Hazel

 Growing up, I always thought my eyes were brown because other people said they looked brown. I felt like there wasn’t anything wrong with brown eyes, I wished they were more special but overall I didn’t have any complaints. My mom has brown eyes, my sister has brown eyes, my brother has brown eyes. 

But here’s the thing. 

I have hazel eyes. 

In the light, they look emerald green rimmed with honey, fading into chocolate at the pupil. They have freckles of brown and flecks of gold. 

I spent my whole life thinking my eyes were brown because people told me they looked brown. 

Why did it take so long for me to realize my own eye color??

Nowadays, even I fill out my drivers license info, I still have a moment of self doubt as I fill out the details: what if I got pulled over and the cop decided my eyes look more brown and I must have lied?

What if people hear me say that my eyes are hazel and assume I’m just trying to be edgy, extra, quirky, memorable?

My eyes have always been hazel, even when I thought they were brown. My eyes have always been hazel, even when people told me they looked brown brown so they must be. 

Anyways, my pronouns are she/they. I like to think of myself as a woman*. The asterisk is the important part because I didn’t have dysphoria growing up or even now, but the label “woman” alone isn’t entirely true on its own.

Just because my eyes have brown in them doesn’t mean they are brown. 

Just because I do feel like a she doesn’t mean I’m not also a they. 

Document That Shit!

 Okay, so, here's the thing: I have ALWAYS sucked at writing in a journal. I become so quickly overwhelmed at the concept of catching my journal up with the thousands of things that have happened to me since I last wrote. 

But in these times, it's so important to document: I refuse to allow history to be written about me by people who don't know me at all.

It is currently Monday, February 3rd, 2025. I am sitting in my living room, watching an illegal recording of Les Miserables on Youtube for the fiftieth time this week while I write this and wait for the washing machine to finish up so I can switch my clothes to the dryer. I am more burnt out than I can even express, because being a teacher in America (specifically in a red state) sucks ASS. The government doesn't give a flying fuck about me, about student success, or about the arts. Tonald Drump and Melon Eusk have just been sworn in as president (okay, maybe just the cheeto, but his buddy has been acting all kinds of "in charge" and it's BAFFLING that he is allowed to hold a position of power after throwing *azi salutes around.) Pardon my Tumblr-ization, I just don't want to get hunted down/thrown in prison for writing what I know on a public forum.

But yeah. Things REEEEALLY suck right now. To be fair, I entered this year already burnt out because I was the sole breadwinner for my family last year, as Nathan was laid off in January (fuck Chris Krohn and everything he stands for) and had a really hard time finding a job. That time really weighed on me because I think I have always known that I don't have the constitution to teach forever, because I care WAY too much to just half-ass it. But unfortunately, the only way to be a teacher and not go crazy at this point is to half-ass it.

This year alone, I had my wedding ring stolen by a student (don't worry, she didn't face any consequences because her dad brought it back), students joking about taking pictures of my feet to sell online, and the absolute nastiest email from a parent because I couldn't let his daughter miss all of tech week and be in the musical. All this, plus my ovaries and uterus constantly causing pain (Hopefully surgery in March will help-- it was a miracle to find a male doctor that also cried the day Roe V Wade went down).

I am expected to be a physical shield if/when a gunman comes into the classroom. I am expected to just laugh it off when a dad follows me to my second place of employment, and still make polite conversation with him. I am supposed to be completely unfazed when a student physically threatens, even squares up with me over my not letting her use her phone backstage after multiple reminders. I am expected to plan for 8 class periods every other day, write and carry out my entire curriculum alone, write objectives on the board, diversify my approach to engage diverse learners (but also legally expected to allow ICE to come take and deport my diverse learners and students just because Mr CheeseBall said so?), communicate consistently with parents and other students, make sure all emails get responses within 24 hours and all grades updated for my hundreds of students on a weekly basis, maintain and utilize sound and lighting equipment for assemblies and concerts, at this point I could keep going but now I am starting to sound like my resume. There is too much. My job demands too much of me and it is slowly, though gathering speed, chipping away at who I am.

I've been put on two new medications, and upped my dosage on the one I've been on since high school, just to manage my anxiety. How in the hell am I expected to deal with the pressures of teaching when teachers are vilified on a national level? How the fuck am I expected to help these kids feel hopeful and empowered when I feel so powerless?

I don't know if we are officially entering a war, I don't know if the stock market will crash tomorrow, I don't know if the Department of Education will still be around a few months from now, I don't know if I will be able to have my endometriosis surgery or be able to get a new IUD in March. All of these sound very tinfoil-hat-esque but the thing is, all of these and so many more have been on the table in the past 3 weeks since inauguration day. I feel like I'm writing a damn teen dystopian novel.

I miss the times when I was just the reader, curled up on my couch, feeling safe because I knew for a fact that the leaders of my nation would never pit us against each other, knew for a fact I wouldn't have to live through a world war.

I miss being a teen dystopian novel reader.

My dearest Tiffany—

 You know all those assignments they are making you do, where you write about what you will be doing or where you’ll be in 10 years? Well, there are a couple of things I’m afraid to tell you.

You’ll be pleased (probably) to learn that you did survive to see 2025! It was touch and go at a few moments here and there, but you pushed through and arose to the challenge every time. 

You graduated from college in 2022, taking 6 years total to finish it up. I’m proud of you for sticking with it: graduating in 4 years is a ridiculous expectation anyways. You accomplished a lot during that time, and made lots of friends. I wouldn’t say you made enemies per se, but be on the lookout: trust your gut and protect your heart. You graduated cum laude, which basically means that your {sorry for this} obsession with good grades stayed strong till the end.

You did technically graduate single, but trust me, it’s better that way: you quickly reconnected and fell in love with the most amazing man and you get to marry him, followed by hosting the world’s BEST dance party at the reception. 

I’m not going to tell you his name, because when you first met, he was not the love of your life: you actually weren’t a very good match for each other at all. You both had growing to do. Trust me when I say that he is worth the wait.

He gets you. like, GETS you. You have such similar backgrounds, interests, and passions for life. You are not exactly the same, because that would be recipe for disaster. But he loves you, more deeply and more truly than you can even conceive of right now. He brings out the most courageous and confident version of yourself. He is also hot as hell and makes you feel the same.

Oh yeah, the swearing. You swear now. Frequently. Your first time swearing was in an acting class at BYU and it was terrifying and exhilarating: your language was finally your own and the responsibility of everyone else’s salvation was no longer on the line every time you opened your mouth.

I guess I should break the news you were always most afraid of hearing: Tiffany, you are no longer a member of the church. 

Please do not hear this news and use it as an opportunity to become even more devout and obsessive about your discipleship: you did EVERYTHING you possibly could have. You went through the temple on December 27th, 2017. It was lovely. Don’t listen to the people who make jokes about it being creepy: it is simply a sacred ritual. I do miss the temple. But not enough to go back. You didn’t leave the church: The church left you. I know how scared this news must make you feel because I remember how terrified I was about becoming a moral-less heathen. The thing is… I left the church BECAUSE of my morals. I left BECAUSE the organization no longer reflected what I believe is right, and I owed you the opportunity to live with integrity. 

Leaving was the most brave thing I have ever done in my life. Please remember that as you interact with friends who have left— it’s not the ‘easy way out’, it is the hardest decision a person can make. I’m not here to tell you to leave now, although a lot of therapy money could be saved if you did; I’m here to ask you to be curious. Why did you feel the need to prove to everyone that you were the MOST faithful person alive? Why did you even bear your testimony in your journal each night, knowing that you were the only person to read it? 

Living authentically doesn’t require convincing everyone including yourself that you are a certain way, it just requires living that way.

Speaking of authenticity, please for the love of god stop being so horrible toward every gay person in your life! You say you’re being kind, but you’re just being homophobic. My friend, the call is coming from inside the house. Don’t be fooled by the fact you are going to marry a man: there’s a reason you got butterflies whenever your best friends played with your hair, and there’s a reason you were convinced that going on dates with popular guys would “fix” you. We both know that girls are just objectively hotter than guys… but I have news for you, friend: straight girls don’t say that. My advice to you: start kissing girls! It’s super fun! And far safer than kissing men, generally speaking.

I can almost see your face reading this: you are horrified. How could your life have possibly gone so far off the rails? How could you abandon every part of yourself that you hold dear? I’m going to let you in on a secret: not everything in life is so black or white. There is grey in between all these things and grey does not = bad. 

The life ahead of you is pretty scary, I won’t lie to you. It is also so lovely and worthwhile. I won’t tell you not to be afraid: keep moving forward even when you do feel afraid. Take care of your body. Please feed yourself: starving and skinny is not worth your mental and physical health. Be open to new stories. Give yourself some grace. 

And don’t go off your anxiety meds in January of 2020. Just trust me on this one. 

A shell of a person

It was sexual assault.

This happened months and months ago and already consumed two blog posts (both of which were rather long). 

It was sexual assault.

It took me a therapist telling me that the lasting flashbacks and panic weren't me overreacting, and it wasn't my fault, and you had NO RIGHT to do that to me.

It took medications. It took counseling. It took months to realize.

It was sexual assault.

Unwelcome or force-able sexual advances of ANY KIND count.

The emotional abuse that followed counted.

The fact that the hardest part of finals week is having to be in a class with you, presenting in the front of the classroom and being able to see you from where I'm standing, knowing you'll be looking either at your phone or me. That counts.

It was sexual assault. 

The scars on my leg caused by me count.

The fact I am so hesitant to press publish because what if you find this, read about yourself, that counts.

I'm afraid of you. I don't feel safe. I have to make sure to walk to my classes a certain way, check both sides of the street before I cross it to make sure I don't have to see you. That counts.

The fact that I better hurry up and finish this post before my breathing gets too much faster-- it's still so triggering to think about. That counts.

It all counts. It was sexual assault.

I am a survivor of sexual assault, but that does not define me. I count.

Get where I'm coming from?

“She is messy, but she’s kind; she is lonely most of the time. She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie… She is gone, but she used to be mine” -Sarah Bareilles, She Used to Be Mine

            I live in a small town called Conformity, which is the capital of Happy. I am everything you’d expect me to be outwardly: modest, successful, resilient, happy. Stressed in all the right ways, focused, driven, spiritual, friendly, imperfect, supportive daughter/sister/RA/friend/whatever-you-need-me-to-be. Content to be single and first pick for the friend-zone team.

            They say this is where I’m from. But they don’t know I forged my birth certificate.

            I can’t tell people my true origins.

            I can’t disappoint people like that. I have learned I must be selfless, so I’ll listen while you talk and never weigh you down with my own baggage. I’ll be there for you through everything and we’ll thrive together in Conformity, Happy for the rest of our days.

            “Is this home? Is this where I should learn to be happy? Never dreamed that a home could be dark and cold. I was told every day in my childhood, even when we grow old: Home will be where the heart is, never were words so true. My heart’s far, far away- home is too.” -Home, Beauty and the Beast the Musical

            I try not to remember Hidden. I try not to remember Brainwashed. I try not to remember Used. I try not to remember Broken. Those places often star in my dreams, taunt me when I zone out or lose focus or when my strength starts to wane. I always think I’m past those horrible places, but somehow they keep coming back.

            Hidden. A place where regardless of my efforts, regardless of my achievements, regardless of my progress, I am largely unrecognized and shunted to the background. A place where my best friend is always superior and a place where I should be content, but for some reason I’m just not. Because I’ve spent SO MUCH TIME HERE. I am from Hidden. And I don’t want to be.

            Brainwashed. A place where a ten-year-old can be told she needs to lose weight because she’s bigger than the rest of the girls on her gymnastics team. A place where pain doesn’t matter until it’s a matter of life or death. A place where I spent eight years of my life, wondering why I felt like there was something missing until I finally looked at it from the outside. A place where other friends don’t tend to invite you to anything because you train 7 hours a day, five days a week. I am from Brainwashed. And I wish I’d realized where I was before it became too late.

            Used. Such an ugly place. I thought I had been through so much in this life; I had no idea that something so painful could come in such an appealing package. A place where promises in moments of heated emotion have no intention to be kept. A place where the word ‘no’ loses its meaning. A place where visible fear is taken to mean ‘more please.’ A place where I feel unsafe and suffocated and dirty and helpless and… A place where he didn’t even think twice. A place where he still says hi to me as if nothing happened, as if he doesn’t know the panic his proximity causes me. A place that has forced me to learn how to trust again- I’m still working on it. I am from Used. And I’m still trying to figure out how to leave for good.

            Broken. A place where it is so easy to look whole. A place where literal and metaphorical ideas are both completely accurate. A place where a spine cracks due to years of misuse, a place where ten doctors had differing opinions on how to fix it (though they all were pretty much unhelpful and frankly rude). A place where the one who was finally willing to help changed my life for one easy installment of thousands of dollars, a full year of recovery, two titanium rods, and four screws. A place where depression and anxiety are rampant simply because they know you will wait to do anything about them until it’s nearly too late. I am from Broken. And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men might need a little more help.

            But.

            Before Broken, before Used, before Brainwashed, before Hidden, before Conformity-

I am from Heaven.

            “I am a child of God, and He has sent me here. Has given me an earthly home with parents kind and dear. Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way- teach me all that I must do to live with Him someday.”

            Heaven. A place where I knew all of these things would happen to me, but I still decided it was worth it. A place that is beautiful, peaceful, pure. A place where I knew my worth, my strengths, my weaknesses. A place where the fact that I’m ‘too innocent’ is actually a good thing. A place where I knew without a shadow of a doubt I would return to soon. A place where I knew my Heavenly Father, spoke to my Savior. A place I can’t wait to get back to. A place that I visit in times of hardship and pain. A place I will stop at nothing to return to. A place I don’t remember, but I know is real. A place that never ends.

            I am from Heaven.

            And nothing can change that.

Dear Santa:

I know I haven't written you in years.
I'm so sorry. I guess I have gotten caught up in my life and everything has been so crazy and I know all these are excuses and I'm sorry
I'm sorry for being naughty sometimes
I'm sorry for being ungrateful sometimes
I'm sorry for not believing in you.

I guess I should probably tell you what I want for Christmas, just like old times
I'd like to pass my finals please
I wouldn't mind a new pair of shoes
I'd say yes to money to pay for next semester
I want a puppy to cuddle with
And, if you don't mind,
I'd kinda like a person to cuddle with too

Dear Santa, I just want to be loved
I know that's not everything and
I know my time is coming and I'll meet him someday and
I know it'll happen eventually...
but I want someone to look at me the same way Jim looks at Pam
I want someone to care about me the same way Parker cares for Mallory
I know it's probably too much to ask but
I've been friend-zoned, cast off, ignored, manipulated, even assaulted
can I please
be loved?

I love you, Santa
I believe in you

-Tiffany

That took a turn

In continuing from the last post....

Dear Taylor:
You don't kiss a girl and ignore her for 3 weeks.
I get it, there are things you don't have control over. I may not know exactly how you feel but I can certainly empathize. But at the same time, you are mad that I assumed the worst but how in the heck was I supposed to know the weight of the world is on your shoulders? All I know is that I liked you, you kissed me, and you stood me up when we were supposed to talk about it. And you've been been completely hostile since.
You said you felt that I was putting all the blame on you. Sorry. But why, WHY did I walk out of that conversation with all of it on my back? You would know this by now if you cared to look, but I'm not very good with words in person. I get flustered when I don't feel safe. I felt so attacked, Taylor. You were looking at me with such hatred and throwing out bullets so fast I couldn't get one word out.
And you made me care about you again. I spent the weekend alone, anxious and plain numb because of what you did to me. But you skipped right back, made me feel horrible about myself, and then made me feel bad for you. I let you hug me. The worst part is that I didn't want you to let go. How twisted is that.
I'm spiraling, Taylor. I've gone deep before but never this deep. I haven't gone a day in a full two weeks without crying. I can't even take a nap without thinking about all the things I should have said. I literally had a panic attack in class today just because you were there and I'm am idiot because I still feel like I need to impress you. I get it, I'm only 18 and I have so much time to find the one. But that's not what third is about. I just want to feel sufficient. I just want to feel loved.
Now before you run off, let me explain that you're not all that special. It's not all about you. It's about how not one guy has ever treated me well. Yes, my dad has, but you know what I man. Every time I tell myself 'he would never hurt me like that' and "This time he's different' but somehow I'm the easiest to manipulate, to use. And I want to know why.
You used me. You manipulated me. You ignored me (yes, I know, I get it. Your circumstances. But stop for just a second and try to think of mine.) But guy#1 did all those things too. Same goes for #2, #3, all of them. After following the trend, the only logical thing is that something about me is completely repellant.
So I get it. I'm sorry. I get that you don't have complete control over what's stopping you from reaching out.
But I don't have complete control over what's literally crushing me either.
Maybe one day we'll be friends. Maybe I won't panic when I see you anymore. Maybe you'll learn how to treat women and maybe, someday, I'll be treated like I matter.
I hope the kiss was all you had hoped for. I hope it was worth it to you.
Because so far that kiss has completely unhinged me.
-Tiff

my first time

Making out.
gah I hate those two words when put together.
Like, I was going to put that as my title, but then I couldn't bear the thought of titling a blog post making out.
It's disgusting. I feel like such a horrible person. But I shouldn't, right? It's not a sin, right? Nothing inappropriate happened, right?
I didn't even reciprocate that part of it, right? I wasn't the one doing the moving, that was all you dude. he must think I'm literally the worst, I just kinda sat there. I just kinda sat there and let it happen.
Maybe it's just because that is definitely not what I expected to happen.
Maybe it's just because it's been a loooong time since I've really kissed someone.
Maybe it's just because it caught me way off guard that a guy who I had a huge crush on actually went for it.
Maybe it freaked me out that the first one wasn't soft and hesitant like I thought it was going to be.
Maybe my anxiety is just too much.
Maybe it's just because he never actually said that he liked me.

he never said that he liked me.

am I just some relief or fix because he needed to kiss someone, ANYONE? Because if that's the case buddy, I'm sure there are plenty of girls on campus who actually know how to kiss and are more than willing to be your toy.
I just can't fathom the dismal amount of respect he must have for me, to have just gone for it so fast like that. It's like Harrison all over again. I even told him when we were talking about relationships that I'd much rather have someone ask me if they could kiss me than having them just do it. And yet... here we are. Launched at my face.

I should be over the moon, right?
I've been wanting to kiss a guy for the past few months now. I've wanted a guy in my life, cried that I didn't have one.
I totally like him. Liked him? I don't know. I think I still like him. I'm just confused. And a horrible kisser.
But isn't this exactly what I wanted?
What I may or may not have prayed for? (Thanks for giving me exactly what I wanted... now dial it back a little???) My own fault.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I'm just so curious to see what he does now.
because I just know that he won't talk to me anymore. He won't want to get to know me or pursue anything or want to do fun coupley things like dancing in the rain or going on a picnic, stuff that doesn't include kissing. He won't want to learn how to help me through panic attacks and he won't let me get to know him. He'll either want to stay friends with benefits (NO SIR THAT WILL NOT FLY), or pretend like nothing happened at all. because that's just what happens with me.

but something that isn't confusing to me is that I love talking to him and how much he makes me laugh.
something that doesn't confuse me is that I love his smile, his sarcastic quips, his little quirks, his exclamations.
something that doesn't confuse me is the way he hugged me when dropping me off, that he sheepishly waved and said 'We'll figure this all out, I promise' and then shut the door.

something I do know is that when he's not confusing me,
I really do like him.

Welcome to BYU!

Hi, I'm Tiffany, your RA for this term. RA stands for Resident Assistant- but you can think of me as a cheerleader, a friend, a big sister, a resource, and a support to you in the next coming months. Let's not talk about the fact I'm only barely 18, younger than half of you here. Instead let's focus on how I can help YOU succeed.
BYU Police has a really cool program called Safe Walk- if it's dark outside and you don't want to get assaulted (yes, safest campus out there, crap still happens): simply call 801-422-2222 and they'll escort you wherever you need to go on campus. Let's not talk about the fact I've never used it myself.
BYU offers its students free counseling services- which I highly recommend. Remember, your health is more important than anything else. Let's not talk about how I had the biggest panic attack tonight- I'm an RA, therefore I am stable and never show my anxiety. Let's not talk about how self conscious I feel about my weight and size- you all look so beautiful the way you are.
This is how to get along with your roommates- let's not talk about how I'm the worst example of knowing how to openly communicate.
Now, I know it can be intimidating to be surrounded by RM's and such. Remember, college is a time to let yourself have fun! Let's not talk about how I shut down the first possible relationship possibility that happened here. But learn how too be clear when you set your boundaries. Let's not talk about how he may think I'm interested.
Let's not talk about how completely unqualified I am to hold authority over you guys. I went to training, played the fun little getting to know you games.
How about let's just not talk at all.
Welcome to the #1 ranked stone cold sober school for years now. Have fun- but not too much fun!

I prefer the juvenile literature section.

I wonder if I'll ever be important enough for someone to write my biography.
If I am, I've got some stipulations.

It can't be boring. Nothing about my life is particularly exciting, but my readers don't need to know that.
Let's not bog it down with details, either. I'd rather out be written like a story. An engaging, relateable-character-filled narrative.
It better be written by someone who actually knows me- and knows me well. That way, it'll be accurate.
It shouldn't make me seem like a person I'm not, for better or for worse.
I'd like there to be humor. I'm not all that funny but things that happen to me could be looked at that way.
I hope there's romance. But I guess that's more of a life goal in general.
My friend's lives should be recorded as well (although, if I somehow become famous, guaranteed it's because they were first. My friends always raise me up in so many ways.)
It cannot skim over my faith. It cannot lessen the degree of gratitude I have for the church and it's teachings. I'm sorry, but it cannot be impartial. It has to show that I would have nothing, be nothing, without the gospel and without my Savior.
I hope the overall effect is that I'm not perfect- not even close- but that I'm doing my absolute best I can do.

I wonder if I'll ever be important enough for someone to write my biography.
I don't really want to write an autobiography.
But.... I think I still might.
Someday.

Turning 18

For my birthday,

I want to be six again.
I want to spend time with my friends.
I want to finally be taken seriously.
I want a boy to hug me for a long time, and tell me it's ok that I cry a lot and that doesn't make me weak, it's because I'm strong. And I want him to kiss me (even if it's just my cheek or forehead). And I want him to look me in the eye and tell me I'm beautiful. I want a boy to ask me on a date without me telling him he should. I want a boy to want to talk to me, even after the date is over. I want a boy to talk to talk to me because he wants to. I want a boy for my birthday.
I want Costco muffins. Blueberry and/or poppyseed.
I want to go swimming.
But before we can go swimming, I want to exercise and eat healthy so I won't feel ashamed to go swimming. So maybe I don't want to go swimming because I don't have time to work out and don't have the money to eat healthy.
I want my family. Especially Jason.
I want you.
I want to be silly and stay up late and eat candy and watch a movie and sing karaoke.
I want to sleep.
I want to double date with my best friend.
I want to dress up like a princess.
I want to wear sweats all day.
I want a puppy.
I want Krispy Kreme.
I want to be spontaneous.
I want a plan.
I can't get everything I want.
That's ok.
As long as I have you.
And Costco muffins.

YOLO is DEAD-O

You know those people that get to college and cry themselves to sleep every night because the adjustment is so big?
You know those people who text or call their mother, begging her to take them home because they just can't deal anymore?
You know those people that get distracted while writing blog posts about college by all the pictures on their walls, staring at them wistfully and wishing they could go back?
I SWORE I would never be that person.
I figured, yeah I have anxiety, but it's manageable. I've learned so many ways to cope.
I'm also very mature for my age. I've been through a lot and have come out way stronger because of it.
I DO NOT understand why I'm having such a hard time here.
I'm lonely, which I know 'everyone's lonely and noone has friends this fast' but that's crap. All my roommates have friends and I watch people make new friends every day in front of my eyes.
I know, 'You just need to join clubs, get yourself out there' but if it was that easy I'd have friends rn and I just... don't. I get along with my roommates but it's not like I can talk to them about... well, the things I blog about, I guess. I can't get together with them and hike the Y just because.
And a dating life?
yeah I wish.
nonexistent. completely absent.
There are plenty of cute guys here but they keep getting distracted by all the bodacious blondes with white teeth and already know their major, minor, and how many kids they want. They're not interested in the 17-year-old who wants nothing more than to fit in here.
My roommates invite people over every night (through morning... errrrrrrg). They all get along so well with their friends but you know what happened when I even said hi? Stares. Utter silence. Nothing.
I don't think I've ever cried this hard and this often in my life. I gave that up in second grade but apparently my sensitive side is coming back to haunt me.
I feel weak. I feel trapped. I feel numb.
My google searches have come up with the same suggestions for how to make friends... but none of them work if you're apparently not even a fun person to be around.
I love the school. I love the atmosphere. But I hate crying so much and I hate hiding in a corner of campus to stop getting laughed at for my age or just for being me. I hate that my real friends live a half hour away and I hate that I have to be an adult and worry about finances and groceries and inter/intrapersonal relationships and I hate that I'm not still in high school.
I wish people could get past my age, or my face, or my tears, or my shortcomings. I respect that it takes a lot of effort, and I don't ask much. At least... try to get to know me? Please?

Anyone?

Surreal

I know prayer is a real thing, because here I am. A high school graduate. One thing I love about prayer is that it is often answered through the actions of other people. Here are just a few examples:

Jake Rees was an answer to a prayer when he said that not everyone gets their answer as fast as some, and that's ok. He also helped me increase English&Reading sections of the ACT by a combined 16 points, raising my overall score enough to get into the college of my dreams.

Susan Hoyt was an answer to so many prayers throughout high school- I honestly couldn't have done it without her. Because of her, I always knew I had someone to turn to. I can't say how much her support has strengthened and shaped me.

Pam Beckstrand was an answer to a prayer when she taught me I could learn so much and have so much fun at the at the same time. She also taught me that people are fascinating. I hope she knows how much that class impacted me- so much so, that I may end up majoring in social sciences.

Craig Smith was an answer to the prayers of every kid who walked into his room, and I'm no exception. He was also able to empathize with me when no one else understood how I felt- not many people have spinal fusions and come right back to school. But he did. And he helped me understand calculus and my worth, all in a class period every other day.

Matthew Bell was an answer to my prayers when he recommended me, landing me my first real job. He believed in me and convinced others to do so as well. He was the first one to help me fall in love with physics, and I still love it today. He also made me punch him in the face in front of the class, wearing boxing gloves, to demonstrate Newton's law of action and reaction. It was good for my then-timid character.

Miss Amy Rosen's constant smile and positivity answered many prayers, and taught me patience and love. I'll use what I learned in her class for the rest of my life.

Jim Smith taught me how to work, really work, until an end result is reached. He taught me that it can be fun, but only if we work hard first. He taught me that the process is grueling and long and so, so worth it. He taught me that recognition and praise must be earned. He was an answer to my earnest prayer by giving me a chance to truly shine when I needed the opportunity most.

Lori Christensen was an answer to a prayer of loneliness. I learned that having a teacher for a friend actually proves to be quite valuable. I hope to one day become like her.

Tom Erikson taught me that physics is in everything around me- and that it matters. He was an answer to many prayers in hard times when I just didn't get it. When I was on the brink of giving up. He was there in his room, always willing to help.

Mari Felix was an answer to a prayer, and a second mother at the school. She taught me to LOVE literature- books I had never even considered looking into are now some of my favorites. She has a compassion and a love for each student seen in few other classrooms. She also wrote the kindest letter of recommendation I have ever read, and trust me, it made a huge difference.

Rhonda Bromley was an answer to many prayers and made possible so many dreams. It's so obvious that she truly loves each and every student at Lone Peak. From the first day of sophomore year, I felt special in her eyes. Every school, every student, needs a principal like her.

All the seminary teachers were answers to prayers, whether I had them as teachers personally or not. They are so helpful and inspiring and really in tune to the needs of each student.

Jolynn Wright was a huge answer to a prayer because she believed in me. She saw in me potential and an ability to represent my school with pride. She put up with all my questions and didn't give up on me. She's an incredible teacher and an incredible woman.

Allison Terry was an answer to countless prayers, offered with tears in my eyes. Nearly every announcement of a lost classmate was made while I was in her class. She showed so much compassion and care for me in some of the hardest months of my life. She got me through driver's ed(and to understand the enormity of this feat, you must know that driving gives me SO much anxiety. Like, panic attacks and working-with-a-therapist anxiety.) She has changed my life.

Derek Farr was an answer to a commonly offered prayer, titled 'please get me through this class that looks like it'll be horrifically boring'. And he did just that. Every day in financial lit was a new adventure. And I loved it.

Megan Calvin was an answer to a prayer because, to be completely honest, I've never been a huge fan of history classes in the past. She took my expectations and turned them into one of my favorite classes at school. She's engaging, refreshing, funny, and so kind. She also helped me get over perfectionism- here's to my first ever C on a test. It did me a lot of good, both short-term and in the long run.

Kyle Nelson was an answer to a prayer I didn't know I had given yet. I didn't know I missed writing. I didn't know I needed to vent on a blog and I certainly didn't know that I would want to. He gave me a chance to show people who I am without all the pretenses and first impressions. He helped me find out what the raw, real me is like. And, most of all, he helped me to like it.

There are SO MANY other teachers at Lone Peak, and I honestly think I could say something about each and every one of them. I offered so many prayers throughout my high school career, and I know that there's a living and loving God because of all the ordinary miracles I've seen in the halls of Lone Peak High School. So, thank you teachers, thank you administrators, thank you staff, thank you students. Thank you friends. I hope we'll see each other again soon.

Graduation

Years upon years of stress, tears, laughter, and nostalgia has brought me here. Graduation.
In elementary school, I would cry if I had to stay home sick- because I was worried I wouldn't make it into BYU if I missed too many days.
In junior high, I worried that I was invisible and tried to figure out where I fit in.
In high school.... high school was probably the best thing that ever happened to me.
I know the vast majority of people are so excited to graduate, to get out of here.
But to me- high school meant freedom. High school meant finally having real friends. High school meant seminary and so much growth. High school meant newfound confidence and really coming out of my shell. High school meant finding my passions, experiencing ups and downs, dating, being crazy just for fun.
High school meant learning how to cope.
I've lost friends to suicide, family members to drug abuse. I've spent months upon months recovering from both physical and mental ailments. I've learned more about my capabilities than I ever imagined and have overcome more than I ever wanted. But exactly as much as I've needed.
He knows me. He hears me. He lives and loves me.
He knows you. He hears you. He lives and loves you.
Moving to a new phase of life is won't be easy, but that's ok. I've been through enough to know that I can do hard things.
Here's to graduation.

Dear Homework:

I know we've been dating for a solid twelve years now... but I'm just going to give it to you straight. I've been cheating on you. No, I don't mean literally cheating...  I earned those scores all by myself... but I've been seeing someone else. My pillow, mostly. And blanket.
I love you, homework. I really do. You've helped me so much throughout the years. But you've always wanted prescience over everything else in my life; and pillow and blanket don't ask for much commitment. I know you're so much more than your scores but that's all other people see, Homework. And I'm not going to pretend to ignore your ongoing flirtation with Grades, either. You insist that she doesn't matter to you- well how come you are almost inseperable these days? What happened to the time when she didn't need you to survive?
The thing is... I just don't really care about you anymore. I know that's really harsh of me to say.  But it's the truth. Homework- I really just don't care. You're so nagging. So needy. I mean, I can have other friends too, right? Theatre and Dance? You guys used to get along so well. Now you think you're the only one who matters.
This is me breaking up with you. Yes, we can still be friends- I still technically need you to graduate- but I'm done worrying about you. I'm a senior now. About to graduate.
And... I have a disease. I don't want to hurt you, so you have to leave me before it gets too serious. I'm suffering from senioritis. I don't know how much longer ican hold on. I promised myself I would never have to deal with this but it's the denial that makes it all worse. It kills the best of us.
Homework, you've mostly been good to me. I love you. But you have to let go. I know you'll find some fresh, eager, naive little student who will be strong enough for you- it's just not me. I'm sorry if this hurts you. It hurts me too.
Goodbye- and I wish you the best of luck.
-Korra

The cast joke

That's all I feel I am these days. Look, Tiffany tripped and it was funny. Look, Tiffany faceplanted again. It was hilarious.
But if you tell a joke too many times, it's not funny anymore.
It's not like I trip on purpose, not like I enjoy being the most clumsy person alive. I'm sorry I sprained my ankle at a school dance. No, not dancing- walking. I'm sorry it never healed, and I'm sorry I sprained it again onstage the day before the spring musical opened. Yes, know it's not funny anymore. I know.

The one time I get a lead role, a chance to show that I deserve it- this happens. I misstep in the dance number, almost blacking out at the agony. I get myself offstage at the earliest convenient opportunity. I spend most of the next hour and a half crying offstage in pain and frustration because I know I've ruined everything. For myself and everyone around me. Except for those times I have solos- I limped on to sing those, trying not to pass out, ever trying to prove that I deserve it, that I'm worth it. In vain.

The joke's over, and I don't know how I'm going to make it through the rest of the show.
This is what happens when you have the nickname Biff.

Senior year in a nutshell

One guy told me I looked beautiful at prom
He wasn't my date

Next stop
Graduation
I mean, after the spring musical and the dance concert and AP tests and senior activities and tutoring and hopefully surviving and passing my classes and all that jazz

I napped for five hours yesterday
And still slept like a baby last night

I think I should wake up early tomorrow morning and actually look nice.
What? It's 7:15 already?
Well darn it. Leggings and a sweatshirt it is. Again.

I started crying when I realized how many friends I have to say goodbye to.

Decisions are hard.

I like it when my mom does my laundry.

Never have I ever

-been outside the country
-broken a normal bone (arm, leg, etc)
-had an older sister
-been in love
-ran away from home
- been tardy
-not cried at the end of Inside Out
-watched Lion King
-eaten sushi
-not been tired
-sluffed class
-dyed my hair
- accidentally laid in camel pee (oh wait, I've actually done that😂)

Sunrise, sunset

To the first grade crush:
I remember that we always played together at recess. We both scraped our elbows and knees a lot. It turned into a bit of a competition. Judging by the scars, I think I must have won.
To the second grade crush:
I remember when you found out I was moving you got me this big black teddy bear you stole from your sister. I don't know what happened to it.
To the third grade crush:
ah, Casper. Skipping third grade was actually quite fun together, don't you think?
To the fourth grade crush:
Your name is also the name of a state. I remember we played on the swings a lot. We played with the special needs class, which made me like you even more. We made up a game to see who could kick each other harder in the shins under the desk. I think we both lost. Also I was apparently a masochist.
To the fifth grade crush:
Ah the flirting that ensued. I really liked that you'd pretend to put your arm around me. Also, I liked that we held hands at that field trip during the movie. I didn't even remember that happened until just now.
To the sixth grade crush:
All I know is that you moved in and I liked you a whoooole lot. I heard people making fun of your name and I told them off. They gave me a funny look.
To the seventh grade crush:
We were set up by my best friend. Fun, awkward, nerdy, that's what we were. I guess you could say it was my first 'thing' because seventh grade plus relationships is like dividing by zero. I actually memorized Morse code for you. I don't remember it now.
To the eighth grade crush:
I see you in the halls every once in a while and you don't even say hi to me. Don't you remember that you used to walk me to class every day? Don't you remember that you gave me a huge hug in front of the science classroom door?
To the ninth grade crush:
Oh dear. This is when it started. And to be completely honest, it hasn't stopped. I sat in classes with you for years leading up to this moment without a second thought- and then BAM. One day, I got butterflies when I saw you. It doesn't help that you're a football player and I'm a nobody.
To the tenth grade crush:
Some guy told me you were gay. That made me really sad because I really liked you. You sat next to me in my drama class and when we watched Phantom, you sang along softly- oh, your voice. Then I found out you weren't gay. but you were a senior so I guess it was okay that you never noticed me. The ninth grade crush continued on.
To the eleventh grade crush:
We were dance partners, and that's exactly how it started. You liked a girl in Chamber choir and that's how I thought it would end, until summer started and all the sudden I was in my first relationship. It was all so new to me- kissing, holding hands, cuddling- that I didn't recognize the warning signs. Good thing the ninth grade crush continued on- neither guys actually asked me on a date, but at least one of them has opinions. And it's not the one who's on a mission now.
And finally-
To the senior year crush:
Oooooooh dear. This is a problem. The ninth grade crush continues on- I've realized that will probably still be a thing until I get married- but this other one is my issue. I'm a senior. Seventeen years old, wanting to date around but also partially wanting to be in a relationship just because hey, relationships are kinda fun. So when a 15-year-old comes along and sends my heart fluttering (AGAINST MY WILL, MIGHT I ADD), I am stuck. He won't be able to date until I'm in college. No. Bueno. NO BUENO. Eugh, that's so weird. But everything about him makes me wish he could have been born just a year or two later. I want to become as close of friends as possible, but seeing as I'm leaving in two short months, it's not fair to him that I feel this way. And I don't know what to do.
Anyways. ninth grade crush? you win the award for the longest-lasting. Basically you haven't yet done anything to thwart my affections towards you. Which is funny, because we have maybe spoken one word to each other in the last two years. But hi. How are you. I like you. You're really good at football and DAAAANG smart. Thanks for being the one constant in my life. ;)

Just... thanks.

I need people in my life like Em Pew. Like Kayla Edgel, like Andrew Rice. Like Emily Paulson, like Russell Davis, like Kelsea Kocherhans, like Clara Richardson,  Bailey Frampton, Daxton Glover, Celeste VanValkenburg, Harrison Fuller, Karen MacKay, Amy Miller, Miriam Edwards, Kimble Mahler, Stephen Brailsford,  Matthew Peterson,  Andralee Allen, Hailey Bennett. Jason Gibbons.  Mom. Dad.

I often forget that no matter where I am, I have someone I can call when I'm struggling. Someone who will see my hands shaking and quickened breathing, and envelop me in their arms. Someone who takes me by the shoulders in the midst of a panic attack, don't freak out when I slap them on accident (sorry, Andrew) and tell me I'm safe. That I'm not alone. I have so many someone's I can turn to in every circumstance, through thick and thin. Someone's I can support and comfort as well, who trusts me with their fears and insecurities. I truly hope they know how much I love and appreciate them.

Sometimes I feel invisible. Ignored. Lonely. This occurs because anxiety tells me no one loves me- because who would. Because someone who doesn't have a body and who wants everyone to be as miserable as he is tries every tactic possible to convince me that people hate me, that I'm worthless.

And when I finally open my eyes, I see you. I see the people supporting me from every side, even though many are struggling to stand themselves. I don't thank you as much as I should. I don't express to you what it means to me nearly enough. I am literally alive today because of friends, whom I consider family, like you.

From the bottom of my heart, through every cell and molecule and atom in my body, thank you. And I love you more than it's possible to describe. Please, don't forget that. Thank you for your hope. For your smiles. For everything.