At twelve years old, I sat in my grade six class, with two neat braids woven from my head, listening to the teacher talk about our graduation. In my quaint town, you spend six years in elementary school, then you go to the “big” high school for grades seven through twelve. Graduating from grade six was a big deal, so teachers and families came together to make a celebration for us with a graduation ceremony, class trips, and the like.
The teacher was discussing the various awards that would be given out at the ceremony. I knew I was too ordinary and mediocre to receive any of the awards she was talking about. Then she mentioned one for volunteer work, and that seemed possible to me. I picked up a few volunteer activities, helped out at the local nursing home, and started projects to raise money for local charities. I got my hands dirty and got out of my comfort zone.
Soon, my classmates wanted to find ways to help out too. They asked me about opportunities for them and started coming up with their own ideas. As much as I wanted to be happy that my fellow classmates were doing good things in our community, a fear bubbled up inside me: What if I don’t get that plaque after all? What if someone else volunteers more than me?
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