The spring of 1997 was both a time of great hope and a period of incredible stress. I had been going through a number of major changes in my life. For about four years, I had been working at a local museum as a glorified tour guide. When I first started at the museum, I absolutely loved it. Before that point, I had been a stay-at-home-mom. Before that I was in high school. Despite the seeming hopelessness of my situation, I had always hoped to go to university and study archaeology and history. Working at the museum was my personal test to see if I really liked history enough to focus on it for a living. Secretly, I also wanted to be sure that I was smart enough to actually take in large amounts of academic information.

I started out at the museum as a volunteer and although I am a fairly introverted person, I blossomed as a tour guide. Before the first season was complete, I was asked to take a paid part-time position the following year.

I read every local history book I could get my hands on. I listened intently to my supervisor who was a wealth of information. It felt great to share my newfound knowledge with others and freeing to have amazing academic conversations with my colleagues. My self confidence rose to new heights until I actually believed I was smart enough to go to university and earn my degree.

In the summer of 1995, I started taking university level correspondence courses in history and anthropology with the intention of transferring over to the local university full time in the fall of 1997, when my youngest child started school full time. Although the course work was demanding, I fell into university study like I had been born for it. I was organized and managed to take care of my duties at home, at work, and still get good marks. I felt I was ready for more.

In 1996, the museum hired a new curator. This new curator wasn’t a people person like the previous one. She micromanaged, was straight by the book, and brought with her a wave of political chaos that left everyone feeling undervalued and attacked. Staff members took sides, volunteers quit, and everyone was miserable. I eventually dreaded going to work. By the spring of 1997, I was more than ready to quit and start full time university classes.

At home, my life also started to fall apart. My father-in-law was preparing for open heart surgery. It was agreed that he and my mother-in-law would stay with us during the process. I don’t think I had a clue what I was in for and I don’t think I was realistic in my vision of what this surgery might entail.

I love my in-laws and even believe that they love me in their own way. However, we have never really gotten along. To this day, I’m not sure if it’s because we are so very different (different lifestyles, values, belief systems, and life goals) or if it’s because we are so very alike (all or nothing thinking, unable to share our true feelings, and most importantly a strong sense of family protectiveness). The truth is that I think I agreed to my inlaws stay at our house just so that they would accept me into the family and love me the way I needed to be loved by them. I was so very naïve.