To anyone who has pondered their past,

I’d like to share with you about a time that changed me for the better.

It was the summer before my junior year of college. I had a small view of the world and how it worked. My idea of success was based upon a semester of good grades combined with how many new Facebook friends I could add after a night of partying. If my hair, makeup, and outfit were on point? Even better. I was content to keep up appearances and do what everyone else my age was doing, or so I thought.

At the time my true spirit was suppressed. A couple years prior I had an emergency C-section to remove a cyst that had mysteriously formed on my ovary. A year later I was diagnosed with Hypothyroidism once a nodule was discovered on my thyroid gland. Growing up with Asthma and often ill, I hated learning that there were more ailments being added to my roster. As one can imagine, thousands of thoughts raced through my mind. “Why me? Why does my body hate me? Will I keep getting worse? I’m too young to have a chronic illness…”

Overwhelmed, I banished those concerns to the basement of my brain. I kept living “young, wild and free”, avoiding my problems. I believed that fearing death was for “old people.”

After two years of studying media production, I soon wanted my very own MacBook Pro laptop. I envisioned myself editing on Final Cut from my off-campus apartment. Ideas flooded in – Fashion reels, experimental shorts, music videos, bright colors, textures, fun effects! It was time for an upgrade. But that meant I had to work for it. Summer job? It was a must. After some calculations I discovered I would have to work TWO jobs to reach my goal!

“Well, alright then,” I thought. Just like fashion guru Tim Gunn, I’ll “make it work”. So thus began the summer where I wrapped meat in a cooler early mornings and in the evenings got dolled up to buss at the soon-to-open Italian restaurant. This was when I met her, the young girl from Nigeria. Skin glowing and baby-faced – “absolutely still in high school,” I thought. She talked with a rich musical accent that rendered her hard to understand. Most of the group felt unsure to speak to her, yet I gravitated towards her. She sparkled while she laughed even when no one else found the humor. In time, my ears adapted, and I could fully understand her. “My family recently moved here”, she shared.

When I worked shifts with her, she brightened the hours that passed. We shared inside jokes, danced behind the kitchen doors, and she did not judge me for when I got written up for sneaking the breadsticks. My spirit felt untethered by her. I could let go of trying to appear like everyone else.

Then one day my new friend asked me something I never thought I would hear. “Will you come to my brother’s funeral?” My heart skipped a beat. I thought I misheard her. “What?” My eyes looked directly into hers. “My brother was found dead.” I hugged her and suddenly I did not give a crap about breadsticks.

A week or so had gone by and I found myself at her brother’s service with a fellow busser, a sweet woman many years older than my friend and myself. We were welcomed and loved right away into a family who had the biggest hearts. Songs praising God lifted the roof and rang strong and loud into the heavens. Arms outstretched and hands reached towards the sky. I soon realized that even in their grief, this was a celebration. People cried, smiled and expressed themselves in ways that were purely human, and they were not afraid to show it. I closed my eyes, sang and swayed, and basked in the connection felt between us all. There I was, an ungrateful college student with an abnormal growth on her thyroid, a scar on her abdomen, and a chronic disease, yet through it all, I was alive. I was blessed to have all of my tomorrows whereas my friend’s brother? He did not.

That day changed me. It felt better than any amount of likes on my Facebook page ever could. It felt real. Thanks to my friend that summer, my spirit received a nudge towards a truth that I had long avoided. Death is not just for the elderly. Death comes for us all. We can choose to fear it, not think about it, or accept it. I went back to school with my fancy new laptop knowing in my heart that I had to make that choice and no one else could do it for me.