Untold Stories of DDS: Issue 19

NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 1

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

UNTOLD STORIES OF DDS SPECIAL EDITION: AP LANGUAGE & COMPOSITION

ESSAYS BY: MADISON COLVIN REESE MITCHELL PIPER PRITCHARD

This issue of Untold Stories of DDS features three essays – each one written by a student in Mr. McGill's AP Language & Composition class. The first one, “Love Runs Deep” by Madison Colvin, tells the story of the deep bond Madison formed with her babysitter, Debbie, that started when Madison was six months old and continues to this day. The second essay, “Awake Where I Once Slept” by Reese Mitchell, tells the story of Reese’s journey in strengthening her faith, her challenges in dealing with a serious but mysterious illness in her sophomore year, and her realization that being an inspiration for others is the best way to feel inspiration from God. The third essay, “Both Sides of the Lunch Line” by Piper Pritchard, tells the story of Piper’s transition from living in Kentucky for the first nine years of her life to moving to North Carolina for middle school and high school. In her essay, Piper emphasizes the importance of showing up for herself and for others.

LOVE RUNS DEEP

BY MADISON COLVIN, CLASS OF 2027

“I

t’s not goodbye, it's see you later” – a phrase that has always been meaningless to me until recently. Most people treat “goodbyes” as the end of a path—a dead end. But paths in life hardly ever end. They may twist or narrow, grow dark and unfamiliar, and sometimes we can’t see more than a step ahead, but they keep going.

From the beginning of my path in life, Debbie has been my constant. Debbie was hired to be my nanny when I was just six months old. With my parents working in the healthcare field and frequently out of town for days at a time, they were in need of full-time help. So they turned to Care.com and posted a job description. Many applications poured in, but one stood out right away—Debbie’s.

They arranged an interview, and soon enough, Debbie was standing at our front door—nicely dressed, resume in hand, and even holding a small gift. She appeared to be in her early 60's with a glowing smile and soft brown eyes. My parents say it only took a few minutes for the conversation to feel like it was something deeper than a job interview. From the beginning, Debbie felt like family.

When I turned two, I began my journey at Davidson Day School, a private school in Davidson, NC that goes all the way up to the 12th grade. From the very start, Debbie stayed by my side. Every morning, she arrived at exactly 7:40 a.m. in her black 2011 Honda CR-V, ready to take me to school. At the end of each day, I waited eagerly for my name to be called during carpool, the signal that it was time for my teacher, Ms. Farrah, to buckle me into Debbie’s car. This simple routine became our ritual for the next ten years. As I grew older, Debbie's car became my safe space. The sight of her car in the driveway each morning brought with it a wave of happiness, comfort, and excitement: Debbie is here. The familiar scent of her Black Ice Little Tree air freshener also brought me comfort and a sense of home. In that car, some of our deepest, most heartfelt conversations took place. Every day she would ask me the same question: “How was your day?” My one-word answer of “good,” changed over the years. We began growing closer to each other, which allowed me to feel open with her and expand on my response. I faced many hardships throughout Lower and Middle School because of my non-traditional family. I was constantly bullied for having two moms, making me feel as though I didn’t belong. Yet Debbie made me feel seen and accepted. One day during second-grade, I got into her car quieter than normal, and she instantly knew something was wrong. Here comes her question, I thought, knowing I wouldn’t be able to answer without crying. “How was your day?” she asked. Tears flooded my eyes. “I don’t feel like I belong, Debbie. Everyone keeps bullying me about my two moms. Why can’t I be treated normally?”

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 2

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

“Madison,” she said, “those kids know nothing about who you are on the inside. You are perfect in my eyes, and so is your family. No one is normal; everyone is unique in their own ways. Be proud of your differences.”

Somehow, every sentence Debbie formed made me feel better. By the time we arrived home, my tears had dried up, and our laughs could be heard from miles away. Her caring words weren’t the only things that made me feel seen and valued—the traditions she created to celebrate our accomplishments did the same. One of the traditions Debbie started was “French Fry Fridays.” Every Friday after school, we’d head to McDonald’s to celebrate the end of the week. Those fries came to symbolize a small victory, a shared joy, and a moment of connection we could always count on.

Not only did Debbie take me to and from school, but she was also the one who kept me entertained after school and all summer long. As a little girl, I spent my hours watching TV shows like Barney, Thomas the Train, and Sophia the First, going to the park, and playing board games. Most adults would get tired of such repetitive, kid-centered activities, but Debbie sat patiently by my side while I watched my favorite shows, was always willing to take me to the park no matter the weather, and always let me choose the board games, even if that meant playing Monopoly over and over again. She put my enjoyment and happiness first, always with a smile on her face, and made every moment feel special.

She also made me feel special. At least once a week, I woke up to a small gift on the kitchen counter—sometimes an item I had casually mentioned just a few days ago, other times something she had come across that reminded her of me. She also left thoughtful gifts for my parents to help ease the stress they carried from work. She also sent gifts to my extended family (people she rarely saw) for birthdays and holidays. What I’ve come to realize is that Debbie’s joy in giving was just as strong, if not stronger, than our joy in receiving. I can still picture her smile stretching from ear to ear as she watched us open our unexpected gifts. Seeing her excitement has shifted my perspective on gift giving versus receiving gifts. Thanks to Debbie, I now realize that the joy we get out of giving gifts surpasses the joy we experience while opening a gift. For me personally, it brings a sense of warmth knowing that I was able to put a smile on someone's face, no matter how big or small the gift may be. Debbie’s thoughtfulness and care for the people around her has never gone unnoticed, as I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing it for the past sixteen years.

I began to assume that our routine would never change. I expected Debbie to arrive every morning at 7:40 a.m. to take me to school, and again at 3:20 p.m. to pick me up. Our daily debriefs in the car became something I looked forward to—just the two of us, talking about our days. Most evenings ended with dinner shared between my parents, Debbie, and me—meals we called “family dinner.” We celebrated everything together—birthdays, anniversaries, and accomplishments—with special family dinners at one of our favorite spots, like Jack’s Corner Tap, Fresh Chef, or Kabuto Japanese Steakhouse. These dinners were traditions that provided memories that made our little circle feel even more like family. But this routine quickly faded when Debbie told us she would be moving to Florida. But I didn’t learn this news the way she intended me to learn it. As I was walking downstairs for a late-night snack, I overheard my parents looking for a new nanny. I assumed the worst, as Debbie’s health had been declining after suffering a stroke months earlier. I sat on the stairs with tears streaming down my face as I listened to my parents' conversation. I needed the full story, so I sat down with my parents in our living room to soon learn that it was important for Debbie to live closer to her family due to her health issues. I cried for hours, begging that there had to be another option, yet the decision was final. I called Debbie that night to let her know that I had overheard my parents talking about her move, and with her gentle composure, she was able to calm me down—reassuring me that our bond would last forever despite the distance.

“This is not the end of our journey together,” she said. “Yes, things are going to change, but we still have each other and ways of communication that will allow us to talk about our days, our challenges, and our achievements like we always do.”

I knew we only had a few weeks left of living what had been our “normal” life, and that was what hurt the most. Debbie and I had grown up together, in a way. Twelve years of shared mornings, afternoons, laughs, and talks, each day bringing something new, and we experienced it all side by side. I feared the change, yet I felt comfort in knowing Debbie shared that same fear. I had been part of her routine just as much as she had been part of mine. We spent our last few weeks together enjoying every moment and reminiscing the memories we had made together. We ate at our favorite restaurants, watched our favorite shows, and found each other engaging in more conversations than usual because we both knew distance would soon take its place. We came up with ways to make distance feel less overwhelming. We decided to text each other often to stay updated on each other's lives, reach out when we were struggling, and call whenever we needed the comfort of hearing each other's voice. We even decided to FaceTime during family dinners, so our family dinners never disappeared. To this day, we haven’t gone a week without communicating.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 3

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

On her last day, I found myself struggling to step into her car for school, as I knew I would never do so again. I didn’t want that school day to end because that would mean the last time she’d be there waiting to pick me up. I didn’t want the car ride home to end because I knew it would be our last debrief. When we arrived home, I hesitated before stepping out. I wanted to hold onto the familiar scent of her Black Ice Little Tree. Our final “last” was family dinner. Debbie didn’t want it to be sad, so she made a playlist filled with songs that reminded her of her time with her chosen family. We blew up balloons, listened to music, and enjoyed one of our favorite meals that my mom makes—chicken picatta. We laughed, we reminisced, and for a while, it didn’t feel like goodbye. What brought us comfort in the end wasn't pretending things wouldn’t change—it was knowing how lucky we were to have shared all those years, to have become family, and to have truly lived life together.

As we were cleaning up dinner, we knew it was almost time to say our goodbyes. I looked around the room, and we all shared the same expression—tears forming in our eyes with a bittersweet smile. My parents hugged her, and reminded her she will forever be a part of our family. I walked her out to her car, both of us doing our best to hold back tears. As she hugged me for the last time, I felt an unexpected sense of peace. Although she was leaving, our memories and the years we spent together weren’t going anywhere. Before easing into her car, she looked at me and said the phrase I had always considered meaningless: “It’s not goodbye, it’s see you later.” I finally understood.

In need of a new nanny, my parents reluctantly began the search process. Debbie was a constant in all of our lives. They trusted her with something most parents find nearly impossible to hand over: their child. But Debbie made it easy. She helped them with everything—laundry, grocery runs, driving me to activities, and picking up prescriptions—taking weight off my parents’ shoulders. I begged my mom not to hire anyone new. To me, bringing in another nanny felt like replacing Debbie, and that didn’t sit right. My mom understood. Still, with their full-time jobs, having a nanny wasn’t optional. She told me: “We will never replace Debbie. She’s a part of our family, and family members are not replaceable.”

Five different nannies came and went after Debbie’s move. None of them could fill the space she left behind. My parents eventually admitted what I already knew: “No one will ever be Debbie.” The others showed up to get the job done, while Debbie showed up for us.

There are days where my parents and I sit down and talk about all the memories we shared with her. We always end up feeling extreme gratitude that we were lucky enough to have someone like her in our lives for so long. My parents were her bosses on paper, but that did not explain the nature of the relationship. She wasn’t just a part of my immediate family, but a member of our extended family. Through her involvement with my extended family and their happiness, along with the many heartfelt stories we tell about Debbie, she left a lasting impression on everyone. My grandparents, aunts, and uncles often say, “I wish we had a Debbie.”

Weeks after her move, I came home to find a package sitting at my door. Although Debbie now lived miles away, parts of our routine would continue in new ways. I opened the package and pulled out a book titled Big Panda and Tiny Dragon. As I began reading, I quickly realized that this book was about us. Big Panda was her, steady and wise. Tiny Dragon was me, learning and growing as we journeyed through life together. Two quotes in particular stuck out to me. The first was, “‘It’s funny,” said Big Panda, “how simple things, when seen with fresh eyes, can often bring the most happiness.” The simple things that brought me comfort with Debbie are still all around me. If you look through the windshield of my car, you will find a Black Ice Little Tree hanging from my mirror. The scent I will forever associate with Debbie. Every day as I drive to and from school, I often find myself near a Black Honda CR-V, and in those moments, I imagine Debbie and me laughing and gossiping about our days. That familiar sight fills me with happiness and serves as a reminder that our time together was well-spent. The second quote that stuck out to me was, “‘This is not where we would choose to be,’ said Big Panda, ‘but it is where we are. And if you try to forget about what has happened, just for a moment, and look around, you might see that this is one of the most beautiful moments we have experienced.’” I didn’t choose for Debbie to be miles away from me, but that is where we are. As I paused to let the words sink in, I realized that our distance changing from fourteen miles to over six hundred miles proved to be a beautiful moment in our lives. It shined a light on the fact that distance can’t affect a bond when the love runs so deep.

Throughout my life, I’ve considered Debbie to be another mom. Her patience, guidance, and support parallels that of a mother’s. She has completely reshaped how I view the word “family.” Debbie walked into my life as a stranger—both of us oblivious to the lifelong bond we would soon share. She taught me that family is not defined by biology—it’s built on deep connection and mutual understanding. When distance is in effect, it tests love, but more importantly, it reveals how strong and authentic love truly is.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 4

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

AWAKE WHERE I ONCE SLEPT

BY REESE MITCHELL, CLASS OF 2027

I

’ve been falling asleep in the pews since I was born.

Growing up in a small town in Kentucky, Sunday services were a dreaded nonnegotiable. Wednesdays too, my little Christian school, St. Joseph, had a church service built into the middle of the week. I kneeled, I stood, I sang, I sat back down - a repeated monotonous cycle drilled into me. I didn’t like kneeling because it left my knees red, I didn’t like standing because I couldn’t see past the adults in front of me, I didn’t like hearing other people sing off-key, I didn’t like listening to the pastor because his words sounded like they were from a complicated textbook. The only part I liked was sitting so I could color or sleep. My one memorable moment from church in my early days is of saying “thank you” instead of “amen” at my first communion. My mom laughed, but she had raised me to take these sacraments seriously, even before I understood them. Her own faith has always been steady and active: attending mass and keeping the traditions mattered to her deeply, and she wanted me to have that same foundation.

In second grade, when my family moved to North Carolina, I enrolled in a smaller school but no longer a Christian one: Davidson Day School, a private school just north of Charlotte. We switched churches a few times, finally landing at the Cove located in nearby Mooresville.

My first time there, I gazed in awe at the bright lights, a rock band playing worship music, and enjoyed an easily applicable lesson; I didn’t have to kneel, and I was too drawn in to sleep. Soon, comfort crept in. I zoned back out, as I had in the old pews.

Middle school meant club volleyball at Precision Athletics Volleyball Club, about twenty minutes from my house. Tournaments swallowed almost every weekend, including Sundays. In eighth-grade, I trudged to confirmation practice on all the Sundays I wasn’t traveling, so I attended about four. I still got confirmed, but with no roots in God; it was just another box I checked.

Late one night, I was scrolling on TikTok and saw people annotating their Bible with colorful pens and sticky notes. I decided I wanted to do that too, so I designed the cover of my Bible; maybe I’d like to look at it enough to pick it up. At first, the words I was reading made no sense. I looked up explanations online to guide me through it. My mom was ecstatic, hovering over the doorway with hope glistening in her eyes. For her, this was a sign of answered prayers: that her daughter might finally embrace the Catholic faith she loved so much. But, for me, I felt more like I was decorating a textbook.

I read about the amazing works Jesus did in the Bible and wondered why there had been no miracles for me. I read about God leaving his herd of 99 sheep to chase after one that had strayed and wondered why I had never been worth the chase. I wondered and I wondered. Hoping for answers, I knelt before my bed and asked why.

For thirty seconds, nothing happened, so I stood up and refocused on my life: volleyball, school, friends, family.

I think God laughed, knowing what was going to happen next.

The first signs of illness were subtle: a rash crawling up my legs, vomiting at school. I hid the pain, I wore leggings to cover my skin, forced myself through practices, and didn’t inform my mom of my symptoms until I threw up in front of my Algebra II class. My mom immediately scheduled appointments with my pediatric doctor, a dermatologist, and a rheumatologist. By then, I tried to convince myself my illness was something small: a skin reaction, maybe food poisoning. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t going to vanish with antibiotics.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 5

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

Doctors offered surface-level explanations: ointments for my rash and reassurances that didn’t line up with my instincts. I tried to push all thoughts about my illness aside in order to keep my focus on volleyball and everyday life, but I knew something much more serious was happening inside my body.

By March, my condition had spiraled. A dermatologist diagnosed me with Henoch-Schönlein Purpura, or HSP, calling it the worst case he’d ever seen. HSP is an autoimmune disease causing inflammation of small blood vessels. It attacks the joints, kidneys, and creates abdominal pain. In my case, one small blood vessel was telescoping on top of another, meaning nothing I ate or drank could go down. Even then, my first concern was whether I could still play in an upcoming volleyball tournament.

The Sunshine Classic in Orlando, Florida, had been circled on my calendar for months. My top team at Carolina Union Volleyball Club, the highest-ranked team in the Charlotte area, had trained hard, and I had loved every second of it: the long practices, the adrenaline rush I’d get from close games, and the bond formed with my teammates who had become sisters. Volleyball was an escape, my joy, and the one thing I could cling to when everything else felt uncertain. So I forced myself to compete. A lot of college recruiters attend this particular tournament, so I managed to push through in leggings instead of spandex and somehow helped my team place second.

But when I arrived home, my health collapsed. I spent days glued to the bathroom floor, throwing up stomach acid, my joints aching, my skin pale except for the spreading rash. Each day became a cycle of IVs, steroids, and desperate prayers. I asked God for strength to eat, to walk, to stop the pain - pleas whispered between the waves of sickness that were overtaking me.

Hospitalization forced me to stop. I had to stop thinking I could quickly return to “normal,” stop thinking the rash would fade overnight, stop telling myself I was okay. Each day I lay in that bed, staring at the bland ceiling, I could feel the weight of my impatience pressing down on me. I listened to the IV line throbbing with a steady, measured rhythm, a constant pulse that mirrored the slow, unskippable pace of healing rather than the doctors’ spoken words I barely understood. My mom sat in the stiff plastic chair beside my bed, steady even when her eyes brimmed with fear. My dad, who was never able to sit still, paced back and forth in the small room. Their concern both comforted and unsettled me; I hated to be the cause of their worry, but in the same breath, their presence was the only constant, besides the IV drips, I had left.

Our world had shrunk into the confinement of the hospital room’s four grey walls.

Throughout the couple of days I was hospitalized, my older brother and sister, Cole and Grace, visited a few times. Grace brought me beautiful flowers and fresh clothes, but when she realized I wasn’t allowed to have real flowers in my room, she showed up the next day with Lego flowers. I built them all in a few hours. Cole, on the other hand, cannot stand needles, shots, blood, or anything concerning hospitals. He passed out a few days prior to coming while getting his blood drawn, claiming the doctor said it was normal for a 20-year-old boy to do so. I could visibly see his disgust looking at the IV, but it was kind of comforting in a way – knowing that he was there regardless of the needle stuck in my arm. My mom and dad never left my bedside. Except, during the night, my snoring dad slept in the car, allowing my mom and me to fall asleep. They both carried the weight of this disease alongside me, offering to take heavier loads than my own.

My suffering had stripped away the noise of my busy life, leaving me face-to-face with my family’s love and God’s quiet presence. In my mom’s strength, my dad’s stability, my siblings’ love, and even in the little boy down the hall who found joy in a snack cart, I began to recognize glimpses of God. I realized He hadn’t abandoned me; He was answering a prayer I had forgotten I had prayed: for a closer relationship with Him. My sickness became not just an illness to endure, but the very thing that drew me to see His hand in everything.

That season of sickness reshaped my relationship with God – not as distant, but as present in every detail, often revealed in people around me. I saw Him in the way my mom and dad hovered by my hospital bed, in the way my sister thought to bring Lego flowers, in the way my brother stood by my side while disgusted, in the way that little boy across the hall squealed at a snack cart I never took from because I didn’t like the selection. God’s presence wasn’t always thunderous or miraculous: I found it in the patience, the kindness, and the love that people offered without being asked. It taught me to pay attention to small details and moments that seemed “ordinary.” So on a random Wednesday, when I felt a familiar whisper urging me to reach out to a stranger, I recognized it. The same God that had met me in the hospital room was now inviting me to meet someone else in their time of need.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

Bring this magazine to read; I've got a story to tell.

NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 6

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

To do homework in a quiet space, I drove to Barnes & Noble. Instead of pulling out my homework first, I settled at a table with my Bible.

As I was reading His word, I noticed a woman at the table beside me fumbling through the pages of her Bible. Her brows were furrowed while she picked random pages to open up to.

Go pray for her.

I immediately started second-guessing the voice in my head telling me to do so. What if that wasn’t even a Bible? What if she didn’t want to be bothered? But the gentle but firm whisper kept nudging at me. I asked for a sign and wobbled around the bookstore looking for one; I found nothing but the quiet hum of others browsing.

I continued taking notes, but my heart started to pound, and I couldn’t concentrate anymore. I started rehearsing what I’d say to her in my head. As I walked over, I repeated my little speech to ensure I wouldn’t freeze up.

When I reached her table, my voice was barely a whisper: “Hi, can I please pray for you?”

She pulled out the chair beside her and motioned for me to sit; her eyes began crystallizing with unshed tears, like they’d been waiting to fall for a while but still hadn’t.

“Please,” she whispered back.

My hands trembled as I began to reach for hers, and when our hands came together in prayer, the bustle of the bookstore melted away. I couldn’t hear my heartbeat anymore, only an overwhelming sense of God’s presence. And I opened my eyes to see His love pouring out of both of ours.

“I really needed that. I’ve been going through so much lately, and I wasn’t going to come today, but I did, and you were here. What’s your name?”

“Reese.”

“You’re so beautiful, Reese.”

I sat back down at my own table, a stupid-looking grin on my face, just to see the same look on hers. I picked up my pink pen and scribbled down: Stop getting upset when God doesn’t give you a sign if you aren’t willing to be somebody else’s.

Faith is the tension between knowing and not knowing, between action and surrender, between the chaos of the world and the quiet insistence of something greater. It demands trust without guarantee, yet shapes the way we move through life, teaching that meaning is found less in certainty than in the courage to step forward. Faith breaks us open, not into pieces to collect, but into spaces where love can seep in. It doesn’t explain or soften. All it asks is that we move, we stumble, we rise; and in that motion, we may finally meet ourselves when we stop waiting for a sign and realize we were meant to be one.

And for that little girl who once fell asleep in the pews, I am finally awake.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 7

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

BOTH SIDES OF THE LUNCH LINE

BY PIPER PRITCHARD, CLASS OF 2027

G

rowing up in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, attending a Title I school, exposed me to harsh realities of the world that most kids my age weren’t even aware existed. Many of my peers came from homes affected by addiction and poverty. Some had parents in jail, and others didn't know when they would eat next.

Despite not growing up with much, I belonged to the small percentage that was fortunate enough to always have their basic needs met. I had two married, loving parents, a beautiful home, and food on the table every night. My mom and dad made sure I understood how privileged I was and reminded me to be thankful for everything I had.

At my school, the poverty rate was so high that every student received free breakfast and lunch. My parents explained to me that many families did not have food security. One day, when I was in second grade, a classmate told me that she lived with her grandparents because both of her parents were in jail. Another student tried to comfort her by explaining how she also lived with her grandparents because her dad left before she was born. They asked me where I lived, and I felt guilty to say I lived with my mom and dad in our own home. That same day, I went home crying because I felt horrible for these classmates. For the first time, I realized that not everyone had the same family stability I did.

After that, I saw things in a different light. My family and I started volunteering at Feeding America, which is a national organization that fights hunger by working with local food banks across the country. The branch I volunteered with, located in Louisville, Kentucky, focused on helping families in the surrounding areas who were struggling to put food on the table. I packaged bags with canned goods and snacks for kids in my area. They weren’t going to strangers; in fact, I knew that some of my peers would probably be receiving the bags. That experience, combined with the values my parents had instilled in me, taught me to be more empathetic toward the struggles others face, even when they’re not visible.

From a young age, because of my parents and the struggles of so many of my peers, I developed a strong sense of empathy and a desire to help others. I became the friend who always showed up. I always listened and put others first. When my best friend, Nina, lost her Grandma in late 2024, I knew how painful it was to lose someone you look up to so deeply. I also knew there was nothing I could say to make her pain disappear, but I could still be there for her. I made sure to call her after school every day, and check in on her. It didn’t matter what we talked about when we called; what mattered to her was that I was there to listen when she needed it most. But I discovered that empathy has a flip side. I grew up surrounded by so much obvious struggle that I believed my own problems didn’t matter. In my mind, I couldn’t justify worrying about my relatively minor problems, such as friend issues and anxiety. I convinced myself that since my basic needs were always met, I didn’t have the right to complain. As a result, I learned to keep my issues to myself.

Only recently have I begun to understand the harm that mindset caused. I am still unlearning the idea that adversity must be extreme to be valid. My childhood was stable, but that doesn’t mean my emotions aren’t real. I have come to realize that I can be appreciative and still experience hardship. I can hold space for others’ pain while still acknowledging my own.

At the age of nine, my family moved to North Carolina because my parents wanted me to have access to a better education. They chose the Charlotte area in part because they had been involved with Davidson Day School, a private school just 20 minutes outside of the city, for years. Since before I was born, they have led students every summer on the Belize AFAR Project. AFAR, the American Foreign Archeological Research Program, was started by Mat Saunders, a friend of my mom and dad who teaches at the school.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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NOV 2025

ISSUE N.19

PG 8

DAVIDSON DAY UPPER SCHOOL NEWS MAGAZINE

The program takes kids to places, like Belize, to do archeological digs and learn about other cultures. I enrolled in Davidson Day the summer of 2018. The contrast was severe and overwhelming. I had transitioned from a rural public school where many families lived below the poverty line to a private school where most kids had access to private swimming pools, country clubs, and boating on the lake.

At first, I felt like I had stepped into an alternate world. When I walked into school, I noticed that some of my peers wore expensive shoes while others talked about their summers abroad. While not every student at Davidson Day came from a wealthy background, it was clear that no one had to worry about whether they were going to eat that day. What surprised me most, though, wasn’t the lifestyle differences, but how normal everything felt to everyone around me. Seeing Lululemon backpacks and $7 Starbucks drinks every morning shocked me. But to many of my classmates, such items were just a part of their everyday lives.

Despite these differences, I adjusted quickly. I made friends easily and felt welcomed by my teachers. Davidson Day School is known for being a rigorous college-preparatory school, where the workload is demanding and the expectations are high. It didn’t take long for it to become a second home to me, a place where I felt both challenged and supported. The academic environment was more intense than anything I had experienced before, but instead of feeling overwhelmed, I felt driven.

But even as I adapted, I never forgot where I came from. The contrast between Elizabethtown, Kentucky, and Davidson, North Carolina, stayed with me. One time, when I heard one of my friends complaining about having PB&J for lunch that day, my mind traveled back to those kids in Kentucky who would’ve been grateful for that sandwich. I wasn’t judging anyone; I was remembering and reflecting, and appreciating my new life.

I understand now that perspective is everything. The kids at Davidson Day weren’t ungrateful; they were just unaware. They didn’t recognize how much they had because they’d never known anything different. I cannot blame anyone for not understanding the struggle I’ve seen, just as I couldn’t ignore how much those experiences have shaped me.

Since moving to North Carolina, I have had many opportunities to travel to places like Ireland, Portugal, and Finland. Each trip exposed me to foreign cultures and ways of life – experiences that the kids I knew back in Kentucky rarely had access to. Traveling has helped me see the world from many perspectives and to understand the diversity of people’s challenges and strengths. Wherever I go, I carry both parts of me: the little girl from Kentucky, and the young woman from North Carolina.

Today, I am a blend of both lives. I am proud of where I came from, and I am equally proud of where I am now. I am blessed to have the love and support from family and friends, as well as the privilege I was born into. My experiences have taught me to be understanding.

But most importantly, they have taught me that I don't have to choose between being grateful and feeling the pain of others. I can love my life, and still mourn for the unfairness I have witnessed and continue to witness.

That is why I have made a promise to myself to always show up. Not just for others, but for myself. That balance is something I continue to work on. I check in on myself often, reminding myself that my feelings matter, even if someone else might have it worse. I still make sure that I am aware of how lucky I am to have the opportunities I have, and not get lost in the struggles of life. Every day, I try to be the person who shows up for others, no matter the circumstances. I am learning that being that person starts with showing up for myself.

And in that, I have found purpose.

LORELEI.ROBERTSON @DAVIDSONDAY.ORG SMCGILL@DAVIDSONDAY.ORG

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