I’ve always loved the Tim McGraw song, “Live Like You’re Dying.”

When I was kid I desperately wanted a skateboard. My mother never bought me one. I did, however find an old broken one in the woods across from my house. I would roll down the sidewalk on the one half I could find completely oblivious to the lurking dangers of tetanus and its BFFLs.

A few weeks ago I bought a longboard. I’ve been skating on campus sometimes with kids, sometimes without. One of my students skates with me every time I go out. We’ve since developed a following. There are now a total of about 9 girls that have asked to skateboard with me. They’re learning slowly. It’s cute. I’m glad that I can teach them something that I wanted to learn to do.

The undercurrents of adult delivered criticism are good intentions and humor, but it’s amazing just how many people tell me I’m too old to skateboard. Is that it? Am I too old? Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because I’m a woman of color? Either way, that mentality sucks. I don’t ever want to stop myself from doing something I want to do because of age gender, or race.

I saw my mother deteriorate sitting in the lap of her dialysis machine. I don’t want that to be me. I don’t have a choice. A day will come where I have to have my blood slurped from within, cleansed and redeposited. It scares me a bit. It makes angry. But most of all, it makes me sad. I don’t want to acknowledge my impending imprisonment. I want to accomplish things in life slowly, and methodically. I don’t want to be ruled by a genetically imposed timeline. It’s not up to me though.

Mary Catherine’s death floored me. When I think about it, I just want to sit in the corner of my couch and cry. She meant a lot to me. I missed her last time I was in Pittsburgh. I intended to see her on my way to Seattle. I can’t. She died. So much has happened in the last few weeks and it’s overwhelming. Relying on God is overwhelming. Not having a plan for August is scary. What will happen when B.O.L.D is over? I’m trusting God… I’m trying to trust God. It’s hard.

I can’t help but feel alone. Again. As usual.

My 27th birthday was yesterday. It was a good day. The girls at work were sweet. They screamed happy birthday at the top of their lungs. They were kind, wonderful, everything I could’ve wanted for birthday companions. A friend bought me a cake and a card. It was nice. No regrets.