“It’s supposed to hurt; that’s how you know it means something!” —Molly Aster, Peter and The Starcatcher
The curtain is falling on this school year. I’ve never struggled with an ending this much before. The play my theater class and I performed meant so much to me—it was the most fun I’ve ever had performing a play, but other than that, Peter and The Starcatcher proved a lot to me. Over this year—while rehearsing for Peter and after—I have learned that it’s okay to be vulnerable and accept help from my classmates. I have rediscovered my passion for theater, which was hidden under cliques and drama. I have learned how to be myself with my friends.
I have learned to be myself, not even despite my legs. No, I have stopped hiding my difficulties in theater. I have been accepted wholeheartedly.
I only have about two weeks of ninth grade left. The seniors—who have become some of my closest friends this year and were some of the first to accept me with no hesitation—have about three days of high school left. And I’m struggling. I really am.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to lose touch with my friends, including the seniors. My theater friends’ acceptance helped me find myself, and by losing touch with them, I might lose part of myself. Being with my friends in theater has given me faith that I don’t have to hide my legs in order to have meaningful relationships. My friendships in theater are so valuable to me, and I honestly don’t know what I will do without my friends this summer.
My friends in theater are some of my best friends. Because of the seniors’ acceptance of me, I am no longer jaded toward older kids. I don’t have to worry about my theater friends being mean, or resenting me for what I can’t do. None of the seniors, especially—and one of my best friends who I now eat lunch with sometimes—ever hesitate to help me. One boy always makes sure I make it on and off the stairs okay, and everyone always offers me a hand.
So what does any of this have to do with Peter Pan? Well, Peter Pan is the boy who will never grow up. He was an orphan who wished to “just be a boy for a while”, and so he is. But “a while” turned out to be a very long time.
Right now, I want time to stop. I want to keep going to theater and seeing my friends and giving them hugs. I don’t want our friendships to change over the summer. Some of my friends are moving on. They are growing up. But I want our friendships to stay the same.
Because over the summer, I won’t be doing cool activities or moving on or any of that normal high school summer experience. No, this summer I will be going to physical therapy four times a week, relearning how to walk, and I worry that all of my friends will move on without me.
I won’t be able to walk for most of the summer. I will have to use a wheelchair or walker. I will literally be relearning how to walk because my bones will be positioned differently. And I know that it will hopefully lessen my pain, and I don’t want to be stuck in chronic pain for the rest of my life. But I just want to be a girl with stable friendships, a girl whose friends won’t leave her behind.
I don’t want to be fighting against my legs this summer. I want to hang out with my theater friends, who already accept me the way I am, and be sure that our friendships won’t change. Time really is the enemy for me right now. If I could move on this summer, maybe I would feel differently. But I will be literally and figuratively stuck, and I am desperate to keep my friendships the way they are.
I know that’s not healthy. I know change is good. I know that this surgery coming up will benefit me. I know that I will be okay when the seniors leave even though it will be hard, and even though saying goodbye will hurt.
Because the show Peter and The Starcatcher, this school year, learning how to truly be myself in theater and with my friends—it all means something. It means everything. I am scared. I am scared that my legs will change—even though it will hopefully be a good change—and I won’t recognize myself. I’m scared that my friendships will fade this summer as I try to recover physically. But mentally, I don’t think I could recover from losing my friendships with my theater friends. I am scared. But I don’t have to fear time. I have faith in my friendships. I have faith in God.
But if time stopped, none of it would mean as much. I wouldn’t get to discover a possible future without chronic pain. I wouldn’t be able to understand myself and that it is possible for my friends to accept me and my legs. I have learned so many lessons this year. Maybe another lesson I can learn is not to be so afraid of change.
My friendships will probably change. But that doesn’t have to be bad. My friends will be entering new phases in their lives, but if our friendships are as strong as I think they are, my friendships won’t fade. I think Peter Pan had a point. But there is so much I would miss out on if time stopped, and that is a risk I am not willing to take. Time doesn’t have to be my enemy. I will make it through. My friends and I will make it through, even if I don’t quite know how to move on yet. I have time to figure it out.
(So I guess this is a thank you to all of my theater friends. You know who you are. Hopefully, you know how valuable your friendships are to me. I have been struggling lately, worrying that my friendships with you all will disappear. I guess whatever is meant to happen will happen, because God has a plan for us all. So, thank you for this year. Thank you for helping me understand that acceptance is possible. Thank you for your help, and I love being friends with you all. Good luck in the next chapter!!)