The Dreaded High School Years
It’s a time when only a handful of people are considered popular. The rest of us are left to figure out why we smell so bad after playing soccer the day before and not showering. We have to assess what keeps popping up all over our face, and why everyone suddenly has train tracks in their mouths. Open rebellion for authority can be seen during these years, with longer than normal bathroom trips to run down the hallways or lingering back just a tad to walk in to class a few seconds late.
The popular girls hang out together, huddled closely while the rest of us watch from the outfield, careful not to get too close. As if we can’t pass the invisible barrier that separates us from them. They have peed and marked their territory and you are either in or you are out.
I was out.
WWWAAAAYYYYY OOOUUUUTTTT. I mean nosebleed section O.U.T.
I can’t quite put my finger on why I was out – maybe it was the turquoise rimmed glasses that always slid a little down my nose. Maybe it was my bowl haircut that had begun to grow out and the inability to tame the frizz that stuck out as wide as my shoulders. It could have been my braces. I seemed to pick out the brightest rubber bands and there was always food stuck somewhere in them, no matter how hard I tried. Or maybe it was the fact that I thought wearing my dad’s shirts would be cool, and my favorite was his black and yellow checkered shirt. I looked like a dang bumble bee.
These years are internally defining for everyone. There develops a frenzy, kids circling other kids, as we measure ourselves against others to determine which click we will be a part of. We don’t want to be the last ones picked for a team. Otherwise we will be in the group with Scott who picks his nose and Shelia who never makes eye contact with anyone. But it is also a time where we are still somewhat independent and will move to the beat of our own drummer. Hence the turquoise glasses and my dad’s shirts.
Before we can blink, we have had “the talk with our parents,” discussed puberty with guidance counselors, and picked which click we will be a part of. As a result we change our pulse to match the pulse of our crew. They, of course, were the only ones who really got who we were. Our parents were out of touch with reality, and no one on earth had been embarrassed like we had. And so we adjust, we mold and band together.
Thus we go through life, finding a group to be a part of and trying to match their pulse. When we don’t match up, we end up leaving and try to look for somewhere else to belong. Or we match the pulse with our significant other, our business, or anything else and become complacent, not realizing that we have spent our whole time MATCHING others.
We Don’t Listen For Our Own Pulse
The error goes back to middle school. We don’t listen for our own pulse. We don’t feel confident standing in front of others in a bee colored shirt, acne splashed all over our face, and metal filling our mouth that we feel our pulse must be wrong.
But our pulse, when we listen to it and use it, is what makes us…
You need to find your pulse again. You can only do what you are meant to do if you embrace who you are and who you are supposed to be.
P.S. If you are not sure where you should start, check out my book, If a Seed Can Do It!