As I age I consider making a change to be easier in some respects, though much harder in others. In my earlier years change meant dropping a fattening food, moving to a new location, a new job, marriage, being pregnant, raising three children, nurturing my family. Now, 35 years older, change has taken on more permanent decisions: do I sell my house, do I move to a condo or an assisted living facility, do I relinquish myself to old age.

We change out of our bed clothes into work, gym or leisure clothes. We change our minds about tonight’s dinner or calling a friend. We change the living room, bedroom furniture into a different pattern. We change from standard time to daylight savings time. But every cell in our body changes daily, it lives or dies and we age. What does not always change is our mind set of what is right or wrong, what is fair or unjust, what we believe is truth.

I have mellowed with age. I listen more closely, I hold back my response, I ponder. I still explode over abortion rights, civil rights, a child being bullied or abused, a woman raped. I more easily accept a grandchild upset over one of their friends crying or their Dad has to be away for several days.

Change means not going back but forward. It means you have had enough of what is and want more of what is possible. Change means giving up what you have been comfortable with, yet are now uncomfortable, and still are afraid maybe you will make the ‘wrong’ decision, take yet another wrong or agonizing path on your lifeline.

I have three daughters. I divorced my husband when they were 7, 9 and 11. It was wrenching. I felt I was on my own, maybe should have stayed in marriage, and I was fearful my husband would not pay child support. I had our house, my three children, a job but I had to make changes.

My greatest challenge was to believe in myself. To change from fearful mood swings, manipulation and deception from my husband to freedom to be myself for the first time in my life.

My best friend was Susie Jones.  Our back yards abutted.  We were both in first grade and our parents became good friends.  I don’t remember my other classmates.  Susie and I either walked to school or rode our bikes.  On weekends we both took skating lessons which was great fun. Susie was always up for anything I wanted to do and I thoroughly enjoyed her friendship.

I excelled in school.  I loved my teacher, Miss Hahn, and I was confident.  Art and gym were my favorite classes, but I did well in reading, math and science.

At home, I was not as carefree.  I was no longer sucking my thumb, but I was biting my nails.  My parents were determined to stop this habit and went so far as to put red pepper on my fingers and white cotton gloves on my hands at night.  These remedies did not work.  I don’t remember when I stopped biting my nails.

In 1952 my Father made the decision to return to Chicago and enter private practice.  I was devastated.  I loved Rochester, my friend Susie, my school and the freedom I enjoyed.  At home I was an introvert, but my life at school, outdoor playing, was carefree and I had a sense of belonging.  

My parents bought a house that seemed huge at the time.  Living room, kitchen, dining room, double garage, rec room, three bathrooms, a laundry room, den, entryway, yard and giant oak and maple trees.  The elementary school was one mile from my home.  And oddly enough, there was a corner grocery store on our block.

It was July and the school asked that I be tested for my competence in math and reading in preparation for entering third grade after Labor Day.  I tested below grade average in math as Rochester’s schools were on a different curriculum than the Chicago Public Schools.  The school administration told my parents I was not going to do well if I did not catch up on my math skills over the summer.  

Workbooks were recommended and I spent an hour a day on math.  I don’t recall my parents helping me out, but maybe they did.  What they didn’t do is reassure me that I was smart even though behind in math because of no fault of my own.

This was the turning point of my belonging to not belonging. 

I had made a few friends in my neighborhood, so I did not enter school knowing no one.  My friends, however, were not in the popular click and so I was on the fringe of what was cool.  I didn’t know about makeup, deodorant, boys, nor was I prepared for adolescence.  I was a tom boy.  I played with the boys, I boxed and was pitcher for a girls softball team.   My Father taught me how to catch a football.

School was tough.  I felt stupid and embarrassed by my stupidity.  Math was a struggle, I got above average grades but not without a lot of work.  Reading was the last thing I wanted to do.  It seemed to take me forever to get through a few pages of a book and even then I did not comprehend what I had read.  This was the point at which I decided to be quiet, to not try to lead but rather go with the flow and hope the popular kids would think I was smart, or at least as smart as most of them.  I wanted to belong as I had in Rochester.