system (LMS) - Canvas (oh, how I wanted to try Google Classroom), and going so far as to purchase a Nearpod Gold subscription to have more storage space for my history lessons to be converted into fun and interactive activities (I was reimbursed when my county purchased a District subscription for all teachers…$120 later…)

Wow. Okay, so Reader’s Digest version - I had the hardest school year to face, and therefore, did not have the energy to update this website...my labor of love...but let’s be honest, the stories of my forays into virtual teaching, and the many, many failures and successes I had, would have been excellent fodder for history-nerd.com (side note: you can follow bite sized offerings of my teaching escapades at my teacher Twitter account).

Anyways. Hi! I’m alive, I’ve taken a deep breath, I’m getting actual sleep, I took a vacation over a year later (what up, Kentucky?), I’m still in therapy (much needed during the Year of COVID), and I bought a townhome! I’m adulting, as you call it, and I think I’m handling it as gracefully as God will allow. 

I took another adulting risk, and started to date (as much as the Year of COVID would let me). When things started to open up, I went out on some dates, here and there, usually for coffee or a craft beer. None of the dates manifested into anything meaningful...until just this past May as I was finishing off this crazy school year. 

Honestly, I thought the guy I was scheduled to go out with would be like my past dates - he wouldn’t follow up, he’d forget my number, I’d shake it off (no loss there) and choose to either go out with someone else...or not. I remember us making plans and I was so nonchalant about the date, that all I focused on was what kind of food the restaurant had to offer. My work wife, Lisa, and I perused the menu together one day after school. We were impressed that for dessert, the restaurant had homemade Belgian waffles.

So Lisa was like:

“Well, if the date’s a dud, make sure you order a Belgian waffle (to go), and hey! You get a waffle out of it and we at least will have a new place to hang out and grab dessert together after a long school day!”

With the waffle mentality in mind, I bravely went out to dinner with the guy and again, kept reminding myself - it’s not a big deal if it doesn’t work out.

I remember seeing him, sitting in front of the restaurant, waiting for me. I remember thinking oh shit. He’s even more gorgeous in person than he was on his dating profile. His bluish green eyes beamed at me and he gave me the slightest, but sweetest smile as we introduced ourselves.

And so, I thought, once more unto the breach, as I followed him into the restaurant.

Like any first date, there’s always the awkward eye contact and questioning of what to ask and say. My other work bestie, Cymone, had advised that I be frank and ask just what it was he was looking for, but of course, I was too nervous to even bring it up. In due time, I thought. It’s only the first date. We ordered beers and meals - he, a salad of sorts, and me, the idiot, asking for a pound and a half of mussels (after that date, he still made fun of my, um, eclectic order because he had to help me finish the lot). 

Conversation progressed when he asked me about the tattoo on my forearm. I could feel the smile grow on my face at the question - telling people about my tattoo is one of my favorite things to talk about. Two years ago, after my breakup and I was at my lowest mentally, I went to New York to visit my best friend Jessica, when she was working at Syracuse University. During my trip, we decided to get tattoos, and although I thought I’d never get one in my life time - I just knew I needed something to remind myself of my dear departed maternal grandma, Micaela. She always told me que le vaya bien (translates to: “I wish you well” or “all will be well”) whenever we would part after a visit, and I remember always feeling comforted by her smile and lovely, encouraging words. I obtained a handwriting sample and my tattoo artist was able to recreate the phrase on my forearm in her beautiful script. 

My parents were livid after I got the tattoo, and said I’d come to regret “defiling” my body...but to this day, I grin every time I see it, because I’m reminded of my grandma. She was practically an earthly angel, and I am always reassured, that even when the darkness sets in and my anxiety and depression are heightening, things will be better knowing that her spirit and words are inked on my body. Telling this guy such a meaningful and personal story was so easy to do, and then I asked him about his tattoos. He told me about getting his half sleeve, in particular, when he was stationed with the Navy in Japan, but I couldn’t help and admire his commitment to the great state of Texas - he’d had it tattooed on his other arm (when we’d matched, we’d discovered our Texas ties and things went from there). 

His time in Japan helped us start another conversation - we began to talk about (of all things) World War II and the Pacific Theater. I remember mentioning that I wanted to visit the islands of all the Pacific battles and that I enjoyed reading E.B. Sledge’s memoir of his time in Peleliu and Okinawa - With the Old Breed (this work would help form the script for the HBO mini series The Pacific)...and that’s when he looked at me, in astonishment. He was surprised that I had read Sledge’s memoir. 

I think that’s when I knew I wanted a second date with him.

(I told Lisa the next day that I didn’t need or want to take home a waffle when she asked me how the date went).

We finished the damned mussels and he asked if I wanted to walk around the waterfront area the restaurant was located by. I agreed and we, again, fell into an easy conversation. It was rather chilly that night, so we didn’t get to walk around as much as I’d hoped. Then, all of a sudden, he told me I had something stuck on my face and, to my surprise, took his hand and gently brushed the offending item off of my cheek. I pretended not to feel the blush creep across my skin (or the butterflies that fluttered dangerously in my stomach). 

We said our goodbyes and I prayed to God that he would follow up with me. I wanted him to follow up with me. Knowing my luck, however, I thought he wouldn’t. Unlike the previous dates I’d had with no follow up text, for the first time, I knew I would be disappointed if he didn’t ask to see me again.

Luckily, he did follow up the next day. 

We went from there - dates every week. He was sweet, kind, intelligent, and funny. Steady head on his shoulders. Admitted to some baggage early on in the dating stages - of which I respected the hell out of him for being honest with me. He, in turn, respected me when I wasn’t quite ready to make the dating um, more intimate, if you will.

I didn’t want to read into things. I didn’t want to destroy the rapport we’d been building. I was hesitant to ask him very personal questions (like about his previous marriage) because I didn’t want him to think I was being too invasive. So, I focused on his actions and words - that he seemed to want to be taking things seriously between us. I didn’t ask him if he was dating other women, but I reminded myself that there was a possibility. I was perfectly fine with that, although I wish he had been more honest about how many women he was seeing alongside myself. I simply wanted to enjoy dating him, but with each date that passed, I found myself hoping that he would want to become my boyfriend.

We had a couple of blips along the road - especially one that happened just this past week. We parted on a Friday with the understanding that he was having a boy’s weekend with one of his good friends. I decided to peace off to Richmond and have a solo date; I went to my favorite craft breweries and carefully enjoyed drinking my beloved fruited sours at The Answer and The Veil. I texted him once, showing a picture of my beers, but ultimately, stayed aloof and respected his man time. I came home, blissfully exhausted, and then...the following morning, after I’d woken up and taken a shower before going to Sunday Mass, I saw that he’d texted me.

Only it wasn’t a sweet, good morning, how are you message (not that he ever sent any of those over the course of our “relationship”).

It was a picture attachment, of him, in full lip lock with a girl who wasn’t me - a girl who, of course, looked lovelier than I could ever dream to be. All my anxieties of my appearance (and how my ex always made fun of me about how I looked), that I had worked so hard to rid my mind of with my therapist, returned and slapped me in the face with that horrible picture. The girl had long hair, unlike me, who has still stubbornly kept it short (my ex always despised my shorter locks). Smooth complexion, excellent makeup application, and really, had an aura about her that she just looked like she knew she was sexy…and the look on his face in the picture seemed to think she was too.

I only received the picture. No other context. No words saying: hey, I’m out, I’ve found someone better than you.

I texted him back: “Umm...nice to know you think I’m a joke...goodbye.”

I angrily ranted to my friends, cried my heart out at Mass, and after grabbing a coffee pick-me-up at Starbucks on my way home, finally received a text message back.

He replied: “?”

I sent him the screenshot of the picture, telling him about the “lovely” message I received from him that morning. He didn’t respond; not right away. I went to bed early, exhausted and emotionally drained. I forced myself out of bed the next day. I went on a run to clear my head, ran some morning errands, and still, no response from him. 

Finally, he replied: “I know it doesn’t matter now, but I do care about you, I don’t think you’re a joke, and I’m truly sorry. I still had my stuff at my old house where my ex still lives and I went there to get stuff, she somehow got into my phone and sent a photo, then deleted the message,” followed by a “bye.” 

I’d written him off, without an explanation, so he caved in and respected my goodbyes.

We ended up talking it out (despite the warnings from my friends who still, to this day, think he was lying to me - they believed there was no boy’s weekend and that he’d hooked up with her…and honestly, I now think he was also lying to me, but whatever) and things seemed to be fine again. I wanted to trust him. I was tired of my distrust in every man I encountered after my ex.

I kept reminding myself: He was not my ex. It wasn’t fair of me to compare him to my ex. 

And just when I thought everything between us was going to be okay...two days later (I won’t go into details), I received a medical diagnosis (no illnesses though, just some physical therapy!) that unfortunately, would cause some delays in our relationship becoming more intimate. I wasn’t happy about the diagnosis, as it only continued to remind me about the fertility struggles my body seemed to be going through lately, even before I met this guy. I wasn’t reassured with this news, because everyone who knows me is aware of how much I value motherhood. I’ve always wanted to have a family and bring life into this world. I’ve wanted to be called mother for a long time now. If I’m not able to work through this diagnosis, my chances of physically being able to become a mother are slim to none.

My doctor saw the worry etched on my face and tried to placate me - that the physical therapy would work and I would be on the mend by the early fall, but I remember driving home that day, heartbroken that God seemed to be trying to tell me you’re never going to be a mother…this is my plan for you, this is your agony in the garden, and you must feel this suffering now in order to accept my word and my will - with this new diagnosis.

I also wondered how the hell I was going to tell him about my diagnosis, but I knew it had to be soon, at least to quell my anxieties if he decided to leave me. The sooner, the better…am I right? I knew I had to be honest with him, even if it meant losing him for good.

So that evening, I called him and broke the news. I asked where he was feeling about us becoming exclusive - I knew, realistically, I would be even more heartbroken knowing he was with other girls while I recovered and completed physical therapy. He hesitated and said he wasn’t sure where we stood...and that he would call me. He hastily hung up and I started to worry as to when (rather if) he would call me.

Two days later, I was admitted into the ER, suffering from intense pelvic spasms, to the point where I could barely move or get up from my sofa. As I laid in the sterile hospital bed, waiting for test results and not mentally coherent because of the pain killers I was hooked up on, I realized I couldn’t wait for him to call.

So I texted him, wishing him well and hoping all the best for him. I said a resolute goodbye, with the painful realization that I had to let him, my glimmer of hope after two years of not letting anyone into my heart, go. If this sounds dramatic, well, it’s true. Ask my friends. Ask my sister. Ask my mother. The last two years of bitterness, of wondering why I wasn’t good enough for someone (therapy, of course has helped me process), were difficult. Then this wonderful man just comes in and…I panicked. I kept pushing him away, just waiting for the next proverbial shoe to drop. But the thing is, he kept staying, and I struggled to comprehend that he was staying. I’m used to the men I’m dating walking away from me. And despite the setbacks we had, up until this point, he hadn’t walked away yet.

He followed my cues, replied to my text, and said goodbye too.

My next proverbial shoe decided to drop.

This time, he finally decided to walk away.

(Not once has he bothered to at least ask me if I’m okay, or if I’m feeling better, or has sent well-wishes for a good recovery - he walked away with no emotion, feeling, or compassion…just very cold, abrupt, and clinical).

If you’re curious, my dear readers, I am improving with my physical health. The pains have mostly subsided (they are reoccurring, but not as bad as they were since the ER visit) and I’ll be starting physical therapy once the clinic is able to make an appointment for me, as they are not ready to see new patients for a few weeks. My friends and family have been reaching out to me every day since I was released from the hospital and he walked out of my life, asking me if I’m feeling okay. 

Again, physically, yes. I am. I know I will be feeling even better whenever I start the physical therapy. Here’s hoping I’m stronger by the beginning of the school year, because the pains really are starting to impact my day-to-day life.

Mentally and emotionally? Well, it all comes in waves. I will admit, there are moments I am worried my depression may eclipse my anxiety, but to be honest, I feel stronger than I was during the last break up because I am 110% aware that I cannot blame myself for the end of this. It’s a diagnosis out of my control. How can I blame myself for this man leaving me for a diagnosis I surely didn’t want? So I know I’m being truthful with my friends and family when they are like, “Are you sure you’re okay?” after I reassure them that I am.

(But please remember, it’s okay to not be okay! Ask for help when you feel you’re drowning - I know I’m always a phone call, email, or text away!)

Look, if this was the 2019 version of me dealing with this relationship, I would be crying my heart out every day, refusing to leave the safety of my bed, wondering why I wasn’t beautiful, smart, sexy or whatever enough to get this guy to stay with me - to want to be my boyfriend. I would be calling this guy every nasty word in the dictionary (and every other synonym for those words in the thesaurus) wishing him ill will, and wanting him to be miserable.

I will admit, there are days where I am angry with him for: not caring about the pain I’ve been in, letting his ex-girlfriend throw their continued relationship in my face with that picture, writing me off like if I was the one who continually hurt him and broke his heart

And, of course, for wasting my time. For getting my hopes up and dreaming of a relationship. For taking away the opportunity of falling in love, getting married, and having a family - something that I’ve never had and that he’s already received once in this lifetime.

But I learned, if you remember from my previous post, forgiveness is the key to mental and emotional healing.

So the 2021 version of me knows that I need to forgive and try to see some good in this guy, despite his decision to leave me due to something out of my control…in order at least give myself peace of mind. He and I clearly want different things. We prioritize different things. Part of me wishes that he would just realize, hey, she’s wonderful enough to be in a relationship with…who else will I ever meet that would have read ‘With the Old Breed’...that commitment can be a thing…she’s good enough to wait around for while she recovers...and, in the wise words of my grandma Micaela, all would be well

Realistically, a bigger part of me knows that no one, not even me, could truly convince him to change his mind and commit - at least not at this time in his life. So let him find someone else - someone who can truly meet his needs and wants, as hurtful as it is to admit. Let him go back to his sociopathic, cruel, and scheming ex-girlfriend, especially if he hadn’t stopped seeing her when we were still dating. I don’t care. I just want him to be happy and, although I thought I could make him happy (oh, how I tried…and oh, how I gave, gave, and gave…and oh, how he took, took, and took), my efforts were never going to be enough because I didn’t live up to his expectations.

I miss him already, very much, and although I know I put a lot of pressure on him with this diagnosis…I just hope he knows that:

  1. I was already having a bad week with the start of it being the incident with the ex-girlfriend.

  2. I truly wasn’t expecting that diagnosis at the doctor’s office.

  3. I was more concerned about how he would react about the diagnosis, and was mortified to tell him the truth…because I was scared of losing him (joke’s on me, I lost him in the end).

  4. I simply had hope that he would be at my side, no matter what was told to me by my doctor.

  5. I don’t understand why he had to act so cold, selfish, and clinical when he ended it. I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t cheat on him, call him mean things, yell at him, try to be spiteful like his ex-girlfriend, or simply be an all around terrible person. I simply told him the truth, and yet, he’s the one placing 100% of the blame on me by acting as though he doesn’t care about me, contrary to his promises that he did when the stupid text incident with the ex-girlfriend occurred.

  6. I also don’t understand why he had to hit below the belt and throw my already shaky relationship with my father in my face when he broke up with me. He justified his “end” to our “relationship” because he thought it would be awkward that he would never get to meet or be accepted by my family. I told him my father would never want to meet any man I date who is not Catholic (this guy, clearly, isn’t). He, though, had been aware of my difficult relationship with my father - that he’s never been proud or accepting of my life choices.

    All I could think was: my father hasn’t accepted me for almost thirty years, literally, since the day I was born, but you’re more concerned about him accepting you? As if. He used my father just so he could have a little less guilt over ending this for his own selfish reasons.

  7. And last, but not least, that I was developing genuine feelings for him. I accepted him as he was, despite his own chaotic baggage…and I don’t regret my acceptance. I do not hate him. Not one bit.

As abruptly as he left me, I still refuse to believe that he’s a horrible person. I think his past (although he never told me much about it - I had to make some connections and assumptions based on the limited information I was given) has a lot to do with how he views relationships, intimacy, and really, women. Hurt people hurt people, says my therapist. This hurt man decided to hurt me. I realized after he ended whatever we were that he never cared about me - his words were simply just words. His words that he “cared” were never supported with actions.

I can certainly now realize how the blunt, selfish, and shallow way he “ended” us could have been impacted by his past relationships. That, however, doesn’t excuse the way he acted, but it sure explains it.

So, I’ll emphasize now - I truly did enjoy every second of our time together. We had a brilliant rapport. When we were together, he didn’t berate me like my ex did. He didn’t throw my mental instabilities in my face. He supported me and listened when I ranted about my frustrations with my father (although he sure didn’t mind using this against me at the end). He encouraged and respected my passion for teaching history.

I’ll always remember how he noticed I wore a different pair of quirky earrings every time we met for a date, and adored my sense of style...and my short hair. 

He made me the most delicious steak tacos (because he knew tacos are the way to my heart) and remembered I preferred flour over corn tortillas. 

I was simply impressed by how he remembered the little things about me - and it made my heart soar that someone, for once, was valuing everything I was.

He let me be me, really - and he wasn’t embarrassed by what I brought to the table.

Most importantly, for a brief second, he let me have hope again. He enabled me to open my heart up and trust - something I thought my heart wasn’t capable of doing again after my previous relationship. That’s why I’m hurting over this loss; I believed for a moment that this man was God’s way of telling me, I’m trying to give you what you’ve been wanting over these last two years

I don’t doubt my faith. But I guess the reality is, God’s plan really is God’s plan, and I need to be patient to see what His plan truly will be for me. Maybe this guy isn’t my plan now. He probably won’t ever be.

I will never understand why someone who seemed so right just ended up being so, so wrong for me.

Either he truly wanted to be with me and simply ran away when things became too difficult…or he was just a really good liar and manipulator.

My heart, right now, is going with the latter.

But, to quote Kathleen Kelly from You’ve Got Mail

“I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly.”

For now, I need to focus on myself. This website, for example, seriously does need an update. I’ve had comments from readers wanting to do guest posts and I am very much looking forward to making that happen...as well as getting book reviews published and discussing my exploits as a history teacher this coming school year on this platform. I’ve decided not to date while going through physical therapy - I wouldn’t want the added stress of dating - I find no positive outcome in having to potentially bring this diagnosis up should a relationship manifest. I wouldn’t want to watch another man walk away from me, again, all because of my candor. I sincerely want to take time to improve my health (and I’m already on track to do that!), strengthen my faith, hang out with my friends, spend time with my family, further my teaching career, maybe write a book, and just...let my life unfold, especially as I prepare to celebrate entering a new decade in December.

One day at a time.

I’ve been alone for so long now. As I approach thirty, I truly thought I’d be married already. At this point, I am ready to face a life of being the perpetually single girl. I don’t say this as defeat or to be self-deprecating. Really. I say this as acceptance.

I’ve dreamed of domesticity since I was a little girl. The fairy tale. I wanted the fairy tale that was continually shoved down my throat with Disney movies, Hans Christian Andersen stories, and by my dad. He set the expectation that once I was done with school and gainfully employed, it would be time for me to meet a nice man, get married, and have children.

And I believed in the fairy tale; I took it to be gospel when I was young, hopeful, and filled with optimism - before my heart became so bitter and cynical after all of my failed relationships. I prayed for my Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet, a Pinterest worthy wedding day, a spacious and comfortable house complete with the cliché white picket fence, and the most beautiful children in my arms.

I remember once telling my mother during grad school that, if I met the right man, I would have put my education on pause to marry him, keep house, have children, and fulfill that fairy tale because it was what I believed my heart so desperately yearned for. My post-grad history diploma, as far as I was concerned, could wait. As you all know from other previous posts, I finished grad school, received my MA, and although I came close, I never did find my Prince Charming to start a life with.

After this guy, deciding to leave me for (again) something out of my control, I don’t think the fairy tale is destined for me. What more, I ask, do I have to do (or not do?) in order to be someone else’s fairy tale?

I’m tired of never just being quite enough for the men I fall in love with. I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean I resent the way they walk away from me the moment things become challenging.

As much as I truly still want to, I know that I don’t have to get married and have biological children to be happy - that my life, up to this point, has been fruitful and blessed with everything else I have achieved. My mother reminds me every day that she’s proud of me; that my health and sanity come first…to stop putting so much pressure on myself to get married and have children, because, ultimately, the continued heartache and hopefulness will eat at me and destroy me. She has had to go so far as to reassure me that she would never be disappointed if I never give her grandchildren. She wants me, her child, to feel better first - physically, emotionally, and mentally.

My dad, however, has now been unfairly hinting for grandchildren (although seeing as he’ll never approve of anyone I marry, really, Catholic or not, joke’s on him - as he would never get to meet the grandchildren then). Sorry to disappoint, dad, but nowhere is it written that domesticity and motherhood has to be my be all, end all. Going to the hospital last week, by myself, was proof that I can handle practically anything on my own. Buying a house by myself earlier this year is even more concrete proof that I’ve got this.

On my own.

I guess I’ve crafted a different sort of fairy tale then, and I take pride in knowing my continued faith has helped me make most of my dreams come true.

I hope y’all stay tuned for a soon-to-come post!

Until then…

Many happy returns, 

-Kate