I stepped my high-heeled feet off the bus at Port Authority that morning with butterflies in my stomach; sure of where I needed to go and what time I needed to arrive, but uncertain of where life was going to take me afterwards.
I held my purse tightly in one hand and a set of directions in the other as I followed the signs to the subway.
A directionally challenged woman like me could get lost in her own backyard, so taking two subway lines and walking six blocks in New York City to reach my destination might end disastrously if I didn’t pay close attention to what I was doing.
I hesitantly approached the entrance to the subway. Stepping through its gates always filled me with mixed emotions. One part of me looked forward to the adventure of the underground tunnels and the declaration of my independence as I navigated them alone. The other part of me that had been trained by the anxiety-ridden females in my family to fear the unknown did just that.
“Just breathe. You’ve got this.” I said quietly to myself.
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