Witch, Please

My favorite subject in school was History.

Not because I was particularly studious, but because History felt like the world’s longest, juiciest, “you’re not going to believe what happened next” story.

While other kids doodled hearts in their notebooks, I was sitting there thinking, People started an entire war over a bucket? (Yes. That happened. I didn’t make that up. Humanity has always been a weird soap opera.)

History made me feel connected to a larger world — a reminder that people existed long before I had to remember which day was Library Day or how to navigate group projects with the kid who always smelled like bad cologne. History told me there were explorers, poets, troublemakers, queens, monks, and revolutionaries — all stumbling through life, trying to figure it out.

That felt comforting.

Now in adulthood, I still love that. I’m raising kids, yes, but I’m also very much me. I still drink my coffee slowly because I like to actually taste it. I still read books that have nothing to do with bedtime routines or child psychology. I still daydream about taking a class again someday… maybe art, maybe astronomy, maybe pottery where I make lopsided bowls and feel proud anyway.

And History still fits.

Because life — my life, your life — is a series of miniature eras.

There was the Era of Sleeping In.

Then the Era of Spontaneous Decisions (long live 2am road trips).

And now I’m in the Era of Sticky Surfaces and Deep Conversations About Dinosaurs, while still being a person who listens to podcasts about ancient civilizations while she folds towels.

History reminds me that no era lasts forever.

Some are messy. Some are beautiful. Most are both.

But all of them matter.