A Breaking Heart

In my first few weeks at Joseph's House, I have noticed that the current residents are not quite I expected. Though some are dying, they are still mobile and independent. For the most part, they do not need much assistance, other than providing them with their daily medications. Some are in a lot of pain, that we control with needed doses of morphine or methadone. But otherwise, I haven't really felt like I work at a hospice home...that is, until Monday.


One of our residents is an African-American man in his 50s who is dying from liver cancer. I still remember the day I met him - his smiling face, his ability to talk about practically anything, his humor, this instant sense of love he exudes. He has become a dear friend of mine. He always watches the Jets just so he can talk to me about them on Monday. He loves reggae - which I love so much. He has had adventures I can only dream of. He is like a father to me in some ways. He always checks to make sure I am ok. He endearingly calls me "Shorty" and loves the egg sandwiches I make for him. He tells me all the cool places to go in DC, but always cautions me not to get sucked into the tourist traps because I should never spend $4 on a hot dog. One night, when I worked 1-9pm, he made sure that my administrator let me take the van home so I wouldn't have to walk home by myself. I tell him I love him, and he always says he loves me back...and I know he means it.


Two weeks ago during staff meeting, we were talking about this dear friend of mine and updating each other on experiences we have had with him. I'm not sure what happened or what triggered my emotions, but I found myself with tears in my eyes, unable to speak, as I became aware of just how scared I am to see my friend die. It is not out of fear of not having him here with me; it is more a fear of having to watch him suffer. I wish that he wouldn't have to be in pain, that he wouldn't have to lose his continence, that he wouldn't have to become so weak that he couldn't walk. I witnessed over the past few weeks, his skin and the whites of his eyes becoming more yellow as jaundice took over. I listened as he began to forget simple things. I experienced his confusion when he asked if it was 3pm, when it was only 10am and we had just eaten breakfast. I watched as his appetite decreased and he nearly stopped eating. At the staff meeting that day, I was overcome with emotion as I became aware of my fear.


Right after the meeting, and a few days following, I found myself backing away from my friend. My fear was winning. It was taking over and pulling me away from a man who I have grown to love in such an amazing way. I had to convince myself that withdrawing from this friendship would help no one - neither him nor me. It would only hurt us both. I challenged myself to face my fear head on. I pushed myself to take those extra moments each day to just sit with him on the porch or to listen to some reggae upstairs in his room. I made him breakfast and lunch a number of times and always checked in to see how his pain level was.


Monday when I walked up the stairs to the front door, I felt an uneasiness within me. I walked inside and into the living room where my friend was sitting, asleep on the couch. I walked away, did a few things, and then went back to see him. I tried to wake him up, simply by saying his name. Usually, when he is asleep on the couch, it is easy to awaken him. This time, though, it took me touching his knee to bring him back. He looked at me with confusion in his eyes. Throughout the day, I witnessed as my friend began to decline. And now, I know, he is really dying.


My heart hurts. I cry often. Not because I cannot imagine being at Joseph's House without him....but because seeing him suffer breaks my heart in a way I have never experienced. Watching his body shake uncontrollably as he moves into sleep. Walking him to the bathroom, with my hands under his arms so that I can break his fall if need be. Standing in the bathroom with him as he barely makes it to the toilet. Having to change his pants, boxers, and give him his first pull-up diaper. Holding and tilting a cup of water to his mouth so he can swallow his pain medication. Seeing his brother's heart break, too. My heart is breaking while I watch the toll that alcoholism has on the body. My heart is breaking as I witness my friend dying from liver cancer. My heart is breaking....in a way that I cannot explain.


And this is why I am at Joseph's House.

When Love Finally Wins

I remember the moment, sitting in 8th grade English class early on September 11, 2001. Our teacher announced to us that something had happened, gave us a few details, and told us to be calm. We got sent home early from school early that day. I called my mom when I got home and she told me it would be best if I didn't turn the TV on until she got home. But I couldn't resist. I sat on my mom's bed watching the scene over and over again, sobbing. I was full of confusion, unable to understand what was going on. I just cried and cried - aching to understand...how could hate win?In the past ten years, I have had a life full of many blessed experiences. Yet the confusion has stuck with me, and at times has been even stronger than on that day in 8th grade when I was sobbing in front of the television. When Osama bin Laden was killed just a few months ago, Americans celebrated in the street. And again, hatred won. My heart breaks again and again when I see the footage from ten years ago or I hear the stories of friends who have lost a parent on that fateful day or friends who have lost a loved one in Afghanistan or Iraq. I ache. I cry. I pray. I hope...for a day when love finally gets to win...

Though I do not believe I have seen that day, I have found a place where love always comes out on top. In three short weeks, I have experienced love in so many new ways at Joseph's House - ways that restore my hope. Love is expressed in such a special way in this house. I have seen death and I have seen rebirth...and with each period of transition and transformation, love is at the forefront.

When I first began at Joseph's House, there was a resident who was dying. He quickly declined after an opportunistic infection caused his immune system to become overwhelmed. In the six days that I was allowed to be in his physical presence, there was no moment when his bedside was empty. Each time I walked by his room, someone was sitting there with him in the silence. Each held his hand to let him know they were there with him, that they love him, that they are forever grateful to have had the chance to know him. Watching this was transformative. The day he died, we all gathered at the house. His family came to see him, and together we stood - his two families - and comforted each other. Though I did not know him prior to his dying, and I surely did not know his family, the love I felt in the house was stronger than I had ever felt. There we were, side by side, black and white, old and young. So many things could have separated us if we allowed society to dictate that moment. But love got the chance to win.

Just the other day, we had the opportunity to say good-bye and good luck to another resident who is well enough to move out of Joseph's House. We all sat together in the living room and one by one, expressed our love and gratitude to her, as she did the same. She is not American and speaks little English. We were lucky to have a translator on the phone to help us communicate all that wanted to be expressed that day. But even if we hadn't...there was a mutual language of love present that day. Through the tears and the smiles, no words even had to be used. Love was present in the hugs, and the kisses, in the bows of gratitude. Love had the chance to win.

My heart is breaking today as I think about all that happened ten years ago. I remember the fear, the hurt, the confusion. I remember the tears. But I also remember the unification, the love, the pride that came after that day. So much could have separated us as Americans, and somehow this country came together.

My heart still hurts as I reflect on the ways that hate has won. But I am so grateful and blessed to be at Joseph's House where I finally have the chance to see love win.

This very day last year, I closed my blog post with a prayer by Pope Benedict XVI during his visit to Ground Zero in 2008, and I will do so again:

"God of peace, bring your peace to our violent world: peace in the hearts of all men and women and peace among the nations of the earth. Turn to your way of love those whose hearts and minds are consumed with hatred. God of understanding, overwhelmed by the magnitude of this tragedy, we seek your light and guidance as we confront such terrible events. Grant that those whose lives were spared may live so that the lives lost here may not have been lost in vain. Comfort and console us, strengthen us in hope, and give us the wisdom and courage to work tirelessly for a world where true peace and love reign among nations and in the hearts of all."

Please...never forget that together we can allow love to win every day. What will you do to make sure that happens?

Love in a New Chapter

I have found my new home in the city of Washington, DC. The past three weeks have been nothing but surreal and entirely bittersweet. The transition from a city full of people I love, to my hometown (and a visit to see my dad and brother) full of the people who have shaped my life, to a new city that I have already fallen in love with has been nothing short of a whirlwind. When I first left Raleigh, I became frightened...was I making the right decision? Did God really want me to leave so many people who changed my life this year? The eight days I spent on retreat helped me to realize that leaving Raleigh is not the end of the story. I cannot separate this past year from the year to come. They are simply two chapters in the long book of my life...and I honestly believe I can build a beautiful bridge between them.


I spent much of my time at Blue Ridge reflecting on love and the role it played in my life this past year. I have really struggled most with leaving Raleigh because of the uncertainty that it creates. I have fallen in love with many folks this year - clients, co-workers, community members. It broke my heart to walk away...and my heart still hurts. But I read a passage in a book my new boss gave me that talks about love as a bridge. It states that the bridge carries us into a place of non-judgment, of compassion, of adoration. Love is the way. I believe that this is one of the greatest lessons I've learned from my time in Raleigh. Life cannot be lived fully without love - love for self, love for other, love for God. My clients taught me what it means to love. They confided in me. They trusted me. They sometimes looked beyond the young white girl, beyond the privilege, and saw me for me. They even took the time to learn about me. There is something so beautiful about love. When it is truly unconditional, it is beautiful. When you can just love regardless of knowing, joy breaks through. This is what I found peace in the struggles I saw each and every day. My clients have this amazing faith and a tendency to look beyond. They have deep love for the people in their lives and a sense of security among all that is insecure. They challenged me to love, no matter what. Their stories pushed me to be compassionate, to be contemplative, to move beyond my judgments and beyond the stereotypes. They called me to look beyond the labels. Regardless of race, sexual orientation, gender, socioeconomic status, substance abuse history, mental health illness, mistakes made...regardless of all the labels society has cast upon people, my clients challenged me to love them anyways. Their stories changed my life and helped me to break down the barriers within me. They gave me a transformed worldview. They helped me to see the truth, to examine the reality, and to question the system. It is for them that I will continue to fight for justice. It is for them that I will love all unconditionally. For it is because of them that I learned how to love.


And this is the mindset that I come to Joseph's House with...


As I prepare to begin my new job tomorrow, I will remember each of the people I have loved in my year in Raleigh. My dearest friends - thank you for bringing me to this point. It is because of you that God has shown me that Joseph's House is where I am supposed to be at this point in my life. It is because of you that I was able to say yes. I know this year will not be a simple one, but I feel so blessed to have this opportunity to learn more about love.


Here's to a new chapter...and finding love once more.

Amazing Grace

Eight days ago, a dear friend and client of mine met his maker. It has been a long and trying eight days for me as I struggle with the many emotions I have been dealing with in response to his death. You may recall his story: He was diagnosed with HIV in 1989 and with AIDS in the 1999. When he was diagnosed with AIDS, he was told he only had 6 months to live. His sister dropped everything to take care of him at the end of his life. She quit her job so she could dedicate herself to his care. Six months turned into 12 years, and my dear client took his place with God just a few days ago.

I had visited John at the beginning of May, right after his sister told me that it looked like his suffering was coming to an end. The three of us talked for a while about life. John was constantly making jokes, even in the last days of his life. The day before he died, I went once more to see him and his sister. I had spoken to his sister that morning and she asked if I could bring them some food from the pantry. She told me that she couldn't leave the house because she feared leaving him alone. I drove down there after work that afternoon and spent some time sitting at John's bedside, watching him breathe, and talking to his family. It was the first time I had seen someone on the verge of death. He was skin and bones; his body had wasted away to practically nothing. The most he could muster up was "Hey," and then he went back to sleep. His sister began to tell me that he had been very unresponsive the day before - he wouldn't eat and wouldn't take his medications. When he called out to her and she went in his room, he would say nothing and was unable to tell her what he wanted. She told me how hard it was for her to see him like this. Above his bed was this beautiful painting of an angel. His sister told me that every time she walked into his room, she would say a quick prayer to the angel: "Please do not let me cry in front of him."

She has cared for him for 12 years. She literally dropped everything to be there for her brother. She took him to every doctor's appointment. She reminded him when to take his medications. She called the ambulance each time it became clear that he needed to be in the hospital. Every step of the way, she was there. For 12 years. Each time he had a panic attack, she was there. It was rare to see one without the other, and when I saw only her at the beginning of May, I grew concerned...that's when I knew that John's earthly life was coming to an end. The beautiful relationship between the two of them has taught me so much about God's love. She did more than just help John bear his cross; she carried it with him. Each time his suffering increased, you could see her own suffering increase ten-fold. That is true, unconditional love. That is God's love. It is a love unlike any other. A love that knows no bounds. A bond so strong that no matter how much suffering exists, that love will endure. I have never seen God's face so clearly than in this sister's love for her brother. At John's funeral, I watched as his sister kissed his casket and said goodbye. She let out one last gripping sob, and with it, she released him. It was truly beautiful.

I have been thinking so much about sickness and suffering these past couple of weeks, as we have lost four clients in 6 weeks. Sometimes, I find myself getting so angry. Why does AIDS exist? Why do we allow people to suffer? How do we stop it? Is love really enough?

I recently came across a quote by Paul Claudel: 

Jesus did not come to explain away suffering or remove it. He came to fill it with His presence. 

And this is what has allowed me to keep going, even when surrounded by such suffering. John's beautiful sister is a testament to the power of love. Even in his dying days, John was joking around. He kept telling his sister that if his funeral was not arranged exactly as he had asked, he would haunt her. That was the John we all knew and loved. Maybe his sister could not take away his suffering and she surely couldn't end his pain, but her presence, her love, and her compassion for her kin allowed for God to really be present in that suffering. 

I keep asking myself, if the loss of John has been such a struggle for me, how can I possibly work in hospice starting in August? How will I make it through? And then I am reminded of his sister and her unconditional love for John. All I can do is open myself up to God - through suffering and helping others to bear their crosses - and pray that I will be given the chance to love fully, wholly, and unconditionally much like the amazing woman I met in September did by dedicating her life to caring for her brother.

French Fries on the Ground

This is a piece I wrote for our monthly JVC Newsletter:

He walked into my office one afternoon, looking handsome in his slacks and dress shirt. We had met once before and had chatted on the phone a couple of times, as he kept me posted on the latest news in his life. Just 12 days older than me, I find I can connect with him on a different level than I can with my other clients. All he wants is to be independent; to go to college and get a degree; to go to work each day and leave smiling, knowing that he is doing what he loves. Yet, here he was - twenty-two years old and HIV positive, living with his grandparents, working part-time, longing to be back in the Army where he felt he belonged. That afternoon, though, all of his fears and longings seemed to have disappeared. He walked a little different and seemed to hold his head a little higher. When I asked him what had changed, he told me, with a huge smile, that he had moved into his own apartment and had bought a new car, after having saved since he left the Army. Excited for him, I gave him a high-five and told him how happy I was that he was happy. We chatted for a while about his life, his family and then about my life and my family. As our time together came to an end, he asked me to walk outside with him to see his new car. We turned the corner into the parking lot, and there it was: a "new" 1998 Subaru hatchback. We walked towards it and as I looked inside, he said, "Don't look at the french fries on the ground!"

The funniest sentence carried so much meaning for me. All the baggage seemed to melt away. I was no longer looking at a twenty-two year old afraid of never being his own person. I was no longer looking at a young man scared of dying. No. I was looking in the eyes of a friend who will not allow HIV to define who he is.

Working with clients my own age has been one of the biggest struggles for me this year. With each 20-something that walks into my office, the faces of my friends, cousins, and classmates flash before my eyes. I spent most of my senior year of college researching how students view HIV/AIDS, and found that many are educated about the epidemic, but few believe that they could become infected. My clients once thought that, too, until that fateful day when they walked in to receive the results of their HIV test and were told that it came back positive. The fear in their eyes when they come into my office is real. One client once asked me, "Am I going to be ok?" These new friends of mine have taught me so much and it is in their fear that I find beauty; it is in their joys that I find my biggest reward. When they realize that HIV does not have to define them, that they can define themselves - God has shown me something beautiful. Life is not about how much money you make or what people think of you. Life is about learning. Life is about the journey. Life is about realizing that we form our own paths and we define our own lives. HIV positive or HIV negative - all that matters is our love of self. That is what I learned on that day when I was told not to look at the french fries on the ground, and I am forever grateful to that twenty-two year old friend who taught me.

Unite the Fight

AIDS Walk and Ride, an annual fundraiser that benefits the agency I work for as well as other agencies that serve those living with HIV/AIDS, took place a week and a half ago. I was pretty excited about it, after having missed AIDS Walk New York for the first time in four years. I was looking forward to seeing how many people would show up and how much money would be raised. I was also curious to see how the event is run, especially when the only thing I have to compare it to is AIDS Walk New York - an event attended by tens of thousands of people and raises over $1 million dollars annually for agencies in NYC. Maybe I wasn't too pumped about having to be at the registration table at 5am, but I was excited nonetheless.

I didn't know what to expect as I drove to the area where the event would be held. I was kind of holding my breath, afraid that very few people would show up. North Carolina is a pretty conservative state and Wake County is growing more conservative as the Tea Party moves into its government. When it comes to HIV/AIDS, this state seems to have been swept up in the abstinence-only sexual education movement of the George W. Bush era. The funding necessary to save the lives of those living with HIV across this state is short. The AIDS Drug Assistance Program (ADAP), a program that assists those who are uninsured and living in poverty by providing them with the HIV medications necessary to save their lives, has a waiting list. This is something I had never heard of in NYC or in Connecticut. And now, even with a recent study stating that HIV medications not only save lives but can also help prevent the transmission of the virus, things don't seem to be changing down here. As I drove to the event before sunrise that Saturday morning, I didn't know what to expect. Part of me actually expected to see protesters like I did at PRIDE Day in Durham back in the fall. HIV/AIDS is stigmatized, as it has been for the past 30 years, and the generally conservative environment of the South makes it even more difficult to talk about the epidemic - and thus to prevent further transmission of this virus.

Cyclists began to arrive at the registration table, 89 in total. Each had registered to ride either 30, 60, or 100 miles. With each person who approached the table, I felt my heart soften a little. I do not know the stories behind each of these riders and I don't know their reasons for choosing to ride in our fundraiser. What I do know is that there was a clear passion among the crowd. As I glimpsed out at the group preparing to start their long rides, I was overcome with emotion. Team LLAMA, Team VIIV, and Team Tarhealers all stood there proudly with their race shirts. There had been a bad accident that morning on I-40 between Chapel Hill and Raleigh, so many of the team members from the Tarhealers were arriving late, as they are from UNC. It amazed me when one of the young men approached the registration table to say that the other riders could take off but the Tarhealers would wait until each of their team members arrived to start their ride. Riding together; riding in solidarity. 

A few hours later, many folks began arriving to the Children's Garden to register for the walk and to visit our festival. Things had settled down a lot after the riders left, but after a couple of hours, tons of people were arriving. People of all races, genders, sexual orientations, and ages were coming to walk for the cause. They were all coming to show their support for the fight against HIV/AIDS. I was blown away when we literally could not keep up with all the people coming to the registration table. I was baffled - amazed that hundreds of people were showing up to walk. I saw some of my clients, which made me so happy and proud. They were there to stand up for themselves and their friends, to say that HIV will not define them, and to show that they could not be stopped, that they would fight until the end. The people just kept coming, too. Every time I looked up, there were more people in line to register. Sure, not everyone had raised money to support the work of agencies like mine. But that did not matter to me. What struck me was the number of folks who had shown up; who had decided that HIV/AIDS is an issue they care about; who made up their minds to walk in solidarity with those that have been lost to AIDS and those who are living with this virus. There was this one group of people who all had a shirt on with the picture of a man on it, below which were listed the dates of his birth and his death. On the back it said, "AIDS may have taken your body, but your spirit lives on through each of us." 

That's when it became real to me. The negativity in my mind disappeared. There were no protesters there to stop us. And even if there were, it wouldn't have mattered. The political battles were put aside. All that mattered in those moments was the reason why everyone was there - to continue the fight; to show others that HIV/AIDS is a cause worth fighting for; and to walk with those living with the virus and in honor of those that have been lost. As the pair of empty shoes was brought on stage and we all paused for a moment to "Remember those lost, those living, and those we need to protect," tears began to fill my eyes. My passion was fueled even more by the hundreds of people gathered there that Saturday. It was a great reminder that there are many people willing to fight to end this epidemic, willing to keep their heads held high, even willing to open up their minds. This state may be conservative and a lack of understanding surely exists, but in those moments, none of that mattered any longer. I was proven wrong and that was the greatest thing I have learned here in Raleigh. There is hope - hope that this epidemic will come to an end and that one day, there will be no more names to add to our lists.

The Gift of Silence

When we left for our Ignatian Retreat last weekend, I kept thinking to myself, how the heck am I gonna be silent for 48 hours? How can I possibly be around people - my friends, for that matter - and remain silent? (For all you doubters....somehow I made it through.) And then, of course, there were the other questions directed more at the spiritual aspect of the retreat...is God going to speak to me? Am I actually open to hearing what God might say? A week after returning to Raleigh, I can honestly say that silence is a blessing and that weekend was a gift.

So often, my days are pretty busy running around, meeting new clients, talking to old clients, chatting with my roommates, and such that I rarely have time just to sit back and relax. I love my work and I love the young women I live with - don't get me wrong - but sometimes it is so nice just to be able to stop, listen to the birds or the rain coming down and simply reflect on all that life has been. This year, as you all know, has been amazing for me. It has provided me so much opportunity for growth, has shaped my worldview, and allowed me to think more deeply about justice, peace, and faith. Our retreat last weekend provided me with the chance to be with myself, to be with my thoughts, to reflect on where I've been and where I'm going, and to talk with God about how my work is His work. Some of you may think I'm a quack for talking about God in such a way - as though He is right there with me and I can engage Him in conversation. I used to think that, too, but much of this year has been a continuous dialogue with God - maybe not a dialogue in the sense of two people talking to each other using words, but a dialogue nonetheless. 

On April 28th, I lost my first client to AIDS; the first person I've lost to this epidemic. When I found out that he had died, I was shocked. I had just seen him at the beginning of April when he came in for financial assistance because he had lost his job. He didn't seem sick to me; he seemed very much like himself aside from the fact that he was upset over being let go by his employer. I don't know if I was most bothered by his death and not having recognized that he was ill, or if I was bothered by the fact that I never reached out to him in the time that I knew him. He always struck me as an angry person, someone who often seemed mad at the world. Because of this, I selfishly avoided him a lot. I didn't want him to bring me down, and I didn't want to fuel his fire in any way. So I tried to keep my distance. This was often pretty easy because he would come to the pantry pretty late in the day, when I could just let him go back there himself. I didn't want to get caught up in his anger, and I didn't want him to take it out on me, like I've had clients do in the past. I rarely gave him my time; I rarely took the time to listen or to simply chat about whatever, like I do with so many clients. Leading up to the retreat, I really felt like I had turned my back on him...and now he is gone.

During the retreat, two phrases were on repeat in my mind: Harden not my heart and Do not be afraid. Along with those phrases was one other word: Forgiveness. I have struggled with forgiveness for such a long time - a Cavaliere through and through. When I was a kid, my dad had a "list" upon which he would place the names of establishments that had some how ticked him off. If I wanted to go to Pizza Hut, for example, Dad would say, "No way. They're on the list." Forgiveness. What does that even mean? And why is it playing through my head over and over as I sit in silence. Every Sunday at mass, when I say the Lord's Prayer, I find myself saying "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who have trespassed against us," a little bit softer than the rest of the words. In my silent reflection and in my prayer, I was able to finally recognize a breakthrough for myself...

Forgiveness is not so much about accepting the apologies of those who have hurt you. Forgiveness isn't about fixing relationships or getting past the hurt or the anger. Forgiveness is about letting go of the bitterness. Forgiveness is about moving forward and continuing to love. Mother Teresa says, "Non-forgiving can destroy you for life. We keep thinking of that word that sister said but we need to acknowledge our sin, to be able to forgive." Forgiveness is about forgiving ourselves; it is about recognizing our own faults. So much of what I have learned this year is the importance of making myself vulnerable: to hurt, to heartbreak, to grief, to a lack of understanding, to anger. In the silence, God reminded me of the connection between love and forgiveness. I know that I cannot fully love God, others, or even myself, until I have forgiven.

The day after returning from retreat, I found out that a client I care deeply for is growing more and more frail with each passing day. His sister, who has cared for him for the past 7 years, came into the office recently seeking assistance financially and emotionally. I spoke with her for a long time in the pantry as she told me about her brother's current suffering and about her own struggles. As he lives in pain, though, his light shines through and gives her hope and strengthens her faith. I went to visit them with Ms. Jeanette a couple of days later. When I saw him, I first noticed how his legs have deteriorated. He easily weighs less than I do, and his legs are so frail, they look like they may crumble right under him. But, his light continues to shine through. We all talked and talked about all kinds of things - family, food, faith. As Ms. Jeanette and I got ready to leave, John looked up and started talking about his faith. He told us how he longs to have someone to study the Bible with and to talk to about his sins. He said that he believes some of his sins have not been forgiven and he cries so much over that. Ms. Jeanette said that tears are a symbol of repentance. I could see it in John's eyes and hear it in his voice. He was saying, "I cannot leave this Earth until I have forgiven myself. I cannot let go until I have forgiven."

My time in Raleigh has shown me so much about the world and exposed me to the reality of the social injustice that exists in our world. With each person I meet, I learn more about myself because with each person, God is showing me something. In silence, I truly thought that God was leading me to forgiveness, but it was not until hearing John talk about forgiveness that I really knew that I am ready. I am ready to let go; I am ready to move on; I am ready to forgive myself and move forward with my life. The silence was a gift and a blessing, but I could not have found the beauty in the silence without the experiences I have had this year.