It’s that moment no one wants to admit.
The one where you know you wanted it more than them.
I could argue I spent my entire childhood in this state.
The one where I was the bastard child, and they were the full-blood.
The one where I was lucky he wanted to keep in touch with me.
Yes, in my child’s mind, I had to be worthy.
And it never left me.
I’ve lived a life proving myself worthy.
And you know what?
I’m tired.
I’m too tired.
I. am. worthy.
If you want me, then meet me halfway.
I’m worthy.
Crumbling teeth.
That which has been haunting my dreams, lately.
A feeling so visceral, I wake up in disbelief that my tongue meets more than gum.
Later to learn these dreams are associated with the loss of control.
Ha! Tell me about it.
I endured a childhood in the backseat and, as a result, made a career of being the only driver.
Until I wasn’t.
Until it wasn’t my car and I watched at the mercy of others.
Desperate to regain control, I reach.
Options. Opportunities. Possibilities.
Catch and, in time, release.
Catch, Lauren.
Then, Release.
I am someone who likes to record -through photographs, with words.
Sometimes I wonder if that means I am obsessed with looking back but then I disregard that notion because there is so much I look forward to!
I’m curious.
What do you do?
Do you record, through photographs, albums, diaries?
If not, is it for a reason or do you wish you would?
Tell me, what about you?
Oh, my!
The labels.
The reasons.
The excuses why we aren’t already who we aren’t meant to be.
What does it take?
Truly.
What is it going to take?
To be true. To be real about who. we. are?
When will our “character flaw” stop becoming our excuse?
When will our excuse stop being our character flaw?
I was screaming.
Lying on the dance studio floor, lights out, next to a dozen other students, screaming as loud as my lungs would allow for my lost mother, father, sister and brother.
It was my sophomore year of high school and my best friend Harper had talked me into my first-ever audition for the Fall dramatic play, “I Never Saw Another Butterfly”, based on a little girl’s experience at the concentration camp in Terezin. To the surprise of many, and yet mostly myself, I landed the lead role: Raja Englanderova.
It became a defining moment in my life.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had a hypersensitive heart.
Long ago, when it rained, I used to tape plastic containers over the top of the ant hills that formed along the walkway to our house. I didn’t want them to drown.
And when another experienced a loss, it felt like my own. I mourned, as if I had known them well, too.
I felt deeply but was mocked, shamed and criticized for it.
They thought I wanted attention, when all I ever really wanted was to lend my oversized heart.
To reach.
I ended up leading two more plays in high school and when it came time to graduate, I asked my drama teacher to write me a parting note.
And what he said has never left me:
“Give to the world your deeply felt heart.”
Well, World, here it is!
Look here.
Look there.
Look to him.
Look to her.
Look online.
But let’s not forget,
to look inside.
For there is where the true answer lies.
No, I cannot understand where you are coming from.
And yes, I realize you feel the same.
So, instead, let’s agree to disagree.
A truce.
Ah-ha!
No need to be everything to everyone.
No need to do it all.
Instead, be who we are.
No need to pretend.
No need to force.
Instead, discover our strengths and exercise them.
Share them.
For we know not who we inspire.
Ah- ha.
Follow me, she says.
Come along and see what I see.
For I am a mighty girl!
So let me lead.
Because one day, you see,
she will be.
So let me lead. 
Camille Vaughan Photography
Believe it or not, I was the captain of my Varsity Cross Country Team in high school. I attended a tiny, all-girls boarding school just outside of Baltimore, Maryland, filled with rolling hills and scenic trails through deciduous forests. I like to tease that I led from the back because truth-to-be-told I struggled and wasn’t all that good.
Our coach was a Vietnam Vet and also our American History teacher who completely filled the giant wall-sized chalkboard with keywords he would use to tell the story of the battle, using a broken golf club to whack the board and grab our attention when necessary. He walked with a limp, a war injury, and during our running practices would scream, “UP THE HILL, DOWN THE HILL, CAN’T GO THROUGH IT, MUST GO OVER, JUST KEEP GOING.”
I found myself chanting this long after our meets were over. After high school, after an abusive relationship in college, as I worked 60+ hour weeks into the weekend as a teacher, during labor, and now, as a mother of four children with a marriage, house, and part-time sales job to tend to.
Do I want to quit? YES. So many times! So many days! I’m too tired to get over this damn hill and I just want to sit the hell down. But in the midst of consideration, I can so clearly see and hear Mr. Bailey barking orders at me. I can only imagine what he endured to conquer his hills and in my weakest moments, I scrape the barren remnants of my energy reserves and find the strength and will to carry on.
To Just. Keep. Going.
Because the view from the top, I know, is amazing.
Camille Vaughan Photography
