Josh Imhof | staff writer

I have always hated change. I remember how nervous I was when I started preschool — to leave my family for the day and be around people who I had never met before.

Many morning drop offs ended with me being pried from my parents’ Dodge Grand Caravan by my teachers as I grabbed onto the handles, hoping to postpone my eventual social integration. Unfortunately for me, I was only around 40 pounds. Unfortunately for them, I was a kicker.

I can only imagine the dread my teachers felt when they saw the minivan squeal to a stop outside of the window.

This behavior continued into kindergarten when my father had to fireman-carry me onto the school bus. In high school, I realized pretending to be sick to get out of social situations was much easier than being physically removed from vehicles.

Somewhere along the way though, another emotion began to share the space with my anxiety, something I had never felt before.

Around seventh grade, I stopped catastrophizing, and my pendulum swung in the opposite direction. I just stopped caring. My grades slipped, I tried less at the things I was actually good at, and I didn’t put myself out there anymore. Most of the things I did were to keep appearances up.

This is not to say there weren’t happy moments. I played sports throughout school and had lots of fun with them. I received the “most outspoken player” award from Neil Walker at a baseball summer camp, which proved that I did know how to interact with others. I also made it to the WPIAL Track and Field Championships with my high school’s 4×4 relay team.

These accolades don’t necessarily mean much in the long run, but to me they meant the world.

Still, I was never able to find a way to consistently channel that energy and “push through the glass ceiling,” as my mom often said, a phrase typically reserved for when women must break through invisible barriers imposed by patriarchal society. For me, these barriers were self imposed. I quit baseball in middle school on a whim, and I did not take my track training in high school as seriously as I should have.

Instead of facing my fears, I let fear and anxiety turn me into an apathetic, half-hearted person.

The pandemic made that easier. I could just dive into a hole and recede from the rest of the world. This paradox of emotions ruled my life for the better part of two decades, and it was not until this year that I finally started to escape it.

Up to this point in college, I had been crutching on a small group of high school friends when I wanted someone to talk to. We didn’t have much in common anymore, but it was comfortable and the people who I did want to keep in touch with had begun starting their own lives so they were harder to reach.

This frustrated me, not because of anything they did, but because it meant that I was stuck. I was stuck with friends who I wasn’t growing with, and I was stuck in my life, unable to move forward in any meaningful way.

I became frustrated with the person I was becoming and the possible trajectory of my life. I realized I wanted what the best of my friends had. In order to achieve that, I had to make some changes. This time though, I had to do it for myself.

I decided I was going to take a risk and put myself out there again. I decided to leave the minivan on my own terms. Since then, it has paid off in ways I couldn’t imagine.

In August, I joined the newspaper and the ultimate frisbee club where I was immediately greeted by some of the kindest people I have ever met. The newsroom staff welcomed me with open arms, and I quickly began writing stories weekly, not because I was expected to, but because I wanted to.

It gave me something to look forward to and something to be proud of. I felt like I belonged there. These experiences led me to switch my major to journalism, where I have finally been able to make progress in starting a career for myself.

On Sundays, I would lace up my beat up pair of Reeboks and hit the field for an hour to play frisbee.

I would always make sure to let my teammates know when they did a good job and if they made a mistake. I was there to tell them that “it’s alright” and “we’ll get ‘em next time.” After all, it was just intramural ultimate frisbee.

To me though, it was more. It felt like I was a kid again, the same one who won that stupid award from Neil Walker in the 5th grade. Being there with my teammates reminded me of how I felt on the baseball diamond and helped me quiet all of the noise inside of my head.

Slowly but surely, these two decisions have allowed me to start growing again, even if it is painful sometimes. It is still not easy for me to show up to the newsroom each week on Wednesdays because I get anxious about seeing everyone. There are also some frisbee Sundays where I stay quiet and don’t talk to others as much.

It’s in these moments where I lean into the relationships that I was so afraid of to keep going. Whether it is pushing myself to have a conversation with a friend from the newsroom or teasing my teammates at frisbee, I know that I am going to continue growing, one glass ceiling at a time.