I am pretty sure we all have one subtle, or, not so subtle thing that happens in our lives, from which we can look back and go “that’s where it all started”.

Whatever that proverbial “it” may be. Good or bad.

For me, it was in fourth grade.

Life was good. I had friends. School was fun. I played and laughed; normal kid stuff.  I was just a kid, living life.

I had a teacher named Mr. Brown. I started the year really liking him. He played piano, and loved the arts, so we were always acting and reading out loud, which fit my gregarious nature well.

One day, I had gotten in to a tube of my mom’s mascara. I was just curious, brought it to school, and tried to apply it, hoping for the same pretty results I saw my mom get.

The disastrous result was me poking myself in the eye with the wand, and smearing oily black grease all over my face. I tried to wipe at it, which smeared it even more, and I hid with embarrassment in the girls bathroom, ashamed to go back in to the classroom.

Mr. Brown came in to check on me, and instead of having any kind of sympathy, told me I was a “vain” girl for trying to wear make up, and to come to class immediately. With smeary black eyes and utter shame, I sheepishly sat through class, center of all jokes and torment for the day, totally humiliated. I was not used to being teased, and I shrunk at their insults.

That same year, maybe a month later, we were at recess, and a girl from another class left her purse on the blacktop near the handball courts. I picked it up, and she happened to have brand new fruity-smelling pens, that were “so cool”. I took them back to class with me. I must have known I shouldn’t have kept them, but my intent was to just use them and smell them, then give them back.

Another kid saw me using them, told the teacher, who quickly found the rightful owner. I was confronted by my teacher, again with embarrassment in front of the class, marched to the principle’s office, all the while being called a thief, as the other kids, once again, looked on and laughed.

I sat across from the principle, crying and explaining I just wanted to play with these silly pens. My intention was not to steal, I was not a thief. I was a dumb 9 year old kid! Yes I was now being made to look up “thief” in the dictionary, write it out 100 times, and read out loud what happens to thieves (jail, hard labor and the like) as well as apologize to my class, my teacher and the girl, for being a thief.

There was one more awful incident that year that really defined my role as a bad kid.

We had PE one day, and after, one boys watch went missing. After some futile searching, an anonymous “tip” told Mr. Brown that someone saw me put his watch in my coat pocket in the front closet.

4th Grade and I was set up. I never saw that watch before, but lo and behold, Mr. Brown found it in my pocket, and I, the thief (and on my deathbed, was innocent) was again, escorted to the Principle’s office. No one listened to me, I was found guilty and was sent home, in shame, once again. My parents had to meet with the parents of the boy whose watch I “stole” and I was forced to apologize. For doing nothing.

That year was awful, but it was also, defining. In not so good of a way.

Walk like a duck, talk like a duck. You’re a duck.

So guess what, I was a thief.

I was a thief? A bad kid? No one seemed to believe otherwise – even my parents. And as any impressionable kid, hitting some puberty, gaining some weight and lacking utter confidence -believed it. It must be true.

So, I became a thief.

It started with coins or loose dollars from my mom and dad. I would sack my brothers room and find his hiding spots and clean him out. I graduated to candy from stores, and quickly evolved to very bold moves, such as rings from Disneyland, nail polish, make up and jewelry from the pharmacy while I was standing right next to my mom.

I was a strange, needy kid, and often gave my “prizes” away. A hoodlum Robin Hood if you will. My “friends” and even my family, were the recipients of my stolen loot, and looking back I realize it was a vain attempt to try and buy them in to liking me.

If my parents were aware of my kleptomania, they never let on. And that was part of the problem, it just got worse.

I grew up, stealing everything I could get my hands on, all the time.

I got my first job, and realized how easy it was to steal from the register. I took money, all the time. Shamelessly.

As I grew, my decisions about stealing set the tone for other terrible decisions such as drinking, drugs and loose virtues. I was a thief, so of course I hung out with all other thieves, and that led to bigger, and more serious issues.

All of which, led to more stealing to support my marauding ways. I stole jewelry from my mom to score drugs. I stole wallets from purses and pockets that had easy access; I was bold and unapologetic.

I stole cars (my parents and my friends parents, but stole nonetheless)! I drank and drove. I stole ID’s to use as fake ID’s so I could buy more alcohol and sneak away in to clubs and drink even more.

My drug and alcohol use led to a tremendous weight gain which led to terrible self confidence, which led me to hook up with every guy I came across because “hey, he wouldn’t be with me if I wasn’t pretty right?”

Wrong. Dudes, especially stupid hormone driven dudes, will come on to a donkey if the situation was right. I was deluded.

Life sucked for a long time. I struggled with numerous eating disorders to lose the weight, I lost trust and respect of all those who loved me, and I hurt repeatedly, those who loved me the most.

Worst was, I hated myself. HATED myself. I was worthless, ugly, mean, selfish, disrespectful, thoughtless…a thief. A black sheep, a bad kid.

I was not, really all of those things. But that was what I was told I was. So that is what I became.

And the worse I got, well, the worse I became.

I moved out when I was 18, and my mom gave me a book on angels. Growing up we were not religious. God was alluded to, but we were steadfast atheists. Looking back now, that was another part of the problem. I was responsible for me, I was in control of me, and I was accountable to no one. Not my parents and certainly not any “God”.

So this book on angels was a curious one for my mom to buy me, and even more so , a curious one for me to be enthralled with.

I devoured it. I couldn’t stop reading it. The point of the book was that, angels are everywhere. They are divine, come from God and are constantly there to watch, support, guide and love us. And for some reason, it just clicked with me. It led me to more “angel” books, which led me to more “God books” and within a year, I spiritually shifted, to a much more serene, humble and honest place in my life.

I made peace with the pain I had caused people. I apologized to whom I could, and I forgave myself for the damage I had done. I learned to love me, that little kid – who was so lost. And saw her for what she was – a misguided, misjudged, and sad child who believed all the crap people dumped on her. So much so, she became the duck.

I am still very spiritual (I love Jesus, but yes I do cuss just a little here and there), and realize my journey is ever evolving. I look back on who I was, and it seems so foreign to me – so shocking from who I know I truly am – who I was meant to be all along.

I am not perfect, I yell too much at my kids, I stretch the truth here and there when I need to get out of a meeting – I am a real “do as I say not as I do kind of parent”. But at least, the “do what I say” is based in morals and strong convictions that are based on the fact that there is indeed, something out there bigger than us.

I often wonder which path I would have gone down if, from that momentous 4th grade year, positive words with loving, guided directions were given to me vs labeling and shaming authoritarianism. I guess I will never know, but it did define my own lines and boundaries in the way I speak to my own children. I am very, very careful when I am angry with my kids to label their actions as wrong, or bad, or mischievous, but not them as people .

“You are a thief” turned me in to a “thief”. There is tremendous power in words, particularly when they become labels adult throw at children. Those labels, positive or negative are the first things in life that begin to define us. People – choose your labels wisely.

I know everything happens for a reason. I know every stumble is a lesson, and every pain makes us stronger. I am stronger, I did grow, and I constantly, send love back to that little me. That little me I wish I loved more, that little me that really was such a swan – she just needed a little time to prove it.