The Author of Your Own Story
A child once learned how to become an adult without realizing it. It happened while building forts that would not stand, riding bicycles a little too far from home, settling arguments with friends, getting lost, getting found, and discovering that mistakes were survivable. Nobody called it development. Nobody called it resilience. Nobody called it agency. It was simply called childhood. Growing up in Dickinson, there was not much supervision on a Tuesday afternoon in July. You left the house after breakfast, maybe came back for lunch if you felt like it, and showed up again when the streetlights buzzed on. Nobody tracked where you went. Nobody scheduled what you did. The neighborhood was the curriculum, and the lessons were not gentle. You figured out right quick which kids kept their word and which ones did not. You learned that a homemade ramp looks a whole lot more reasonable before you actually hit it. You discovered that a creek that looked crossable was not always crossable, an...