Most kids are afraid of the dark. I’m not too sure why, in my youth, I was never scared of the dark or monsters or anything of the sort. However, I possessed a fear that in only two seconds could make my entire body feel as though someone had hit an off button. Sweaty hands. Shaking legs. The inability to speak, much less breathe. It was the way I felt when I was forced to speak to most people that were older than me. To this day, I cannot grasp the exact reasons for why I felt this way; however, I do know that teachers were the absolute worst. Throughout pre-school, I would purposely avoid ever having to talk to them alone. Whether it was the old, scary Mrs. D with the gray hair and loud voice or the young, soft-spoken Mrs. Mary, I would cringe at the thought of them choosing to sit by me for lunch. Shy was an understatement. With my comfort zone consisting of children my age and my close family, I could never seem to muster the confidence I needed. Little did I know that that one trivial fear alone would change a large part of my personality forever.


It all started with Hilary. As I entered the kindergarten classroom of St. Angela Merici School, I became excited after noticing that we would be coloring that day. At our circular tables, we sat quietly waiting for morning prayer. We were always elated to hear our sanguine principal Mr. Campbell on the intercom every morning. He was a fun, jolly fellow; but of course, I rarely ever conversed with him. Suddenly, I realized that I had to use the restroom. As I pushed away from the table, Hilary ran to the front of the room to ask Mrs. Lisa to use the bathroom. With only one restroom for our kindergarten class, I knew that I would simply have to wait. After patiently waiting for what, to a 6 year old, felt like eternity, I asked Mrs. Lisa to use the restroom. Already shaken up at the fact that I had to talk to the teacher, I subconsciously blocked out what I knew she was saying. “Hilary is in there right now, but you may go when she comes out.” Mrs. Lisa’s kindergarten class stood up at the sound of the morning bell. Walking back to my chair, I intently stared at the bathroom door. What could she possibly be doing in there? Mr. Campbell made some announcements and began to pray. Making the sign of the cross, I knew what I had to do. I had to tell Mrs. Lisa it was an emergency, but I could never! I could barely ask to go to the bathroom without running away from this woman, this teacher who could cause me to blush by simply making eye contact with me. My eyes never left the bathroom door. As we began the pledge of allegiance, my body decided it did not care if I was too frightened to run to the teacher. I felt the warm urine trickle down my legs and onto my socks. For the first time in my kindergarten class, I purposely looked directly at Mrs. Lisa. Why couldn’t I have just told her? What was I thinking? I did know one thing; I despised Hilary. My grandma came with dry clothes, I cleaned up, and I finished the school day. Even though I was a young child, I understood that I was going to have to speak up to not only Mrs. Lisa, but all of my teachers. Mrs. Lisa and the kindergarten aides made me feel comfortable that day, and I was gradually able to warm up to other people in my life, even Mr. Campbell. I learned that older people weren’t so intimidating after all. It is unfortunate that it took urinating on myself to cause me to realize such a thing.












Twelve years later and I can still remember the events of that day as if they happened yesterday. Sure, plenty of children pee on themselves. What’s the big deal? Although it may seem like a trivial moment, I believe that that day changed me. I do not consider myself a shy person; however, every now and then I find myself feeling intimidated by teachers or higher authority. I grew up that day in my kindergarten class. I just wish I would have been afraid of the dark like normal kids.