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So, look: I’m a nerd—but that’s pretty well-established. It all started in lower school (4th grade-ish). My parents got me this HUGE monster of a book called Percy Jackson’s Greek Gods because of my interest in constellations and the stories behind them.

Little did they know that the book would be the source of their annoyance for the foreseeable future. I didn’t want to try it at first and didn’t read it—then I finally did. I read it, read it again, and again, and again until I basically had that whole book memorized word-for-word. All the major myths, memorized. Then I read the actual series—and all the series that followed.

In 7th grade, I had my favorite teacher—TO THIS DAY. (I’ll try to keep this short, but that school year as a whole deserves its own blog post. You’re welcome.) She taught me Latin in 6th grade, but in 7th, she was my homeroom teacher. She taught history (ancient Mesopotamia, Greece, Rome, and some American history), Middle Eastern/Mediterranean geography, and Latin. I know, it sounds so boring—but it wasn’t; they were so fun. Everyone loved them. I read the Aeneid (in Latin) and the Odyssey that year.

Anyway, I really started being fascinated with the history—not just the myths. My parents and I went to Greece that summer, and that absolutely sealed my fate. 

Because of the not-so-good stuff that happened in 7th grade, we decided to homeschool me for 8th grade—my last year before high school. DUH-DUH-DUN! I learned a ton with such a flexible schedule (which was unlike me. I am NOT physically flexible). But I had a lot of time to write, or at least brainstorm, my own novels—centered around mythology, of course.

Moving on, now in 9th grade, I’m back to regular school, and I’m just taking the required “filler” classes. I’m now having those talks about colleges—and I know what I want to do. I want to get a degree in writing and/or ancient studies. I want to either study abroad in Europe for a semester or dive head-first straight into the deep end and spend all four years abroad.

I’d better end this before it turns into another mythology rant. My parents just love those!

DISCLAIMER: This article may bring up deeply buried emotions, both positive and negative, about previous school experiences. 

Yeah…middle school. Notoriously, the worst years of one’s childhood. I think I’ve mentioned it enough that it's pretty much the elephant in the room, so here goes nothing. 

During my family’s cross-country trip, I was homeschooled for fifth grade. One day, I sat sandwiched between my parents in our RV’s dinette. My mom’s iPad was on the table, on a call with the administrator of a small private school in North Carolina. We talked with her and some of the teachers. 

I got in. I remember that moment, that feeling of relief, like it was yesterday. AKA my biggest life-changing thing that ever happened to me at that point. 

Sixth grade wasn’t bad, but it was nothing great. I liked my ELA and Latin teachers. Math was hard; we only had it for 45 minutes per week. I promise you I’m not lying. And I didn’t like my science teacher—but it was nothing compared to the next year. (Dun, dun, duh!) 

Since it was such a small school, all the girls from middle school hung out together. Ten middle school girls. Yeah, you’re probably not wrong for thinking, “yikes!” You had one of every type of girl, for sure, but it didn’t get BAD until seventh grade. 

Seventh grade. There are just no words to capture the stress, anger, frustration—and the phenomenal parts. 

My math teacher (also the principal and owner of the school, the seventh-grade science teacher, sometimes the geography and American history teacher, and my friend’s father) seemed to think pre-algebra meant learning everything in algebra without the proper formulas. His science and American history classes were torture for my hands; notes, notes, notes for an hour and a half straight. His teaching method for African geography was more like “I’m-not-going-to-teach-anything-like-weather-and landscape-so-I’m just-going to require-you-to-memorize-all-50-plus-countries-on-a-map-and-their-capitals.” In other words: STRESS. In middle school. Reeeaaaal fun. 

He’d give us packets (20+ pages) from a college-level textbook. Yes, college. In seventh grade. For multiple subjects. And 45 minutes of math per week, which, as logic may suggest, is not nearly enough time to learn the basic algebra skills for future math. You see, the school, which was owned by him and his wife, prided itself on being so hard. Did I mention that the administrator we talked to was his wife? Yeah, that might’ve been important for you to know. My parents told me that he didn’t say anything to the parents complaining about the workload at the parent-teacher conference. He refused to change for the well-being of his students. I’m not just saying it was hard because I didn’t feel like doing it. But I am saying that because there was endless busywork and memorization that was a major timesuck, which doesn’t make it a challenging class. Just so we’re clear, giving students a packet isn’t teaching. Yapping at students for hours without making sure we understand is not teaching. 

You’re probably thinking, “Oh, you’re being dramatic!”

Really? Tell that to my 13-year-old self sobbing after 3-4 hours of homework a night. (Shoutout to my parents for putting up with me!)

Soon, all the girls who had him as a teacher for more than one subject started to talk crap about him. Naturally, his daughter didn’t like that and didn’t believe us. Boom, tension! 

Now, let’s talk about the administrator for a second. We had a project period every Tuesday after lunch, where my other teacher (I’ll get to her soon) would set up fun things for us to do. For one project, she got REAL coins from Ancient Rome and taught us how to identify who the emperor on it was, when it was made, where it was minted, and more. So, naturally, instead of doing more cool stuff like that, the administrator decided to take that time over and use it for “maker space” where we did these stupid things like building little robots out of toothbrush heads, which never worked. Then it was the African animal project.  We had to work in groups to build elephants, giraffes, or whatever out of trash. Oh, sorry, “recycled materials.” Everyone hated it. Even my other teacher couldn’t hold in her annoyance with her. One time, the administrator looked at what I was working on with a friend and suggested something, and my friend and I looked at each other. We were so over it, so done, ready to just wrap up the whole project. So, my friend rolled her eyes, and the administrator caught it, and we had to act like that never happened. In a psychologically messed-up way, I’m so glad she saw that; it still makes me smile. 

The only thing that kept me afloat at school was my world history and Latin classes—both taught by the best teacher I’ve ever had (and will ever have). We were covering ancient history, like Mesopotamia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. I like to “brag” about the fact that the first time I read the Aeneid (the origin myth of Rome) was in the Latin language—in that class. She made it so fun, so interesting. That parent-teacher conference I mentioned? She changed her workload, making it shorter and letting kids have it a few days earlier to get ahead of the weekly homework. 

That was when I really started to love ancient stuff. I mean, I’d read Percy Jackson by that point, which was also a way for me to escape the stress, to feel like other kids my age were going through a hard time, too. We—myself and the characters—were all just trying to keep our heads above water, trying to get by with something way too tough for kids our age. I practically taught myself to hyper-analyze a book; characters, plot, antagonists—the whole shebang. Now I can’t enjoy a book because my brain is like, “Oh, well, this character is SLIGHTLY not EXACTLY what I like.” Hopefully, now you can understand why I appreciate Percy Jackson so much. 

Anyway, I still look up to that teacher to this day. She loved mythology and history, and she spent time in Greece and Italy doing archeological digs before becoming a teacher. That just sounds like the coolest thing ever to me, and, honestly, she was the reason I really started to love and obsess over mythology and history. 

If that doesn’t say enough, I went to Greece that summer. 

So, yeah, when I talk about seventh grade, it’s impossible to describe without someone walking that mile in my life in my shoes. If, for some reason, you still don’t believe me about the stress and frustration, I’m happy to let you know that I wasn’t the only one who left; ALL BUT TWO GIRLS IN MY GRADE LEFT THAT YEAR. Those girls had circumstances that made them unable to leave the school.

When I wasn’t thinking about my time in Greece (which was 99% of the time), I was still in my head about seventh grade. I really struggled with letting my anger go. (Cue Elsa singing “Let it Go.”) I was furious that someone could be so cruel as to let people suffer and refuse to acknowledge that their method of teaching wasn’t working. If you look up the definition of “evil,” you’ll find that it means immoral or refusing to accept right and wrong. I’ll let you decide how to describe him, but you did not live it. 

It took me a long, long time—almost to about a quarter of the way into eighth grade—but then I realized something: I felt as if I stopped thinking about the bad parts of that school constantly, it would mean I forgave them. I couldn’t do that. There was no way I’d ever forgive them. But then I thought: Just because you don’t think about someone doesn’t mean that you forgive them. That was the trick I came up with, as simple as that. 

So, in a very frustrating way, I found myself that year. I wouldn’t know that I want to study abroad in Greece, and do more with ancient history and mythology if it wasn’t for my one teacher. All of that also inspired me to try to learn Greek and Spanish, and to write more. 

Now, almost three years later, actually on this past Tuesday, I got my results from the National Medusa Mythology Exam: silver medal. I couldn’t have done that if I hadn't found myself. 

The more time that goes by, the more I realize how morally wrong it is for schools to be like that. And how important it is for everyone to find that one teacher, or person in general, to inspire them. More work and a lack of teaching do not mean it’s a good school. 

To all middle schoolers, whether it's the workload or friends, you’ll get through it. Find your thing, the thing you can obsess over, a way to escape. Anything, as long as it works for you. And remember: not thinking about something or someone does not mean you forgive them. 

The wind still blows. The birds still fly. The weather still changes. Trees still grow. Friends still laugh. And I still have to study for finals. 

I don’t know why I expected anything to change. But, without you, it feels like an insult that everything and everyone is still acting like nothing changed. Maybe they know, maybe they don’t. Maybe they sense I’ve been quieter this week, maybe they don’t. Someone has to feel that a part of me isn’t myself anymore, right? People can’t be that oblivious, I think. Yet somehow they still are. 

I guess losing you hurts this much because when you love someone, they’re in your heart, so it's like a part of me is broken when you’re gone. 

I hear your claws scratch the wooden floor when you follow Mom. I see your brown, furry butt sticking up in the air when you want to play. I feel your thick fur, then the fur by your collar that always reminded me of a puppy’s. I see you climbing those rocks on the Volcano Hike in Southern Utah, running with Aleah on the red rocks at Valley of Fire—each time, your brownish-red eyes lit up with energy. 

Remember all those times camping? We’ve always joked that you’re the most well-traveled dogs in the country. What about that time when you lay out on the patio of Gramps’ house in Florida? I’m surprised you liked it there so much, even though it was humid. Remember, on the hiking path near our house in Park City, you chased a deer and almost got it? 

You truly were a Utah dog; you loved to run and be free. Nothing could stop you. 

I love you, Chance. 

There’s this quote from Heroes of Olympus about drowning, “…the feeling that [Percy] was sinking into too many expectations, literally getting in over his head” (Riordan). 

If you twist the perspective a bit, imagine the expectations are just what you’re expected to do every day. Wake up at 5:30AM five days a week. Spend eight hours locked in school each day, with the only chance to breathe fresh air being our thirty-minute lunch. Get home at 4:00PM. Then repeat. 

(To be fair, I really do enjoy school; It’s not all awful. But just hear me out.)

Have you ever heard someone say (or maybe it was yourself) to someone younger, “Oh, you’ll find your thing when you get older”? Like, bold of you to assume I haven’t, BETTY! 

Or maybe it wasn’t exactly that, but something else that made a younger person feel less respected, less like they’re growing up, less like they have an identity beyond just being a kid. Now, I’m not blaming you for being a Betty—it’s almost expected, and no one tells you it’s not always true. 

One time, my parents and I were at a neighbor's party, and a woman asked me a few questions about my school, then said, “You’ll find your true best friend eventually.” It would be an understatement to say my ears rang, my head spun—only because she assumed I didn’t have a BFF. A simple thing, really, to assume that I didn’t have a crazy friend that I left behind in Utah that says “hot” more like “hawt.” (She’s nuts, but I wouldn’t trade her for the world.) 

Also, looking back at freshman year, my favorite teachers—and the ones I learned the most from—made an effort to get to know each student, their personality, and their interests. A few questions can really make someone feel good. When one of my teachers realized that I love to read and write, he asked me for any book recommendations—then wrote what I said in his phone. That literally made my day. 

I know I’m talking about kids, teens, and younger people in general, but I feel like this could apply to anyone in a certain situation. All I’m saying is think about it. Ask before you assume. I would say it shouldn’t be that hard, but people seem to surprise everyone these days. If someone says a Betty-like comment to you, well…I haven’t quite figured out what to do in that situation yet. 

So, back to the monotonous routine: what actually makes me break that feeling? It’s literally the idea or thought of something. When I watch a video of someone on a horse, cantering in the West, I get this sense of freedom. I don’t really know how to explain it; it’s just this desire to do that. To be that comfortable, to be in a rhythm with the horse. I guess watching “Yellowstone” didn’t help…

Another thing is looking at a picture of the Mediterranean—Greece, Italy, it doesn’t matter. I just absolutely love how in every picture, I can feel the air, the sun. All I want to do is spend more time there, which is where some of my frustrations with the expectations of everyday life come from. 

Why do I feel like I, as a teen, can’t know what I want to do? Thanks, Betty. It’s really nice of you. Feeling like no one truly understands you is one of the worst feelings. It’s like you're in this spiraling black hole, but it’s invisible to everyone else. You can see the way out, what you want to do, but you just can’t get out. 

In a way, the idea of escaping to another place is very similar to reading—and probably why I enjoy it so much. I can experience many things by just looking at words on paper. If you think about it, that’s pretty amazing. 

So, I guess you say I’m “drowning” in everyone’s expectations of what I should be like. But, whatever, I don’t care. I’ll just be here, imagining myself cantering through some ancient ruins in the Mediterranean, the dry air blowing.