It was a warm spring evening at the little league fields. The sun was just beginning to set and the warm breeze was blowing my loose red curls through the air. I was eight years old. I had been spending my night at my brother’s baseball game, but instead of actually watching the game, I spent most of my time occupying the playground. I would swing back and forth like a chimpanzee on the monkey bars and have competitions with the other kids over who could swing the highest. But my absolute favorite thing was the tire swing.

On this particular night, we had a large group of random kids playing on the playground together, so of course when one person hopped on the medium sized tire swing, 6 more kiddos followed. Lucky for me I hopped on with one little spot left and scored myself a ride.

As seats around the circumference of the swing began to fill up, we all got situated and yelled for someone to be the designated “pusher” along with the help of a few others. A tall, stocky ginger girl game up wearing what other than a mid-calf denim skirt and a baby blue sweater. (Good thing it wasn’t 70 degrees out…) Judging by her size she was clearly at least 2 years older than me. She stomped over in anger that had come on by not being able to sprint to the tire fast enough and had to be one of the kids that pushed. I think she might have been a little jealous of me, since I had gotten the last spot. I could sense the aggression that arose with her rosy cheeks.

“Everybody ready?” She announced with great force. Two other kids and I had mumbled back “No, wait a second,” as we finished swinging our legs around into the center hole. Apparently, she was a little deaf too. Because just a split second later she pushed the swing as hard as she could.

Butterflies jumbled around in my tummy as I suddenly felt nothing but air underneath me, I could’ve sworn I was a bird for a split second. I soared through the air before hitting the ground with a bang. Wood chips embedded themselves into my sleeve, my pants filthy with dirt. I lay on the ground motionless as I held my left arm secure to my body. I was careful not to cry, I didn’t want the other kids to think I was a baby. I glared up at that little brat. She did it on purpose I just knew it.

I spent the rest of the week calling home from school complaining to my mom about a pain in my arm. “Suck it up, you’re fine,” she would reply. Finally, after 4 days she gave in and brought me in to get x-rays and what do you know, there was a hairline fracture in my arm. I couldn’t believe it. It was just 2 weeks before I had to make my First Communion at church!

“Mom, what am I going to do?! Everyone is going to laugh at me! I can’t make my Communion now! I’m not walking up there in front of everyone!”

But of course I came to school the next day with my bright pink cast, and I was swarmed by a million 2nd graders like they were a family of bumble bees. They asked questions, they tried poking at it, acting like they had never witnessed a broken bone before. I was only comfortable with the cast and sling until a group of boys approached me.

“You’re only wearing that for attention.”
“That probably didn’t even hurt.”
“Were you too heavy that the swing tipped over?”
“What a little baby.”
“You’re just clumsy and couldn’t sit on a tire swing right.”

Although they were so young, their quips were surprisingly hurtful. Being the tough girl I was I held back any remarks and choked back tears. I wasn’t going to let them get to me.

But it was difficult. They made me feel embarrassed and ashamed, especially the way they made it feel like it was my fault. Looking back today, I realize that none of these even matter, but at the time their words really did hurt.

It then came time to make my first communion. Having to awkwardly receive the host with one arm raised, and grabbing the chalice full of wine, which was already a struggle for my tiny hands, was made even more difficult. My bright pink cast contrasted dramatically against my white dress, and was even more noticeable in the group photo, where I sat seated right front and center. I knew people were going to make fun of me. They would stare at me and laugh at me. How would I ever live this down?

Looking back, breaking my arm was definitely not the worst thing that could ever happen to me. When I first found out about the break, I felt like it was the end of the world. I felt kids would make fun of me for not being able to complete all the major tasks they were doing their second grade year. But after getting my cast removed, it made me understand that nothing lasts forever- both the good and the bad. You’ll experience many times in your life where you get knocked down and scraped up. Whether it be a broken bone or a broken heart, you’ll overcome even the greatest let-downs in life. Because, even after every dark night, the bright sun will always rise again the next morning. Nothing bad can last forever.