Tracy Caronia
What interested you in doing the Fearless over 40 campaign?
I was interested in the Fearless Over 40 Campaign because I had just turned 40 in January and I was feeling really down and in a funk about it. I felt like I was stuck in a rut and that I should have been in a different place in my life at 40 than I am now. I felt like all my friends had gotten married in their early 20’s and their kids were now teenagers. My `1 students who I had taught as first and second graders nearly 20 years ago were getting engaged and starting families of their own. I was getting wedding invitations for “kids” I once babysat as a teenager and here I was at 40: Still single, still teaching, still living in the same neighborhood I grew up in, still not going out on the weekends because I was too tired or too scared and shy to meet new people. That was my inner monologue for years but blowing out the candles on that cake with the BIG 4-0 on it really made those inner voices so much louder.
I began to ask myself the dreaded “why me?”, “Am I?”, and “is it because” pity party questions that I think every woman asks themselves from time to time. “Am I alone because I work too much?” Or “Do I talk about work too much?” “Why is everyone else married except for me?” “Am I too fat?” “Am I ugly?” Am I boring?” The self-analysis questions for me go on and on for hours. No one is more critical of themselves than I am. Well, I guess I don’t know that for sure but I am willing to bet that if there was a competition for the most hours spent analyzing your own flaws, I would be ranked as one of the highest nationally. Logically and emotionally, I know it’s such a waste of productive time that could be spent doing something I enjoy or that could further my goals but I just can’t seem to get my brain off the hamster wheel of self-criticism.
About a month ago, I was relaxing on the couch after a long school day. I was flipping channels and scrolling through my facebook when I came across This interesting promotion from a photography studio I had never heard of. It was a brief description of the Fearless Over 40 Campaign. I thought to myself, well I really don’t qualify since I am technically not OVER 40 but my good friend had just done something similar when she turned 50 and her pictures turned out beautifully and she had described her experience as being so incredible. I thought to myself, why not? I filled out the initial questionnaire thinking I would never be chosen since for starters I didn’t even fit the qualifications.
Minutes after I finished filling out the brief form through Facebook Messenger, I received a call from Tanja saying I had been chosen and that I was a great fit for the project. My first thought was that I had been scammed because I had just submitted the form a few minutes ago and my second thought was that this was some weirdo wanting nude photos of me or something. However, as soon as I started talking to Tanja, I felt like I had known her forever! She was so nice and I could relate to many of her experiences and I felt so comfortable sharing mine with her. She put me at ease right away and I felt comfortable telling her anything just like I would with a sister or a longtime friend. I knew that anyone that could make a shy girl like me open up that quickly was very special and unique and I had to do this project.
Furthermore, after Tanja explained the purpose and mission of the project it aligned with all of my goals and ambitions that I set for myself every day. It was about self care and self awareness, women’s empowerment and it was about overcoming the obstacles and limitations we set for ourselves and truly being comfortable in our own skin being happy with our own bodies and not letting those inner voices of self deprecation rule over us.
This project was about letting our inner strength and our outer beauty come out to play in ways I never thought possible and never imagined could be a reality until my photo reveal session. It was a chance to not only “talk the talk,” but to “walk the walk.”
How did you feel before and after the session?
Before the session, I felt extremely nervous to the point that when I walked into the studio, I was shaking to the point I could barely walk. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t even hold my water bottle steady so it was leaking all over the place. The room looked so adorable. There was a sign with my name on it and all these snacks and drinks laid out and I wanted to take a picture of it but because of my shaking hands, I couldn’t hold my hands steady and I kept dropping my phone. Luckily, I have a hard case on it, so my phone survived my nerves.
Soon, the hair and makeup artist arrived and I began to share my vintage 1920’s vision with him and Tanja although Tanja and I had discussed it in great detail in a previous Zoom session so she knew exactly what I was envisioning for my session. The hair and makeup session was incredible. I am a girl who never wears makeup and puts my long wet hair in a ponytail, throws on some chapstick and I’m out the door. David made me feel at ease and he got my vision right away. I told him I wanted to get out of my comfort zone but I still wanted to feel like me. The whole hair and makeup process was fabulous from beginning to end. It felt incredible to be pampered and when I saw myself in the mirror when the transformation was complete, I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. She was effervescent, luminous, radiant, and vivacious. Was this really me? I know people often say I was speechless to express extreme shock or surprise but when I looked in the mirror and tried to say thank you only guttural sounds and gasps came out. Luckily, the smile on my face said everything.
I will never again say that models have an easy job. Getting into some of those poses was an extremely difficult task. “Pop your leg, neck out, straighten your shoulders, but relax, pop your booty..Me: : “I don’t have a booty!” I felt like a Stretch Armstrong toy being tested at the factory. I don’t think I would have passed inspection.
After the photo shoot, I went home thinking, there is no way these photos are going to look okay but at least I did something new and different. I met some great people and I got some great stories out of it. Throughout the photo shoot my makeup began running, I had lipstick all over my teeth, my hair was falling flat and I couldn’t stop touching my face from the “itchy” makeup. I wondered if models ever had these issues as I raced home to throw on my p.j.’s, scrub my makeup off, and put my hair back in a ponytail. I guessed they didn’t. I scarfed down my very non-model diet of mac and cheese and double stuff Oreos and didn’t think about the photo shoot for the next week or so.
I soon received an email from Tanja saying my photos were ready to view. I had butterflies in my stomach immediately after reading those words. I pictured the cover of this magazine with all these beautiful women on it and one in the corner with mascara running down her face Tammy Faye Bakker style with frizzy hair and some weird pose she couldn’t pull off. I scheduled my photo reveal session against my better judgment mostly because I needed a Mother’s Day gift and even if the pictures were as awful as I expected them to be, my mom would pretend to think it was beautiful.
The photo revel session began with a slide show and tears began to pour down my face not only because the photos were good but because they had captured who I was without any words, without any sound, without any gimmicks, and without any direction from me other than this is the look I am going for. I was astounded! After the slideshow ended and I could talk again because I was so choked up from the experience, I thanked Tanja profusely because she took my vision and brought it to life. I wanted to show in pictures that I didn’t have to live the life that anyone else was living, I just needed to be happy with my life and my choices and after the photo shoot, I finally felt at peace with my life’s journey.
Is there anything in particular that you loved about the experience?
Besides what I shared above, what I loved the most about this experience was the constant communication and reassurance from Tanja. You never felt out of the loop or felt like you were left wondering about anything. She was always there if I had any questions or concerns and she worked within my limited budget constraints and took my concerns seriously. She worked around my schedule in order to set up our meetings which I appreciated so much! I always felt like a priority to her.
When I expressed concerns about certain photos being published because of my career as a teacher, Tanja was extremely professional and understanding, I never felt limited by my profession in fact Tanja made me feel like it would be an asset to the photographs, She came up with some incredible ideas that really fit my vision that was only a very broad idea that had to be narrowed down substantially in order to create a beautiful portrait that captured not only a particular look and style but the true essence of who i was.
Tanja is a true artist and a mad scientist rolled into one when she is behind that lens. She is an incredibly gifted photographer and she should use herself as one of her Fearless Over 40 women. Her daughter is lucky to have her as a leader, a guide, a mentor, a teacher, and a role model as she grows up.
If there is anything you weren't fond of, please share as well.
The only thing I wasn’t fond of had nothing to do with Tanja or anything with the photo shoot. It had to do with me when I tripped on my high heels because I am extremely klutzy and I hadn’t worn heels in a long time. I couldn’t catch my balance and I nearly knocked over an entire background piece. It was beyond embarrassing. If I ever have a photo shoot again or the next time I wear heels I will be practicing beforehand. But everything was fantastic from the beginning of the process to the end. I have absolutely no complaints and no regrets, I am so happy to have met and worked with Tanja and to have these pictures for a lifetime. The before and after speaks for itself. I feel like I made a new friend.
Please share your "story" (only put information in here that you are willing to share in the blog post).
I’ve read so many memoirs and biographies and watched so many of them on TV. I love reading stories about other people's lives because it’s like being a fly on the wall in another person’s house. I always thought it would be so cool to write my own story but my next thought always immediately followed it: Who would want to read it? I’ve read memoirs about rock stars, artists, writers, actors, entertainers, politicians, people who have experienced and overcome true adversity and tragedy, and true legends of our time. Why would anyone who could pick up a book about those people pick up an article about some nobody like me? So, I have never written a word.
Then this project came around and one of the parts that interested me the most was the chance to write at least some version of my own story. I don’t know how interesting it will be or who will be reading it but I guess here it goes…
I couldn’t decide how or where to begin writing about my 40 years of life experiences, some good and some bad but I decided to focus my experiences through the lens of women’s empowerment since that is the main focus of this project.
I was born on a cold January evening in 1982 although I was supposed to be born on a cold December evening 1981.Yes, I was nearly a month late and all 9.8 pounds of me showed it! I was born to two loving parents and a large extended family filled with four grandparents, and more aunts, uncles and cousins than I could count! I was the oldest child and three years later came my sister Jill and two years after that, my brother Michael. We were your typical upper middle class northwest side suburban Chicago family.
I loved the house we grew up in and I still check regularly to see if it is up for sale so I can purchase it if it is. I loved our house on Linden Ave. It was a three bedroom home on a cul de sac with a park behind the cul de sac. The home was built in the 1960’s but my mom had redesigned it with the most up to date 80’s flair. It had a large outdoor pool complete with a slide and diving board, a basement with a pool table and pinball machine and an apple II computer, a kitchen with a skylight and modern 80’s appliances, and the best part, a huge family room with all the best 80’s toys including my favorite: The Play Skool record player and Sound Stage light up microphone and soundstage.
The Linden family room is where I pretended to be Madonna, Cher, Whitney Houstion, Dolly Parton, and many other 80’s legends I saw on MTV. I always accented my performances with incredible 80’s fashion from my mom’s enviable closet. She was the most gorgeous woman I had ever seen. I loved her style and flair and would watch her and imitate her walk, her hand gestures, her laugh, her eye movements, the way she stood, the way she talked on the phone, the way she ate, I thought she was the pinnacle of elegance, grace, and beauty. She still is.
Our house became the place to be for all of our neighborhood friends because of the pool in the summer and in all seasons: The super nintendo and large TV and large quantities of pudding pops, bagel bites, squeeze “it’s”, and other delectable 80’s nibbles without much policing from my parents. We also had an extensive collection of R rated VHS horror movies made by my older cousins who spent weeks with us in the summer. My parents didn’t censor us much so our house became the house to be to watch movies like, Nightmare on Elmstreet, The Shining, Friday the 13th, and many others. I spent many nights sleeping with the lights on pretending I wasn’t scared.
My mom was very adamant that we attend Catholic school beginning in kindergarten at the closest Catholic school to our house, Mary, Seat of Wisdom in Park Ridge. I don’t remember much about kindergarten and first grade other than I loved my teachers and I loved going to school. I loved that my mom was the room mom and she would always go on the field trips with us and bring in awesome treats like for Easter when she brought in this giant bunny cake and it had Easter grass and red licorice whiskers and a black jelly bean eye and coconut fur. I just thought it was the best cake I had ever seen or tasted!
The summer of 1989 things all changed when we found out my dad was taking a new job in London and we would be spending the next two years at least living and going to school in London, England. I remember having no real concept of where that was as an 8 year old just knowing it was an 8 hour plane ride away and it meant a lot of change and I have never been really good with change. I remember my grandma crying with my mom in the kitchen and pleading with her not to go. That made me cry too. My mom was excited for the new adventure so that helped us to be excited and it also helped that my grandparents would be taking care of our house so we wouldn’t have to move when we returned home to Chicago. We were promised we could come back and stay in Chicago for the summers so that made the adjustment more bearable as well.
When we got to London, my dad had already been there all summer. It was my mom’s job to find us a house. At the time my siblings and I were 8,5, and 3. We all moved into this cramped apartment that smelled like feet and cheese. It was old and worn down and nothing worked properly. This was not my beautiful house with the pool and my record player and sound stage. I didn’t know what this smelly place was. From then on I associated this grimy apartment and the gloomy weather with London to me. Whenever something smells similar to that musty apartment or there’s that light misty rainy weather, I associate it with my distaste for all things English.
The rest of the summer flew by and the new school year began. Our new school was GIGANTIC! It was called the American School in London. I was starting second grade, my sister was starting her second year of preschool because my mom wanted her to be the oldest in her class and not the youngest because of her September birthday and for the same reason she chose to keep my brother at home with her one more year. My teacher’s name was Mrs. Trudell. She reminded me of Ms. Mackle from the Horrible Harry books. She was beautiful and incredibly smart. She was kind, innovative, passionate, creative, and caring! I loved her instantly. She was from Wisconsin and had been transferred to London just like us. I felt connected instantly. She had been sent to London because her husband was a doctor and had taken a job there too. I was a painfully shy brown haired girl with huge glasses, a crooked toothy smile, and a side ponytail.
She took me on a tour of the classroom and held my hand. She made me so excited to start second grade because I loved school but I hated London. Our class was filled with students from all over the world whose parents had been sent to London for one reason or another. There were students from Israel, Kuwait, Pakistan, Korea, France, New York, and so many more.
My two closest friends were Jenny and Corrinne. Jenny was from New York City and Corrinne was from Israel. Both could have been other planets for all I knew. What I knew is that they both had dark brown hair and big glasses like me, they had sticker books and liked trading stickers, they both thought their younger sisters were annoying like I thought mine was, and they both didn’t like London except Mrs. Trudell. We became like The Three Musketeers instantly. Second grade flew by! Mrs. Trudell taught us how to build wigwams out of mud and sticks and we made a huge mess in the classroom, we had two class pets a bunny and a hamster that we took care of, our class shared our cultures throughout the year with food fests, dances with beautiful costumes, guest speakers, and crafts. Corinne, Jenny, and I had frequent sleepovers and I enjoyed Jewish celebrations I had never even heard of. With each passing month, I missed home a little less but as summer approached, I was very excited to go back home to see my grandparents and my Chicago friends and cousins.
The summer of 1990 flew by and soon it was time to fly back to London. I had mixed feelings about returning this time. I was excited to see Jenny and Corinne again. I was glad we were going back to our nice London townhome and not that nasty apartment, and I was excited about third grade and my new teacher. However, I wondered what all my other friends from home were learning in school. Were they learning the same things? Were their teachers as great as Mrs. Trudell? Did they trade stickers at recess like me? I had no idea. I felt distant from my old school. I felt removed. Little did I know how removed I would really be in a year.
Third grade started out great just as second grade had. Our new teacher was a man named Mr. Ratoff. I had never had a male teacher before. Or as we said, “a boy teacher”. The other third grade teacher was also a male, excuse me, a “boy” teacher. They couldn’t have been more different though. Mr. Ratoff was very clean cut. He almost wore a uniform to school every day of neatly pleated khaki pants, penny loafers complete with a penny in each one, black socks, and a black turtleneck no matter what season or what the weather was like. Although in London, it was almost always gloomy, chilly, and rainy every day.
His teaching partner “Scarter” on the other hand was the polar opposite he wore splatter painted Zubaz pants every day, which if your not a child of the 80’s and early 90’s were these hideous oversized cloth pants that usually came in every animal print found in nature and some that didn’t. Scarter had somehow found the Holy Grail of Zubaz pants or had them specially made for him because he had a collection of various splatter painted designs which he paired with his rivaled collection of neon T shirts and neon glasses strap that matched with his choice of pants and tee for the day. This was no accident. It was his own version of a “uniform”. The “Scartform.”
Because I was in Mr. Ratoff’s homeroom, we really only saw “Scarter” on field trips or if we combined classes for a project or something. That was okay with me because I was enamored with Mr. Ratoff not because he was good looking. He was a slightly balding middle aged Jewish man from New York with a thick New York accent and let’s face it the man only wore tapered pleated khaki pants and black turtlenecks. I wanted a wardrobe like my mom’s. Now she had style and grace! But Mr. Ratoff was an incredible teacher! He made everyone in his class feel like you were the only one in that classroom. He made you feel as if he sat down the night before and planned that lesson just for you. Granted there were 28 other kids in that classroom but I remember sitting in that classroom day after day and seeing only those brown eyes, glasses, and black facial hair staring back at me. Now that’s an educator!
Mr. Ratoff made every lesson like an episode of High School Musical. Usually it was only him performing his one man show every day but multiplication was taught via song, lifecycles no problem hit it! Subject and predicates….used to be difficult not anymore not with this little jingle….Division ahhh let’s divide and conquer but first let me introduce you to the band…. (us looking puzzled….what band?...”I think he means the one in his head….” “oh!”) He was like Jack Black in school of Rock. That classroom was his arena. We were his backup singers, his band, his audience, his roadies, and let’s not forget his groupies. Mrs. Trudell and Mr. Ratoff made me want to be a teacher. They inspired me to want to educate others and they absolutely taught me that school could be cool even if you were a nerd like me.
Testing, testing, 1, 2, 1, 2 symballance… okay sorry just checking to see if you’re still reading. The school year of 1990-1991 flew by. At the end of the school year, we learned we would not be returning to London and that we would be returning to our former school Mary, Seat of Wisdom. I was now entering 4th grade and I wasn't sure how to feel about going back there. I hadn’t been a student at Mary Seat since first grade. I felt like I had learned so much at the American School and I had loved my teachers and my classmates. While I didn’t love London, I did love ASL. I remember saying I wish we could just move ASL to Chicago. I still wish that today for many reasons.
4th grade started at the end of August 1991. My homeroom teacher was Mrs. Iovino. She kind of reminded me of Dark Helmet from the movie Spaceballs because she had this thick, black, helmet shaped haircut. Even on a hot, humid 98 degree day in Chicago in a school building with no air conditioning and only air circulating from giant fans propped up on chairs not one piece of hair came out of place. Meanwhile the rest of our class looked like we had just gone swimming or gotten out of the shower. The hair frizz level was at an 11. I don’t think anti-frizz serum was a thing and even Aqua Net and Rave couldn’t compete with Chicago’s humidity. Mrs. Iovino must have cooked up some concoction each summer using former student’s rubber cement always on the supply list but never used, Borax from the slime we made as the only and only science experiment we did each year from grades K-8 at Mary Seat, and Velcro from all the Trapper Keepers of days gone past. Finish with mailing tape once reserved for holding on book covers and Presto! You have a humidity resistant hairdo!
As with most teaching partners, Mrs. Burns was the opposite of Mrs. Iovino. Where Mrs. Iovino was temperamental, easily angered to the point of being enraged and possibly even bi polar, Mrs. Burns was cool. calm, and collected. She radiated peace and tranquility whereas Mrs. Iovino radiated a nuclear meltdown at any moment! She would flip student desks over if they were too messy and scream at the child about living in a pig pen, she would go on rampages about her Jolly Ranchers being stolen when no one would dare to go near her desk. We would rather have had our own arm chewed off. Boys were made to stand in the corner of the room for what seemed like hours for minor offenses like talking or chewing gum.
The weirdest thing though was after the beast in her had been satisfied, she was as sweet as could be. Her voice, her posture, her demeanor, everything changed and she became this saccharine teacher with a sing-song voice who pranced around the room teaching us spelling, phonics, vocabulary, and writing but you never knew when the demon would come out again. It could be 5 minutes, or 5 hours later but it was inevitable. You also never knew what would make the demon come out. Would it be an untied shoe, a book closing too loudly, the drumming of a pencil or just a rainy day? No one could guess. But one thing is for sure, if the Catholic church ever wanted to conduct an action research thesis on exorcisms, they had the perfect subject to study! This world was a far cry from ASL and the cherished classroom spaces of Mr. Ratoff and Mrs. Trudell I had grown to know and love.
Worse than Mrs. Iovino’s mood swings though were the students at Mary Seat. Just as I had gotten older, so had they. Just as I had made new friends so had they, just as I had various life experiences in two years, so had they. I can only explain my 4th-8th grade years at Mary Seat as complete misery and hell on Earth. Some may say that sounds very dramatic to describe grade school in that manner and if anyone else made that statement to me about grade school I may think that sounds a bit extreme too. I can only say that I have never experienced the humiliation, embarrassment, bullying, torment, self-loathing, and utter self- hatred that I experienced in those 5 years than in any other time of my life. I feel like that is a significant statement considering I am now forty years old.
I believe the misery I experienced those years was a toxic combination of a bad grade school class, my mom returning back to work full time, my grandfather passing away and my grandmother descending into madness and senility, and people becoming our caretakers that had absolutely no business taking care of three young children. Combine those elements with puberty, peer pressure, sibling rivalry, anger, bitterness, and teen angst and the result was a toxic soup of self- loathing, depression, anxiety, self harm, extreme insecurity and feelings of inadequacy and a complete lack of confidence and self worth that would last far into adulthood.
I remember getting ready for gym class one day in sixth grade. All of us nerdy girls dreaded gym class because it was the one day and the one hour of the week where we were tormented the most. We weren’t safe from the taunts of the girls and we certainly were not safe from the cruelty of the boys. At Mary Seat, we had these uber dorky gym uniforms consisting of these starchy royal blue gym shorts that were WAY too long to ever look good on anyone so every girl rolled them up until they looked like starchy daisy dukes. It wasn’t much of an improvement but looking like a slut apparently was better than looking like a nerd. The shirt was an ultra flimsy light blue cheap cotton material that showed our developing chests and sports bras or lack thereof for some girls who were teased mercilessly for forgetting to wear one.
On gym days, we were required to change from our school uniforms of plaid skirts, boxer shorts underneath, light blue oxford shirts and some kind of black or brown dress shoe into the above described hideous gym ensemble. Now, there were no lockers to keep our things in…NO! That would have cost money. This was a Catholic school! So everyone had their name on all of their clothing in Sharpie marker if your mom remembered to mark it at the beginning of the year but most likely, you just had to remember what area of the women’s bathroom you put your uniform bundle in . Each clique had its own section of the bathroom with the biggest nerds like me being relegated to the area near the bathroom door. This was the worst spot because you were the most susceptible to having your uniform stolen by the boys or the “cool” girls during the gym period. Why we never thought of a plan to hide our uniform somewhere else or why we endured this torture week after week year after year I can’t explain. All I can tell you is that this particular week in 6th grade it was my turn to be the victim of the uniform bandits.
At some point during the gym period, my neatly washed and ironed plaid skirt and oxford shirt that my mom washed and ironed everyday along with my brand new Doc Marten school shoes that I was so proud of because they looked identical to my older cousins who I idolized were taken from the corner of the bathroom. This time The bathroom bandits were unusually cruel because they dunked my perfectly pressed uniform into pee. Whether it was pee from inside the toilets or whether they peed directly on my school uniform, I’ll never know nor do I want to.
I can only remember coming back from the bathroom after gym class to find my uniform in its spot but everything: My shirt, skirt, boxers, socks, and brand new shoes were soaked in urine. What was I going to do?!? Class was in 5 minutes! I could hear laughter from outside the bathroom as well as inside so I knew both the girls and the boys were in on the “joke.”
Taking deep breaths and trying to cry, I grabbed my pee soaked bundle and headed for the elementary office. I don’t think I even asked for permission which in a Catholic school was unheard of. You asked for permission to inhale, exhale, and blink. I was so consumed with rage, anger, humiliation, and angst that I would be late to class. I ran with my pee soaked uniform dripping down the hallways of the entire school until I reached the small office located near the kindergarten classrooms.
Our secretary Mrs. Margraph was there. Mrs. Margraph should be in line to be canonized. She was a tall skinny woman with a mole on her chin and cat eye glasses that she wore on a gold chain. She reminded me of Olive Oil from Popeye. Mrs. Margraph was an ordinary woman with an extraordinarily large heart. She took care of every student in the school as if they were her own. We all loved her and felt comfortable going to her with the most simple needs like a band-aid or an ice pack, a copy for our teacher, a headache to get out of a math class or the most embarrassing situations like a pee soaked gym uniform.
Whatever the situation was, Mrs. Majorie Margrpah never judged you, never hurt your feelings, never made you feel unwanted or like you were a burden, She was unconditional love in a place filled with so much hate and unkindness. I will always always be grateful to her for the many times she aided my siblings and I but especially me in times of need.
When I came down with tears in my eyes, unable to speak only my pee soaked uniform to do the talking for me, she took one look at me, and said oh come here honey let me see what we can do for you. I said she couldn’t call my mom because she was working. Mrs. Margraph nodded in understanding. She wrapped my pee stenched clothes in a bag and attached a note for my mom explaining the need to wash them. She never asked me to explain myself. It was as if she already knew, She then found all the uniform components from the extra bins below the teacher mailboxes. Never asking my sizes, again as if she knew. She reminded me to return them tomorrow. I thanked her profusely. She asked if I was ready to return to class. She wrote me a pass so I wouldn’t get in trouble. The pass read, “Tracy has a headache. She is fine to return to class. “ I was very prone to headaches since I was a young child so it was very believable. She said I could pick up my uniform in the office at the end of the day so I didn’t have to carry it back to class with me and that she would let my mom know about the situation. Another extreme act of kindness and understanding on her part.
I remember coming back to grammar class still feeling neon orange in a uniform that didn’t quite fit me, shoes that were a little too tight for my big feet, a shirt that smelled musty like it had been in the bin for years and hadn’t been washed as requested and a skirt that was made for an elf.
I still was on the verge of losing it completely. I remember my friend whom I shall call “Taryn” for the purposes of this story signaling me to take a note from her. We were not the best of friends, I knew her and we had hung out in a group at recess a few times and recently she had invited me to her house for a sleepover the previous weekend, I had gone but I hadn’t had the best time because they had been discussing kissing boys and summer camp and other things I hadn’t experienced. I just felt like I didn’t fit in with her and her friends but yet, I didn’t have many friends at all so I was excited she seemed to want to be friends with me, She passed me the note in a pen cap. It said, “meet me in the bathroom. I will ask to go, then you ask.” It seemed like an odd request and I was nervous considering I had just gotten back from the office but I figured the worst Mrs, Burdick could say was no.
“Taryn” asked to go to the bathroom. I waited for what seemed like 2 hours but it was probably about 2 minutes because I didn’t have a watch. I raised my hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Mrs. Burdick waved for me to go. I walked into the bathroom and Taryn was wild eyed with excitement. She said she had something to show me. She opened up her backpack which i still wonder how she got into the bathroom and inside was this giant makeup bag but rather than makeup there were scissors, tweezers, razor blades, rubber bands, snap bracelets with the fabric pulled off, safety pins, and other sharp objects I can’t quite remember.
I asked her why she had all of this stuff. She pulled up her long sleeved shirt and her arms were full of scars, scabs, and scrapes. I don’t know if I said anything. I just stood there stunned. I was a 12 year old kid. I didn’t know anything about self harm or cutting. I had only recently started shaving my legs and my mom tweezed my eyebrows. I must have asked her why she had so many cuts on her arm or something to that effect because I remember her telling me she knew a way to make all my pain go away.
It was like she could see through the facade I thought I had so cleverly built. I replied with a question: Take my pain away? How? She replied, watch. She took a razor blade and cut her arm until blood began to trickle down onto the blue and white bathroom tile. I began to freak out. “Taryn! C’mon! We have to get back to class! We’ve been gone a long time!” Okay, but just try it and you’ll see what I mean. I thought she was crazy. She quickly took a band-aid from her torture kit as I referred to it, put it on her fresh wound, pulled down her long sleeved shirt and acted like nothing happened. I couldn’t fathom or make sense of what I had just witnessed. I went back to class but all I could think about for the rest of that day and into the evening was Taryn and her kit of sharp objects and how nonchalant she was about inflicting that kind of pain upon herself.
The day seemed to drag on forever and finally school was over. When I got home I continued to think about what she said over and over that it would “take all my pain away.” That’s what I wanted the most. I didn’t want to be in pain at home. I didn’t want to be in pain at school. I didn’t want to be in pain when I went to others’ houses. I just wanted to be happy like everyone else. Or at least like I thought everyone else was.
I remember that afternoon finding a razor blade in my parents bathroom and locking the door. It took me a long time to work up the nerve to cut myself. I started with scraping the surface of my skin, then poking myself with a safety pin. Finally cutting my arm and leg with the razor. I watched as the blood drained into the sink. I imagined the red flowing ribbon of blood draining into the sink to be the flowing river of pain I felt inside slowly draining away. I closed my eyes. I could feel my finger and my arm pulsing from where I had cut and punctured them. From then on, I was hooked.
Self harm became a daily addiction for me. I would cut my legs, my arms, my stomach, pubic area, under arms, toes, buttocks, even my face. I would pick at my face with tweezers. I would wear a ponytail holder around my wrist daily and constantly snap it until my wrist was red and bleeding. I would puncture myself with safety pins in every finger and every toe, I would bite every finger until they bled. Anything I could do to inflict pain on myself I did. The exterior pain and scars were a manifestation of the pain and extreme self hatred I felt on the inside. I hated what I saw when I looked in the mirror. To me the person staring back at me was a distorted monster. An ugly, gross, fat, loser who didn’t deserve to live.
I prayed daily that I just wouldn’t wake up the next day. In addition to my self harm addiction. I tried several times to kill myself between 6th-8th grade by overdosing on sleeping medication and whatever pill concotion from my parents medicine cabinet I thought would do the job.
I want to reiterate that this is not a story to gather sympathy or to garner a pity party. This is a story to explain the journey I have taken to become the woman I am today and to explain how the journey is continuous. There was no miraculous magical moment that made my addiction to self harm stop. It is a constant and ongoing healing process just like any other disorder or addiction. It is complex and multilayered. What I can tell you is that I wouldn’t be where I am today let alone here at all today if not for the support of my family and my friends. Once I was finally able to open up about my secret addiction I realized how common self harm was. I realized it was another area I could help young girls and women navigate so they wouldn’t have to be alone in their secret for nearly two decades the way I was.
I graduated from grade school in 1996. I felt like a lost soul. I was timid, extremely introverted to the point where I only spoke to immediate family and my siblings did the speaking for me, I was gawky, awkward, and incredibly reserved. No one knew my pain and turmoil that was festering inside of me. I needed a high school where I would be able to grow and shine. A school that understood young women like myself. I needed a place where women were given a voice even if they felt like they didn’t have one or if they felt like theirs wasn’t important. Little did I know that not only did this place exist, but how much it would change my life for the better.
My mom went to an all girls high school, Mother Guerin which has since become co-ed as have most of the single sex Catholic schools in the Chicagoland area. My mom felt it was very important that my sister and I have a similar experience to hers and attend an all girls Catholic school as well. In 1996 that left three options: Mother Guerin: My mom’s alma mater, Resurrection High school, and Regina Dominican High School. I remember for some reason, most likely out of bratty teen defiance saying I refused to go to Mother Guerin because I didn’t want to go to the same school as my mom. She never really pushed the issue but I remember her saying that she thought I would get a better education at Regina than at the other two schools.
On parent night, as fate would have it, our admissions representative was Judith Speer. Speer was the drama director and forensics coach whom I would spend the next 3 years of my life with 6 days a week often until 11:00 at night during tech week or hell week as we called it. She was a true inspiration to all who knew her. She was funny, irreverent, sarcastic, ballsy, firm but fair, and one of the best teachers and coaches I have ever and will ever have.
Speer was never afraid to tell you exactly how she felt about your performance or your behavior. She helped us girls blossom into women by teaching us life long lessons, morals, and values that have lasted us all a lifetime. She would often drive me home when I would miss the bus due to rehearsal and she would share stories with me of her childhood growing up in Park Ridge where I also grew up. Every story always had something to learn from or some reason she had chosen to share that particular tale with me that day. She taught me how to lead by example and she among others inspired me to want to become a teacher.
I remember visiting her in the hospital shortly before she died. She was on a ventilator and couldn’t talk anymore which for Speer must have been her hell on Earth. But she would nod her head as one former student after another came and sat at her bedside and regalled her with stories of their successes of being on Broadway, being on the Second City Stage, working as producers and directors and actors in big name movies, as the line of students dwindled, I became more and more nervous. I didn’t have a story about having my name on the marquee. I didn’t have a story about working with Steven Speilburg, getting the lead in a major motion picture or the latest television drama. What was I going to say? Finally it was my turn to enter the hospital room. I was told to be fast because she was tired and visiting hours were almost over. I felt slightly cheated because I had waited forever listening to everyone else’s stories of how wonderful they were doing and how great their lives were. Now it was finally my turn and I had to be quick?!
I actually made some joke about it as I entered her hospital room because during my freshman year when I auditioned for a lead in some play she looked me dead in the eye and in her matter of fact tone she said, “Tracina, (She always called me that) you’ll never be an anjenue so give it up!” I was crushed then but as I walked into the hospital room after all the “starlets”, I said well, I’ll never be an anjenue. I could tell that even through the ventilator she was smiling and I was so proud that I could make her smile and laugh in those last moments. I said I don’t have a story about being on Broadway or being in the movies. I said I just wanted to thank you for being an amazing teacher and coach because that’s what I decided to do. I have been teaching and coaching for years now and every day I think of you and the lessons you taught us. Thank you for bringing me out of my shell.
As I was talking, I could see her nodding continuously and a tear fell down her cheek. Ms. Speer died a few days later. I was glad I was able to say goodbye and thank you to one of the women at Regina who empowered me the most.
My four years at Regina flew by and I was so sad to see them go and to say goodbye to my friends I had made along the way. I decided to attend Bradley University in Peoria, IL. mainly because it had a good teacher education program and it had a bus that went to and from home several times every day and I was insanely homesick all 7 years that I was there. (undergraduate and graduate school) Although homesick, college was a wonderful experience. I made some incredible lifelong friends and I finally got to pursue my dream of becoming a teacher. I loved being around other students and professors that were equally passionate about education and children. I loved experiencing the Peoria Public school system as a student teacher, a school counselor, and as a long term substitute in the at risk program. Again, I met incredible teachers and friends who continue to be mentors to me to this day.
On the advice of a professor of mine I went straight through my undergraduate and graduate degrees and graduated in May of 2007 with a BS in Elementary Education and an MA in School Counseling. It sounded great on paper but now I needed a job and other than a long term subbing position, summer school, and my counseling internship at the time, I had virtually no experience.
I interviewed everywhere that summer…or so it seemed. One day as I was eating breakfast and getting ready for another round of grueling interviews, I got a call from a Catholic school in Park Ridge. I was shocked because it was so close and it wasn’t the school we had attended as kids. I was thrilled to have lined up an interview at a place 5 minutes from home…well from mom and dad’s home. I went into the interview saying I only wanted to teach kindergarten. At the time, that was the only grade I had taught. It wasn’t exactly the best interviewing technique to say the least but for whatever reason this principal and team of teachers gave me a chance and a start to my teaching career.
17 school years later, I am sitting here typing this life story 17 years older, 17 years wiser and at least 17 more gray hairs. I have now taught every grade from kindergarten through 9th grade. I have taught in Catholic schools, Charter schools, and I am currently teaching in a public school. I have taught in most areas of Chicago in Urban areas and Suburban areas and I guess you may be wondering okay great Tracy so what have you learned? Well, I guess the best answer I can give to that question is, I am still learning. I am learning to be a better teacher on a daily basis. I am learning to be a better aunt, daughter, sister, and friend. 40 years have brought me lots of laughter, pain, excitement, sadness, joy, and sorrow. But that’s life, it's a continuous journey of ups and downs, highs and lows. I have been asked before if I have regrets. That’s a complicated question. Are there things that I wish I could go back and change and redo, of course. I’m sure we probably could all make a list of those moments but then I think about it and I think, If I redid all those moments would I be the same person I am today, would I have learned the same lessons I needed to learn from those mistakes and those failures? I don’t know? So, do I have regrets? Sure. We probably all do. Would I change my life journey. I don’t think I would because it’s like that famous quote that says, “You can’t change your past, but you can learn from it and change the future.” I believe that is completely true for all of us.
After this photo shoot I am proud to be forty and fabulous. I am proud today to finally say I am comfortable in my own skin. I am proud to say I am a role model for others. I am proud to say that I have achieved my goal of becoming a teacher so I can be a positive influence in my student’s lives past and present the way my teachers were a positive influence in my life. Finally, at forty I am proud to say that I still have a lot of life to live. There are many goals, ambitions, dreams, and milestones yet to reach. The road of life continues to wind and weave and I am a willing passenger on this road trip. I have many lessons yet to be learned and many mentors yet to learn from.
I will leave this story with an inspirational quote from a woman who I think is one of the most inspirational women alive today: Ms. Dolly Parton. She says this about aging: “I don’t think about my life in terms of numbers. First of all, I ain’t never gonna be old because I ain’t got time to be old. I can’t stop long enough to grow old.” — The Oprah Conversation, November 2020
Do you have a favorite quote or a life philosophy?
“Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” -Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
Is there anything else you'd like to share to empower other women?
“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.”
- Helen Keller.
I struggled when I read this question but as a teacher and as an educator, I wanted to focus on what we can do to empower girls and young women because after all, they will be our future female leaders soon. Our future female mothers, educators, politicians, doctors, nurses, scientists, pilots, engineers, and thousands of other careers. I want my female students to have an easier time feeling confident in their own bodies and being happy in their own skin. I want their womanhood to be seen by themselves and others as a positive asset rather than something that may hold them back from any dream or goal they set for themselves. And finally, I want my female students to love who they see when they look at the person staring back at them each morning and each night. I want to bring out the best parts about them and make them feel luminous and radiant each day so that it doesn’t take a once in a lifetime photo shoot opportunity for them to see how amazing and incredible they are and to see themselves the way I see them every day.
One way I have set out to accomplish this goal is to be a Girls on the Run Coach. I have been coaching and volunteering for the Girls on the Run Chicago organization for over 10 years. My oldest team is now in their 20’s and finishing college and when we coached them they had just started third grade and the previous year, they had been my second grade students. It’s amazing how many things have changed since our first coaching days in 2007 but the basic principles, tenants, and goals of our team have never waivered.
If you are not familiar with Girls on the Run ot if you have never visited their website at: girlsontherun.org , I highly encourage you to do so. They explain their mission and their success rate and answer any and all questions better than I ever could.
I can tell you in my experience of being a GOTR coach in relation to empowering girls and young women over the years, what I found is that GOTR is divided into three main units: 1. Understanding Ourselves, 2. Valuing relationships and teamwork and 3. Recognizing how we can shape the world at large. Each lesson has a teaching and learning component combined with an exercise and running component. The girls learn about themselves as well as their teammates while getting that important physical fitness and exercise component that so many kids and adults don’t receive enough of.
So, why Girls on the Run? Their vision is “a world where every girl knows and activates her limitless potential and is free to boldly pursue her dreams.” Can you think of anything that feels more important right now, with everything going on in the world?
The GOTR program is done through a curriculum taught by coaches. Girls meet twice a week in small teams for lessons and running games, and at the end of the season they run a non competitive 5K together, “which gives them a tangible sense of achievement as well as a framework for setting and achieving life goals.”
The girls that run the 5K, which is almost all of them, receive a medal all which say “1” signifying that they are all number 1. The girls show up early before the race to decorate pink and purple tiaras, spray paint their hair with pink and purple paint (The GOTR colors) each girl wears a GOTR race shirt and the number “1” as their race number again signifying that they are all number one for many reasons. Girls and coaches come to the race wearing tutus, face paint, glitter, costumes, and other GOTR regalia in honor of the ending of another successful GOTR season. GOTR is now celebrating 25 years of making a positive difference in the lives of girls and young women across the United States.
The program is about inspiring and motivating, building self-confidence and agency, and encouraging lifelong health and fitness habits
7 Inspiring Facts About Girls on the Run
1. It all started with one school in North Carolina in 1996…and there are now 200 councils in all 50 states and D.C.
2. In 2015, Girls on the Run served over 185,000 girls…including its millionth girl.
3. By 2021, the organization has a goal of serving two million girls across the country, while increasing access and inclusion at the same time.
4. Research on the program’s outcomes done in 2016 found girls who participated showed significant improvements in confidence, including perceived physical appearance and self-esteem. “Girls were happier with the way they looked, liked the kind of person they are, and said classmates were more likely to pay attention to them.”
5. The same research showed the girls demonstrated increased empathy and sympathy towards other girls. AKA..they were learning to support each other, which is something women really need right now!
6. The girls also gained life skills. They showed they were able to better manage emotions, resolve conflict, and make intentional decisions.
7. Girls on the Run depends on volunteers! It currently runs on the generosity of more than 100,000 of them. Maybe you’ll be next?