I left 15 years ago and swore I would never come back. Now I find myself sitting in my car idling in the school parking lot. My hands grip the steering wheel, white knuckled and full of dread.

It was well and fine two months ago when I accepted the invitation to come speak to the school. It seemed so far away at the time. As the days crept by I started to realize just what I’d agreed to do and anxiety set in. Now here I am, 15 minutes away and starting to panic.

High school was not a fun time for me. I know high school was not a fun time for many people; in my opinion people who actually had fun in high school are sociopaths. A lot of bad stuff happened during the four years I attended this school. It started off horribly when he died, and it never got better.

10 minutes. Time seems to fly by when it’s least convenient and slow way down when you need it to fly by. Time is just funny that way I guess. I need to get out and go in but I’m stalling for time.

It’s not a bad school. In fact most of the teachers here were really good teachers and kind. They offered me so much back then, but I didn’t take it. I didn’t accept their help. I was content with coasting by in misery. Back then, I felt like it was just because they pitied me. Now I see, too late, that what was perceived as pity was in fact kindness. What a fool I was then.

5 minutes. Time waits for no one. I’m walking up the steps, still lost in thought. The principal, Mrs. Williams, stands at the door, watching me. She is still as hawkish as she was 15 years ago. Nothing escaped her sight. “Welcome back, Mr. Brian,” she says as I stepped up the last step and approached her. I can only manage a small smile. Just like 15 years ago, I barely said anything. Back then I had nothing to say. Now it’s because of my nerves. She smiles back at me. “It’s so good to see you again,” she says as I enter the building. I clutch my notes in my hand as she leads me to the auditorium.

As we walk the memories come rushing back and I find myself musing over them. They weren’t all bad. I found, or rather rediscovered my love for writing because of my senior English teacher. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her guidance.

Three minutes. We enter the side door that leads to the stage. I can hear someone introducing me. I swallow the lump in my throat and Mrs. Williams hands me a bottle of water.

“Take a deep breath, Mr. Brian,” she says. “It’s going to be okay. You are going to be okay.” I look over at her, can see the kindness and compassion that I so often mistook for pity and am comforted. I nod and smile at her.

One minute. I can hear the speaker say my name and introduce me. It’s time. As I start to make my way to the stage I turn back one more time to Mrs. Williams. She is beaming.

“Thank you,” I say, then turn back and walk onto the stage as the crowd applauds.