From Stealing Clothes to Finding My Voice

This morning, I dropped my kids off for their first day of summer camp — and ran smack into a memory I didn’t know I needed. One of the counselors was my high school friend’s younger brother. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “You used to tutor me, remember?”

I honestly didn’t until he said it — but suddenly, it all came back.

I was 14 when I first felt a spark of independence. I marched into the school office, filled out the paperwork, and got my working permit. My first job? Tutoring at Kumon through a school program. And that first paycheck?

Magic

I saved up enough to go shopping with my sister at Bob’s, where she worked and could bless me with that sweet employee discount. For the first time, I picked out my own clothes — not what my mom bought for me – but what I actually wanted to wear.

It wasn’t just about fashion (okay, it was partly about fashion). It was about…

Expression. Identity. Choice.

You see, growing up with sisters 10 years older than me was… an experience. I was the baby, the tag-along, the awkward middle-schooler trying to survive in a house full of grown-ish women. Our mom shared a connected closet with my sisters, and let’s just say…

locks didn’t stop me.

I mastered the art of Operation Borrow-Without-Asking. I’d sneak through my mom’s side, grab something hipper than what was in my own wardrobe, and strut into school like I hadn’t just risked it all for an Easy Pickins blouse.

Looking back, I realize those moments — sneaking clothes, tutoring kids, cashing that first check — weren’t just teen rebellion or a quest for cuter outfits. They were my first steps toward independence, self-expression, and surprisingly, teaching.

Helping others click with a math problem, a new concept, or just giving them space to be themselves — that lit me up then. It still does now.

So maybe this blog is my grown-up version of tutoring… of sneaking into a space I wasn’t “meant” to be in and saying,

“Hey, I’ve been there — here’s how I got through it.”

Only now, instead of algebra worksheets, I’m handing out life lessons, little love notes to my younger self, and maybe a few laughs along the way.

Thanks, summer camp counselor, for reminding me where I started — and how far I’ve come.