My mom always told me that life is not fair, but no matter what, I need to keep living each day as it comes with my head held high.  As a young teenager, I understood the definition of this phrase, but only perceived it as an excuse parents use to get out of buying the latest PlayStation.  I lived my life as a passenger, always observing the actions of others, until one fateful day life forced me into the driver’s seat. 

I was 14 at the time, and slowly rolled out of bed to start off my first week of high school.  I briefly nodded “hello” to my dad drinking his cup of coffee at the kitchen table as I wiped the summer sleep out of my eyes.  As I was pouring milk onto my Cheerios, I was startled by the loud crash of my dad’s chair falling to the floor.  Sprawled across the floor, my dad reached for the phone, but it was too late; the heart attack had already sent his body into convulsions.  The next minutes were suspended in a wicked time warp as I desperately tried to bring life back into his body, screaming to God to let it be a dream.  My dad was then held in the ICU at our local Plano hospital for eleven days in a coma until he was pronounced dead. 

At this point in time, the stark reality of the “life is unfair” quote struck me with an unforgettable harshness.  Here I was starting out the ninth grade, and I was instantly labeled as (gasp) “The Girl Whose Dad Died!”  I wanted the random classmates who approached me to compliment my outfit or invite me to the football game, not inquire loudly, “How did your dad die?”  This left me in a constant state of choking down tears and feeling completely isolated from the remainder of the student body. 

Being the wonderful parent my mom is, she quickly noticed the need for me to grieve in a place where I could fit in, but receive specialized attention.  A friend of hers recommended for our family to attend Journey of Hope, and the rest became history.  For the first time I was able to communicate with other teens who felt the same deeply inflicted wounds as me.  I was provided a place where it was ok to show emotion, which I had a tendency to avoid around my mom and brother.  At JOH we shared tears, embraces, shouts, and laughs.  Sometimes just moments of silence worked wonders as I was able to look around the room and know I was not alone.  No longer was I isolated under the burning spot light. 

As I grew to accept and conquer the “unfairness” through high school and then college, I realized it was my turn to give back.  I became a facilitator at JOH in May 2006 as a way to say “thank you” to the facilitators who once helped me years ago.  I have a deep desire to help kids and teens who are experiencing pain only understandable from the inside looking out.  JOH was there for me through the most difficult years of my life, and I can only hope to pass that along to someone else.