Pulling back my curtains, I see a boat floating down calm, blue waters. It is guided by the captain and occupied by his family. All is well; there is no sense of urgency. The captain’s family laughs and sings songs while gaily anticipating their wonderful destination. Smiles stretch from ear to ear; it is blissful. That is, until cheery skies disappear, replaced by dark, menacing clouds. The wind picks up, pushing waves that start rocking the boat violently. No one is smiling now. The captain loses grip of the wheel, falling backwards. The scared, frightened daughter grabs it, frantically trying to steer the boat back into safety. She is now the captain.

That girl was me in ninth grade, thrust into steering my family’s boat. Stormy skies of debt and conflict rained on our sunny skies, destroying any sense of stability. My parents argued, rocking the boat back and forth. It rained a lot. Debt collectors called daily; our family pride, the car, was taken. I had nowhere to turn to. With no choice, I took the wheel, trying to steer. I pleaded with my parents not to divorce; we can get through this. I faked happiness for my younger brother, to give him hope, to raise his spirits. I told my parents we were all in this together, that we would survive. What silly things to say and do -- who was I to take the wheel?

Looking back, I realize I wasn’t ready to lead my family. But it was about pushing forward when nothing else seemed plausible. My mother told me I was her shining light then. I did help us back to our original destination. Never in my life would I have thought that I’d be the one to steer a ship, let alone save one.