My Best Day

A No. 10 envelope changed my life.

Last week, I wrote about worst days, and whether and how they define you.

The topic itself, and the conversations that ensued thereafter, opened a Pandora’s box of questions, many of which I’m still wrestling with. As soon as I loosened the lid, one of the questions that slipped out is whether it’s just our worst days that define us. Or could it be our best days too?

I’ve never asked someone about their best day. If I was still dating, I think I’d put that one in my repertoire. I expect there’s probably a go-to list, a commonality of responses that includes life’s biggest moments.

But, when I think about my best day, the one that has turned out to define me in ways I could never have imagined, it’s not one you would guess.

• It’s not my wedding day, although that was pretty fucking fantastic.

• It’s not the day my daughter was born, although she probably thinks so.

• Or the day my book was published.

It’s the day I received a letter. A single sheet of paper in a No. 10 envelope.

In my Senior year of high school, I was involved in all the things. Student Council, Key Club, my church youth group, dance, the list goes on. There was never a weekend that wasn’t busy, and this particular weekend was no different. It happened to be the weekend of Winterfest, our high school’s version of the Sadie Hawkins dance, and, serendipitously, my birthday weekend. Given my role on Student Council, I spent most of Friday after school blowing up balloons, hot gluing stuff together, and crawling around the gym floor connecting decorations to power outlets with extension cords and electrical tape. I came home dirty and exhausted, ready to fall into bed knowing I had to go back to school in the morning to finish up before getting ready for the dance.

My Mom was watching tv on the couch when I walked in. She smiled up at me, asked how the decorations were coming along, and went back to some George Burns show on PBS.

I trudged up the stairs, backpack heavy on my shoulder, desperate for a shower.

I walked into my room and flipped on the light. Dropping my backpack on the floor by my bed, I saw an envelope on top of my bedspread. I picked it up, curious, and looked at the return address. My hands started shaking. I turned to call down to my mom, as she clearly knew what news the envelope contained and hadn’t said a word, but I stopped. Neither of us knew what the letter inside the envelope said, and I wanted to find that part out on my own.

I sat down on my bed, breathing audibly.

Nine months ago, I hadn’t even wanted this. My plan had been completely different. Now? The contents of this envelope could contain the invitation to a future I had just started to imagine.

I slid my index finger under the sealed lip, carefully ripping through the top to expose the piece of paper inside. I unfolded the paper, hearing it rattle as my hands shook. My eyes were slow to focus as I looked down and read the first line…

“We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected for the Park Scholarships at North Carolina State University.”

I read it twice…three times…then quickly scanned the rest of the letter to make sure there wasn’t some catch, some additional qualification or criteria I was missing. Confident I understood at least the crux of the letter, I started screaming…

“Mom! Mom! I got it! I got it!”

I raced down the stairs, almost falling down the final three, as she stood at the bottom, tears in her eyes. I almost knocked her down as she hugged me. Grabbing my face, she looked into my eyes, and said “You did it! I just knew you would.”

One day. One letter. One line.

I’m not prone to hyperbole, but this one changed my life.

It wasn’t just about the money. But, it also wasn’t not about the money.

The Park Scholarship is a full ride to North Carolina State University. Four years of tuition, room and board, books, computer, personal expenses. I expected to receive some financial aid at the other schools I was applying to, but nothing like this. And for an almost adult that knew the financial situation of her single mother, this package was more than just relief, it was freedom for both of us.

So, the money is the part I knew about.

I had also gotten a tiny taste of the people. During Finalist weekend, I was quietly floored by the other applicants. They were brilliant, yes, but also genuine. Exceptional problem-solvers, but also story tellers and jokesters. Their resumes rivaled and in many cases, dwarfed my own, but they didn’t talk about them. I spent most of the weekend giggling with a young man from a tiny town in Western North Carolina. He never once mentioned that he would be coming to school to pursue design. Fashion design, that is. I had no idea he was a fucking savant and that one day he’d be designing for Beyonce and Simone Biles and the Duchess of Sussex.

What I knew is that his laugh made me laugh. And that felt like home.

We laughed our way through the next four years

When I accepted the scholarship, I did so without reservation. I had no idea why they selected me. Sure, I fit the mold for Scholarship and Service, two of their criteria, and possibly Leadership if the fact that I just kept volunteering to be in charge of things counted. The final criteria, Character, is the one that confused me most, not because I was an amoral kid or in any way demonstrated a lack of character. Moreso that I didn’t see in myself something that embodied strong character; that felt more aspirational than actual, and so I was left to wonder “Why me?”

I still wonder “Why me?” especially because the four years that followed became foundational in every aspect of who I am today.

Academically, NC State University was one of the first schools to implement a Genetics minor, thanks to the progressive foresight of Dr. Wendell McKenzie. His tutelage and mentorship introduced me to the field of genetic counseling, my first career, and the humility and humanity he demonstrated towards me and all of his students remain my guiding light for how to treat people.

Service became not just something I did, but someone I was. A person who served. But I also became a person who understood how to serve effectively. The Park taught me how to listen to the people I wanted to help, to hear what “help” meant to them, and to adjust my service accordingly. I was exposed to the administrative side of serving - the planning, the volunteer coordination, the multiple stakeholders, the politics. And I learned how to figure it the fuck out when something went sideways, as it always does. I serve with my whole self now, including my brain, the how to serve an evaluative mechanism that dominates decisions about where to spend my money, time, and resources.

I did not learn how to lead at NC State. Instead, I marveled at those who were powerfully good at it and got my teeth kicked in as I tried to finesse my rather big personality and rather healthy self esteem into someone others might want to follow.

What I learned instead was humility. As a Park Scholar, I somehow eeked my way into a community of Saints, superheroes, and statesmen. My fellow Scholars were and are exceptional…authentically, not performatively. I didn’t know how to do that, how to be that, and I spent years struggling to feel that my efforts, accolades, and ambitions were enough. Until I realized that I am not the big fish. I am not the one on stage, the one with adoring fans, the one whose name will be on a building some day.

I am the one who helps the big fish swim.

And my leadership is to leverage all that I bring to the table to take those big ideas from the whiteboard to the real world. I will never come up with the idea to build a well in an African village, but by God, I will figure out where to get the shovels, how to move them across the ocean, and what flight you need to be on to make the ribbon cutting water spout ceremony!

I used to think that meant I was underselling myself, too afraid or too incompetent or too unlikeable to be the big fish. After all, aren’t Park Scholars supposed to be big fish?

Of course not. They are supposed to do big things, and that requires being whatever kind of fish is needed to get the thing done.

And that is the character that they must have seen in me that I never recognized in myself. The initiative to keep going on the big things even as I was struggling with my own lack of big fishness. The understanding that the big thing trumped any individual thing, and the commitment to doing the big thing the right way. They could see that I was a big thing kinda person, and they chose to invest in teaching me how to make the big thing happen.

Because they knew, and I learned, that it is always about the well, and the water, and never about the person holding the shovel.

My best day absolutely defines me, and for that, I am forever grateful. Who I became as a result of the Park Scholarship Program has impacted every decision, every opportunity, and every achievement since. I cannot disentangle the two, nor would I want to.

One day. One letter. One line.

I didn’t keep the envelope, but I got to keep everything else.

I marvel at the power of such a small thing, the origin story of my personal development tied to an envelope.

I throw away most of my mail now without ever looking at it. I’m sure my mailman hates us as we often fail to check the mail for weeks on end. Literally, I doubt there will ever again be an envelope on my bed, the contents of which could change my life.

But there are so many figurative envelopes, and as I make copious decisions day after day, sometimes I wonder which ones are envelopes in disguise. I believe there can be more than one best day in a lifetime, a fortunate counter to the worst day phenomenon. If that’s so, that means there are envelopes waiting for all of us to rip open.

Joy is the letter opener of our lives. And she knows just when to make an entrance, doesn’t she?🧡