When we call your number please step forward. Number 12, number 21, number, 6… gaps of delight and envious anticipation filled the gymnasium.
I had given it my all. One handed cartwheels, landing in splits. S-U-C-C-E-S-S , this is how we spell success!
Number 18 … yes! I jumped up and flew across the gym floor to claim my stake in the newly formed line.
I had dreamed of nothing else all summer. I still remember how the grass in our backyard felt as it touched my hands. Propelling my body upside down. My legs etching toward the sky in a perfect V shape. Coming together again as my feet landed on the ground.
Cartwheel by cartwheel I was determined to land a coveted spot on the pee wee football cheerleading squad.
The orange and black pom poms were the best and largest of any of the surrounding towns. The uniform sweaters, thick and black with orange stripes running down the sleeves. Pleated skirts and black and white saddle shoes. The stuff of little girls’ dreams. At 10 years old, I had arrived.
I bounced and flipped and cheered on that track every autumn Friday night under the bright lights. My pigtails high and tight adorned with orange and black bows as the band played.
My popularity, now secured for the foreseeable future.
But then came Springtime. Baseball was in the air. Little league fever gripped the town.
I wanted to know what it might be like to join my brothers on that field. Be one of the boys.
I was about to gamble away my hard won future.
My girlfriends tried to talk sense into me. But the cheerleading coaches are asking why you haven't signed up for tryouts? You know you’re nearly guaranteed a spot, right?
Brushing off their well intended peer pressure, I let my curiosity rule the day. Its voice much louder than theirs. Guaranteed a spot in the infield, I chose a spot in the outfield.
I became the talk of my small town. It was 1976. Girls most certainly did not play little league.
I’ll never forget my first practice. My coach did his best to ignore me. Practice began and everyone got assigned to play a position. Everyone except me.
I mustered the courage to approach him and asked, “Where do you want me?” After all, this was practice and I needed every bit of it.
His answer? “Home in the kitchen.” My face instantly became hot and red. I’m not sure if it was embarrassment or rage. But I knew whatever it was felt awful.
I left that field and marched straight back home to tell my mother. She packed me into the back of our family station wagon and drove us right back across town. Demanding the coach apologize and give me a spot on the field.
And so that was the beginning of my little league career. And as it turns out, most likely the highlight. I played the entire season. I was mostly terrible at it. My curiosity satisfied, I was on to my next adventure.
My saddle shoes and cleats now hung up, mom took me shopping for ballet slippers.
God, I loved that pink tutu. Turned out I had rhythm too. My big debut? The VFW Christmas extravaganza. Jingle Bell Rock in sequins.
My point is this. I was very curious about lots of things. I wanted to experience things, know things, and do things I hadn’t done before. I went into each endeavor with a sense of excitement for the unknown.
I was living, transitioning from phase to phase with a sense of anticipation. I didn’t look back, or think about what I was losing. Once my decisions had been made, I only looked forward.
What I didn’t know then was that curiosity wasn’t just a child’s instinct. It was a life skill. One I would lose. And later, fight to get back.
As kids, we laugh when we explore, try, fail, try again. But curiosity fades as we grow. It’s replaced by roles, routines, and caution.
I was different. And I should have known then and there. But I learned to conform. Puberty was upon me. I needed to make friends, be popular, have crushes and deal with an enormous amount of change going on in my body.
Time to fit in. You are now a girl.
I left a piece of me back there. On the track, baseball field, and rhinestone cowboy 45’s.
I started to squeeze things into predefined structures. I kept parts of my curiosity. I redirected it into learning, history, the world, ideas.
I would, however, as a growing young adult, try to fit those things all into boxes.
And I struggled.
But curiosity remained underneath the struggle. It was a driving force that led me just the same way it led me from the pom pom to the baseball mitt.
In my 50’s curiosity made its grand return, not because I chose it or remembered it’s power to transform, but because I got let go from my last corporate job.
None of it was working anymore. Shock and sadness pretty quickly evaporated and became curiosity.
God, I’m glad THAT’S over. What’s next?
I’m too old for this crap.
I can’t do it anymore and I don’t want to go look for a new job doing the same thing.
What was next is where I still am. I’m figuring it out.
My lifestyle took a hit, but my peacefulness and joy took center stage.
I’m seeking again. I have my own coaching practice. I don’t work inside corporate America anymore, but I dip into it from the sidelines with my clients. It’s on my terms and my schedule.
I started writing. I’m intentionally opening my mind to the possibilities in front of me.
As Mary Oliver says, I’m thinking daily about how I want to spend my one wild and precious life.
I don’t have all the answers yet, but I’ve got curiosity in bounds. And that’s enough to reignite my joy. Because I know, looking back on that girl with the pigtails, that anything, and everything, is possible now.
I have arrived exactly where I need to be. Whole.
I know what joy is. I know what peace of mind is. I have learned how to trust myself and explore my own map of the world.
To forge new paths and leave the old worn out ones behind when they no longer work. And I have developed the ability to keep looking for my next future.
Curiosity didn’t just show up in my 50’s it showed up after things fell apart. After the career. After the version of me I thought I had to be. It showed up when I asked, “What else is there?”and actually waited for the answer.
For some of us, it shows up after the marriage. After the kids leave. After we stop pretending we’re fine.
It’s not flashy. It’s not a reinvention montage. It’s a quiet, honest question: What do I want now?
And when I look at it clearly, I can see this thread’s been there all along. I’ve had five different careers. Earned three degrees. Hiked in seven countries. Curiosity didn’t just return, it carried me, quietly, underneath it all.
Now I know it for what it is, a life tool, a transition skill, a compass. It’s what keeps me open, asking, reaching, not with fear, but with anticipation.
What will this next chapter be about?
What’s waiting for me if I don’t shrink?
So let me ask you something, when was the last time you were curious? Not productive. Not perfect. Curious.
Can you see it now as a gift? A way back to yourself? Because it is.
And it’s waiting.