When people ask me where I’m from, my answer is usually Philadelphia. This isn’t true; although I was born there, I grew up in Williamstown, N.J. Home of the Braves and a gigantic Wal-Mart, its one of those small South Jersey towns no one outside of it knows too much about.

Moving away for college, it was much easier to say that I was from a bustling city than a sleepier hometown. After all, how could I explain the simple pleasure of a backyard bonfire to a person who grew up in New York City? How could I articulate enjoying a small-town life, yet simultaneously wanting to flee from it?

Williamstown and I have a complicated relationship. I know it, but it doesn’t know me. As I progressed through high school, the town itself became suffocating.

Clearly, I could see a future forming before my eyes. I could go to college there, become an elementary school teacher, and raise a family on the same streets that I was raised on. Many of my high school friends were generational; their parents and grandparents had gone to school together, had families side by side. It would be a safe choice, and to remain in the familiarity of my childhood town was a comforting thought. That route, while secure, made me feel…uncomfortable. There is something stifling about a small-town existence; perhaps it was due to the fact that there was never any new. In the years since I’ve left it, Williamstown has barely changed; it could easily be a snapshot from my senior year of high school. So upon graduation, I thought about that secure path, and ran from it.

Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot I loved about my hometown, and still do. I love my friends and family there, and visiting them is a treat that I always relish. I enjoyed high school, with Friday-night football games and bon-fires on the weekends. I have so many memories connected to Williamstown; from carnivals and dance recitals, to summers spent at Hospitality Creek and winters sledding in the woods. I remember the treat of walking with my elementary school class to McDonalds, the mornings in middle school waiting for the bus, and my first day of high school, where my friends and I got hopelessly lost.

While I appreciate all that Williamstown has given me, it is not my true home anymore.

It exists in a time capsule, encasing all the memories of the years gone by. Strangely enough, I have multiple homes now; honestly for the past 3 years, I have felt that I have lived as a nomad. Part of my heart remains in Baltimore, the city where I’ve made my place at Loyola, and Newcastle, England, where I’m currently spending my life-changing year abroad. Soon, I’ll have a different home, as I emerge from college into the fuzzy and uncertain existence of post-graduate life.

Regardless of my own mixed emotions, Williamstown will always have the distinction of being my first home. Every time I visit now, I am struck by the sense of relief; relief that I left when I did, but at the same time, gratitude to having a place that I can feel innately comfortable in.

Sophomore and junior year of high school I continuously struggled with the decision to play a sport in college. Its around this time high school athletes not only need to start thinking about the schools they want to attend but also whether pursuing their sport is even realistic. The commitment, time, efforts dedicated to a high school sport pails in comparison to playing the same sport in college.

I was a three-sport athlete in high school and had been playing lacrosse since I was five years old. I was originally born in Maryland, a feeding ground for high school lacrosse athletes, but in middle school my family moved to a suburb outside of Charlotte, NC. In this new city, saying I played lacrosse was like I was speaking a foreign language. My mom and I ended up starting a girls lacrosse program for my high school and in our first year we would lose some games by 20 goals or more.

I was the only one on my high school team who had ever played lacrosse before. In order to challenge myself and to try to continue to get better, I joined numerous travel teams throughout the Charlotte area. We went to many tournaments where college scouts would come and watch us play. It was intimidating but all the more exciting to know some of these people could grant you with an amazing opportunity.

During my junior year, I would receive many letters from scouts and colleges.

Most were smaller D3 and D2 schools offering some financial aid but every once in awhile a D1 school would reach out. Those letters were the most exciting to receive. It was also during this time I started to get burnt out of the sport I had been playing for almost 13 years. It was time to have a serious conversation about what I wanted for my future and whether lacrosse was going to be in it or not.

While continually talking to coaches and scouts of these schools, I was also applying to schools not for lacrosse. I applied to four big, out of state schools I would want to attend. I came to the decision that if lacrosse paid for my college I would play but if I could go to one of these bigger schools for the same amount, I would choose that.

I ended up getting almost a full ride to UGA based on my academic achievements in high school. UGA was also my favorite school I visited so you can only imagine my happiness. I thought I would rather go to a huge university, get involved with many organizations, a sorority, and have some free time rather than dedicate my college career to being an athlete.

After all, as of now there isn’t much opportunity for women to pursue even if you’re an above average athlete.

There is even better news to my story. UGA doesn’t have a D1 collegiate lacrosse program but they have a WCLA team. It is essentially club lacrosse but highly competitive. I found everything I was looking for in a lacrosse collegiate team and would have time to participate in everything else I wanted to do. The commitment is less than if I were going to a school to play lacrosse but we still practice almost every day.

My lacrosse team here has become a second family for me and we even get to go to amazing tournaments in places like Colorado and California. And to my disbelief of how a club team would be, the team here at UGA is surprisingly really good. Right now we are currently ranked very high in the nation and have high hopes for winning a national championship this year.

I could not be more enthused with my decision to play a club sport versus going to school for lacrosse. I do, however, completely support those who use sports as a means of going to college. I also think that looking into the possibilities of playing at a less competitive level should be considered so you can get as much as possible out of your college experience.

I still get to play the sport I love, with people I love, while also not having to wake up at 5am for workouts.

Missy Taylor peered over my shoulder as I struggled to remember the combination to my locker from the past two years. “Lyla,” she paused, holding out the end of my name for much longer than was necessary.

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what, Missy?” Missy loved discovering the latest gossip at Walburn High School. We were juniors, finally upperclassmen, but all Missy wanted to talk about was which football player hooked up with which cheerleader who was actually dating that soccer player. I had college visits and advanced placements tests to worry about.

“Let me help. What’s your combination,” Missy asked, pushing me out of the way.

“That’s the problem. I don’t remember.” Missy sighed, rolling her eyes at me.

“Why don’t I tell you my news as we walk to the office for you to get your new combo?”

“I guess so.” Missy interlocked our arms, and smiled widely at me, ignoring the distress in my face. “Okay, so I’m sure you’ll like this news.”

“What is it, Missy?” “So, I hear there is a new creative writing teacher this year,” she said, nudging my ribcage with her elbow.

“Wait. They fired Mrs. Cummings? Who could possibly be more qualified than she?”

“Oh, please, Lyla. Mrs. Cummings was like 107 years old.”

“It doesn’t mean she wasn’t qualified,” I stated, opening the door to the office.

Missy slammed it shut. “I haven’t finished.” Missy tossed her bottle blonde hair behind her right shoulder and checked herself in the reflection of the office door. “The new teacher is really cute and super young. I think he’s like only 27 years old. I heard that he graduated from Yale. Like as in the Ivy League,” she gushed, exhaling dramatically and smirking at me. “Rachel who was in biology class last year told me that apparently he was fired from his last job in a private school and that’s why he is working here now–but Rachel is not that reliable of a source.

“Why does this matter to me?” “C’mon, Lyla. I thought you would find this news interesting. All the girls in your writing class are talking about him.”

“Look, Missy. I have bigger things to think about than the new creative writing teacher.” “Like what,” she sneered.

“Um, like maybe getting my locker open before lunch.”

“Well, first period starts in five minutes, you better hurry.” I glanced at the clock, realizing Missy was right. I ran into the office, hoping they would be able to save me, not just from my locker woes, but also from Missy. Missy wasn’t wrong. The new creative writing teacher was cute. He actually tucked his buttoned down shirt into his khaki pants, and his hair was slicked back without any gel, unlike most of the boys in my grade. Even though I was late to first period, Mr. Davis did not really seem to mind. He had the desks arranged in a circle; he sat at the head of the circle, on top of a desk, rather than in the desk like the rest of us.

The class was retelling their favorite moments from summer. Aaron mentioned that he went on a fishing trip with his father, but they didn’t catch any fish because his father went into anaphylactic shock from a wasp sting on his finger. Sydney, swinging her ponytail from side-to-side, told a story about how she got to visit her new baby cousin in Maryland for a few days. She got to hold him, and he was the first baby she ever held. The baby spit up on her. Then, the circle stopped at me. I swallowed hard and glared at the clock, hoping the bell would ring before I had to utter my first word.

“You want to tell us your favorite moment from summer-,” Mr. Davis smiled, revealing his dimples.

“Lyla. Lyla Douglas.”

“Very well, Lyla. What did you do this summer?” “Uh, well…I wrote a few short stories.”

“Really,” he paused, “what about it?”

My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. “Nothing really that interesting.”

“Well, I have a feeling that you’re not being all that honest,” he laughed. “But, that’s quite alright. A great writer never reveals his secrets,” he said, winking at me before moving on to the next student.

I learned that Mr. Davis was also a painter. Since teaching took up most of his time, he could only really paint on the weekends. He showed me his artwork once when I stayed after school to edit one of my stories with him. One of his paintings would be shown at a gallery in town. It was reminiscent of Picasso’s Les Demoiselles D’avignon, or at least that’s what he said. It was a painting of an ex-girlfriend. Her body was all distorted–only visibly displaying her face, which looked both fearful and relieved at the same time. Mr. Davis gained inspiration after his girlfriend threatened to leave him if he didn’t agree to marry her. According to him, she had issues–but she inspired his best work. I always wanted to share something interesting and elusive about myself, but the only snippet from my life that I could ever think about was how when I was ten my parents had left me at a carnival. It took my parents two hours to realize that I was missing. I was too embarrassed for the both of us to tell Mr. Davis that story.

These gatherings after school started to become a regular affair. I found myself wandering into his classroom around 3:15 to review a short story I had written.

Usually, we discussed the piece for a few minutes and then moved on to other conversations. Mr. Davis was a great storyteller; I longed to be able to tell stories like him. I had never met a person who seemed to take me so seriously. My mother was often consumed with her eating and exercise habits, refusing to allow anything other than raw food in the house, while my father stayed way too late at the office and smelled like brandy and cigars when he did finally make it home. Mr. Davis made me feel important.

It had been two months that we had been meeting after school to look over my writing. Mr. Davis had finished more paintings for another gallery show in town. He told me that he had just decided on a theme for this new show: heat. I stared at him blankly, waiting for him to explain what he was talking about. He just smiled at me and continued to mark up some poor student’s short story with his red pen.

“What do you mean,” I asked, trying to sound intelligent, while still being confused.

“Hmm” “Why ‘heat’? Oh, that,” he paused.

“Was it like really hot when you painted these?” He laughed to himself.

“No, that’s not the heat I’m referring to. I mean, heat as in the feeling a person gets when they feel passion.”

I glanced at the two misplaced commas in the student’s story. “How does that relate to your paintings?”

“Well, as you already know, my ex-girlfriend inspired most of these paintings. We had a pretty tough relationship–lots of fighting and making up, which led to more fighting and eventually our break up. We had a lot of passion for each other, despite the fact that we ultimately hated each other. Does that make sense?”

“I think so.” “Yeah,” he asked, refusing to let go of our gaze. I shifted in my seat. “Heat embodies the nature of that relationship, all the tension and the passion. I couldn’t imagine a better word myself.” “You know, Lyla,” Mr. Davis hesitated. “You are more than welcome to come to the art gallery showing on Friday. I mean, that is, if you’re free?”

I could feel my cheeks burning up and beads of sweat forming on my upper lip. “Uh…well…sure, I’m not doing anything.” “Really, you would like to come?” “Of course. I wouldn’t mind coming to see your paintings.” “Perfect,” He smiled, biting down on his red pen.

I was hardly able to see Mr. Davis until close to when the show was finishing. He spent the evening chatting with other local artists and art curators, who seemed genuinely interested in his work. Near the end of the gallery show, I made my way out to the patio. The bushes were decorated with white lights and matching candles were flickering on each table. Mr. Davis was sitting on a bench with a cocktail in his right hand. I couldn’t help but notice how handsome he looked that night–wearing a gray tailored suit with a thin black tie, his hair combed over, and he wore thick rectangular framed eyeglasses. As I got closer to him, I could smell his cologne, a mixture of pine and cinnamon, which seemed like an unlikely combination, but made my knees begin to quiver. He jumped when he noticed me standing in front of him.

“Lyla,” he exclaimed. “Thanks for coming. I wanted to say to something to you earlier, but I was busy with all the guests.”

“No, that’s okay. I understand. Do you mind if I take a seat,” I asked, pointing to the spot beside him. Mr. Davis patted the wood. Our knees touched slightly as I took a seat next to him. He shook the ice around in his glass. I could smell the whiskey on his breath as he exhaled heavily.

“Did you have fun tonight,” he asked. “I did. It was really nice to finally see your artwork. I could really feel the heat.”

Mr. Davis grinned. “Yeah? I’m glad you could understand what I was going for.” “Well, thank you for inviting me.” He shifted closer to me. “I appreciate you coming.” I shivered as a gust of wind flew past. I knew I should have listened to my mother when she told me to wear my winter coat, but a purple puffer jacket lacked the sophistication I needed to uphold at this party. Mr. Davis wrapped his suit jacket over my shoulders.

“Of course. We’ve been talking about this for months.” He moved in closer, resting his left hand a little above my knee. Startled, I scooted down the bench, but he pulled me in even closer to his body. “I’ve been really enjoying getting to know you these last couple of months. You’re a really special person, Lyla. You know that?”

Before I could answer his question, Mr. Davis placed his right hand on my cheek. His other hand moved up my leg, sending an impulse through my entire body. He lodged his tongue into my mouth. I didn’t know how to respond. I had never kissed a boy before, but I tried to mirror his movements to show some semblance that I knew what I was doing. His hand glided up my stomach and landed on my chest, grasping my breast with so much intensity that I gasped. This only seemed to make him more excited. I tried to maneuver my hands around his body like he did with mine, yet I was not as suave as he was.

After five minutes, Mr. Davis pushed me away. I didn’t really know what to say after a moment like this. I sat slumped on the bench trying to regain my breath. He began smoothing the wrinkles on his shirt and readjusting his tie. “I hope that you know that this is our little secret,” he stated, emphasizing the word secret. “I can trust you, right?” I shook my head in agreement. Mr. Davis smiled at me, kissing me lightly on the forehead before standing up.

“Thank you again for coming, Lyla,” he said, after swallowing the last of his whiskey. “I’ll see you on Monday.” I barely heard a word Mr. Davis said as he rushed back to his party. The only sound I could hear was my entire body throbbing as I wiped away my tears.

(Written by Madilene Lake)

If you had told me in the fall of 2005 that 10 years later I would have voluntarily run four half marathons and a marathon, my 13-year old self would have said “As if” and gone back to texting on her pink RAZR phone, not so silently judging you for suggesting such a ridiculous idea.

At the time, I hated running. I hated how it made me sweaty, hated the hills, and hated the fact that my parents would drag me through the streets of our neighborhood to run “for fun.” Running wasn’t fun.

It was a self-induced death march that I was unfortunate enough to have to endure in the name of family bonding. Well, that’s how I saw it as a moody teenage girl anyways. Which, was when my mom and brother suggested I run cross-country my freshman year of high school, I was skeptical. Why would I purposely want to run long distances multiple days a week? How is running a sport?

But, because I had decided not to cheer and lacrosse try-outs weren’t until the spring, I didn’t have many options for fall sports. So on August 1, 2006, I laced up my running shoes and reported for practice.

Right away I knew cross-country would be like nothing I had ever experienced.

First off, running is hard. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect there to be such an exact, and often painful, science to running hills or timing splits. Second off, and most importantly, I had coaches who believed in me.

Over the next four years, Coaches Cathi Monk and Christine Dahlhauser would teach me to not only have a love for running, but to have a love for myself. These two incredible women pushed me harder than I had ever been pushed.

They didn’t expect greatness, but they did expect that I would put in my greatest effort to be better than I was the day before. Most days I would do my best, but there were definitely practices and races that I just wasn’t feeling it. Each had an incredibly distinct voice and more than once I heard “Madi Lake, what the heck are you doing? I know you can do better than that!” from across the course. At that moment, the very moment I thought I would rather keel over than run harder, I would close my eyes and dig deeper, somehow finding strength that I didn’t even know I had.

They taught me to be a hill seeker, and that the most important moments in life happen on a “hill.”

While most runners hate hills, hills Coach D reminded me, give you the opportunity to prove to yourself (and others) how strong you really are. There is nothing more satisfying than basking in the descent after conquering a particularly steep hill. They taught me that the last .1 is just as important as the first 100 meters. In cross -country, it is the scores of the top seven runners that makes up the team’s final score, with the lowest team score winning the entire meet.

Therefore, even though you were running your own race, you were really running for six other people. You need to finish your race just as strong as it started, no matter how tired, or downtrodden you might feel.

You must always finish the race. You must always fight the good fight.

Finally, they showed me what it was like to be something larger than myself. At the end of my freshman season, Coach Monk handed me a single chain link. “This link represents our team,” she said. “As the newest members, you are our newest links. Right now they are shiny, but with age, they will dull. This is like a team – it’s easy to be excited when things are “shiny” but much harder when they’re dull. We are only as strong as all of us together and although it might be hard, there isn’t anything that can break us.” Being a link can sometimes be hard, but it’s always worth it in the end.

I am a far cry from the girl I was at 13 – instead I am strong, confident, and determined to succeed.

Because of these women, I am a life long runner, and appreciate what running can do for the soul. It is because of Cathi Monk that I know I can push myself without breaking, and that I’m stronger than I think I am.

It is because of Coach D that I have learned the importance of never giving up and to always have faith, no matter the circumstances. It is because of these two women and their wisdom, grace, and strength that I am who I am today, and for that, I could not be more thankful.