June 5, 2019

Ten years ago today…

A freshly minted undergraduate Bachelor of Arts from Missouri landed in the swamp.

Washington, DC held a world of possibility for this 21-year old — politics, power, creativity. All things that still resonate with me today, albeit for different reasons. I invite you to join me as I look back on the last ten years through the lens of my 21-year-old self from where I sit at 31 years old.

One of the most pertinent memories from that jump started my entry into my professional life involves an unpaid internship. Not uncommon for 2009; but it would, unbeknownst to me, catapult me on a path I knew deep down was waiting for me. At the time, I was just naive enough to ask for what I wanted rather than go with the flow. Go figure. Who, me?

I was accepted into The Washington Center for Internships, a program that places current undergraduates and recent graduates at internships in DC. The program included leadership training and other networking events meant to ignite our potential in Washington. Many were involved in politics directly, but a select few of us wide-eyed liberal arts majors knew there had to be more to this town than Capitol Hill.

Having majored in public communication, a logical choice would have been to go into public relations, new media or journalism. All perfectly acceptable, linear and assumed career paths for someone like me. However, little did I know, I had this little curiosity itch forming inside of me. As a result of this curiosity itch, I would up with a minor in Art History. When people would ask, “why Art History?” I would answer them with the most millennial Pollyanna response, ever: “I took a bunch of classes that interested me and I ended up with a degree!” I loved (and still love!) Art History— its contextual foundations, its response to what was happening in the world at the time, its interpretation of the past. For me, it was the study and reverence for the works of the masters—ordinary people doing something that created extraordinary impact. Art is this incredible medium that allows us to connect on a subconscious level: there’s little logic for it, we all respond to it in one way another, and those responses are multiplied in their complexity through the various lenses of both our personal history and the zeitgeist in which we live. At Truman, I was lucky enough to have had amazing professors who encouraged me to simply go, to pursue this path of interest and not beat it over the head.

Arriving in DC that sunny June 5th, the wind was at my back, and life was full of potential and possibility. I had a sweet apartment in the Courthouse neighborhood of Arlington with three new roommates. My Facebook posts from that time tell me I was excited about having a view over the Potomac into DC and another view to the National Marine Corps Memorial, or what is fondly called Iwo Jima, on the outskirts of Arlington National Cemetery. Arlington was familiar to me, as my great aunt Bar had lived there most of my life. My mom made it a point for me to get to know her, as my grandmother (Bar’s sister) passed away when I was four. Thanks to those summer visits, everything was both new and familiar when I experienced DC in 2009. I was ready to take on the city and all of its glory as a burgeoning adult.

So on the first day of my internship, I was surprised when all of my new roommate-friends joined the masses and commuted from Arlington into the District. My internship placement made all the sense in the world from a logical point of view. Public communications = media, news, public relations. Sure. But when I was standing on that metro platform opposite my peers, heading out to Falls Church… my gut told me this wasn’t a fit before I even crossed the threshold. Don’t get me wrong, Falls Church is a lovely suburb of DC, but a suburb nonetheless. Where was the buzz? Where was the walkability? The people that didn’t look like me?

My upbringing and Midwest gentility told me to quiet those questions. Repress the anger. Listen to your head, not your gut. At the same time, my very methodical dad was in my ear telling me to take it one step at a time and to not immediately judge everything. Okay, okay. Deep breaths.

In all honesty, I don’t even remember the first day. From my own personal history, I know it was an NGO dedicated to publishing litigation and stories pertaining to a particular government agency. But other than that, I have a fuzzy mental image of an open office in a terrible colonial revival office building. I think it was on the first floor. Did I go to lunch with new colleagues? Did I share my story with them? Perhaps it was indeed unremarkable, or perhaps I’ve blocked it out. All I do know is that they had me doing data entry. ME?! The high and mighty Bachelor of Arts from Truman State University, Missouri’s highly selective liberal arts institution?! ME, in all my Midwest glory?! Ah-ha! There’s that anger I was repressing.

I was internally furious. Disappointed. Thud. Let down. I did not come out here to commute to the suburbs and verify email addresses. Do you have any idea who I am?! My instincts kicked in. Full blown, intrinsic W. T. F.’s flying like mad in my head. Within 3 days I was at The Washington Center for Internships demanding an alternative placement.

In hindsight, who in the HELL did I think I was?! This 21-year-old know-it-all from small town USA was taking on the world, whether she knew it or not — and whether the world cared or not. Here. She. Was.

My advisor, Andrey, thankfully, had the patience to withstand all of this passion I was bringing to the internship table. There’s a lesson in that — some people just aren’t equipped to handle how much I am — and that’s okay. But it’s important to recognize those that can be with you when you are a lot. They don’t back down, they don’t fight you, they’re simply engaged — consistently. Andrey looked a little deeper at my resume. He saw the Art History minor, he thought about it a moment, then he engaged me. He responded to what I was putting out into the world. He described an internship with a city government agency, the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities, and asked if I would be interested in an interview. At this point, I knew I was not going back to Falls Church. Shallow, 21-year-old-me thought, “hmm.. In DC, take the metro into the city, be able to go to happy hour with friends… YES!” But the deeper rumblings of my internal volcano told me, “local engagement, making an impact, creative outlet, city politics… DEFINITELY!” Andrey would later reveal to me that he found the opportunity through Craigslist. CRAIGSLIST! Talk about a Hail Mary.

The next day, I showed up to 14th and Harvard Streets NW to what I thought was an interview. The interview turned out to be a trial run. That’s how the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities under Gloria Nauden rolled. Gloria was a fiery, self-proclaimed “blasian” (half Black and half Asian) woman approximately 5’-3” tall that would grind me down to build me up over the next 18 months of my life. I drank from the firehose. I prostrated myself at the alter of production for the sake of creative expression. I learned how to pull all nighters. I learned the value of editing, evaluating and critiquing, priming my inner critic for design school. I learned to stand up for myself. I learned that people that don’t look like me largely don’t trust me right off the bat — a hard truth that the midwest never allowed me to learn. I learned that a degree is just the cover of the book — that true expression lies in the execution and amalgamation of ideas.

That internship-turned-job ran me ragged. But I asked for it. I wanted more than the data-entry job presented to me, and I got it. It was during that formative time that I learned to listen to that gut. That when something doesn’t feel right, there’s nothing you can do to make it right.

Looking back over the last 10 years, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I’ve experienced more extreme highs and more extreme lows than I ever have in my 31 years on this planet, and have become acutely aware of them. I met the man who would become my partner for life at a bar, of all places. Talk about contradictions. Throughout the majority of these last 10 years, he’s been my calm in the storm, my steady reassurance, my grounding. He’s both my greatest compliment and my most perfect complement.

I’ve shunned my midwest upbringing and have now learned to value it. Not everyone grows up on streets named after themselves or in towns where everyone knows their name (in the most positive healthy sense). I’ve learned to soak in those little moments where, after these 10 years, I run into people on the street that I’ve known from various parts of my time in DC — and beyond.

I’ve learned that family is not just folks you grew up with, or that you’re bound to by blood. It’s okay to let some family members do their thing and not engage you when they come to DC, whether by pure selfishness, differences in belief, or just plain “no time.” And that’s okay. Catholic guilt is real, and it’s not healthy. I’ve learned to embrace both extremes of my parents’ respective lineages — one, rooted in tradition, legacy and land; the other grounded in a more spiritual, wider and liberal sense of the world. I’ve learned from both and continue to hold both in my heart, no matter how contradictory they may seem.

I learned to love and to listen to my body. I fell back in love with volleyball after taking college off; and now know the pain of not having it in my life after sustaining a major ankle injury and subsequent surgery last year. I know that when I don’t play, I don’t release all of the week’s frustration and anger. I also know that the bonds you form on the court are stronger than the games and tournaments you’ve played. There’s nothing like a home cooked meal or a nudge from your teammates when tragedy occurs. These connections continue to motivate me, and I’ve learned that the physical aspects of the sport are a new kind of zen that I desperately need for my mental health.

I’ve learned about other releases, creative releases, that can hit you like a ton of bricks after you’ve kept everything inside for far too long. Other releases seep out over time, responding to the gentle churns of life and keeping us engaged and sustained. Releases like this writing, or the churn of a good test fit, coupled with the collaborative pinup are all components of my career that energize me like no other. I wasn’t familiar with the thrill of this creative outlet ten years ago, or how it can feed both my heart and my wallet. Learning boundaries and learning constraints — and which ones to break — are concepts that design school taught me, but that my own generalist mindset is constantly apply to other tenants of my life besides the design of workplaces.

I’ve slowly cured my existing friendships, holding on to those times and spaces where the outside world seems to stop. In those quiet moments together, we’re not our jobs, we’re not our roles, we’re not our locations and we’re not our families. We’re more, and we soak in those times where we can be just us. It’s those friendships that both tether me to my roots and fuel my desire to grow. They serve as reminders of my past, and build the foundations for my future. The past ten years have also encouraged me to be open to new friendships and that sometimes you must abruptly end others. No one tells you that it’s okay to no longer maintain the friendships you had as products of proximity, parents, work, school, or mutual interests. But those can also be the things that spark the beginnings of some really great new friendships; and it’s okay to have both. Sometimes you deepen new relationships through time and space, and release other friendships back into to the world. It’s okay to not be close to everyone, and it’s okay to cross the boundaries when it comes to work and personal life. It’s just life, honestly and openly.

The last two years have brought deaths of two peers: a childhood friend and my husband’s brother. Nothing can prepare you for when someone you grew up with is no longer there, no matter what the circumstances. Their situations are so different yet totally related — I’ve learned to develop lessons and understanding from both their lives and their deaths. Maybe it’s my way of coping, but I’m welding those memories and those lessons back into my life. These lessons are forged in the fire of tears, alcohol, food, exercise, and embrace — in both their extreme presence and in their extreme absence. Sometimes those emotions come on more slowly, sometimes they hit you from out of left field. I’m still learning to understand the whiplash. Life (and death) can sometimes get the best of you, and sometimes you need to allow yourself to just stop.

I’ve learned that I am more than the sum of my amalgamated parts — that there is something more abstract, something more gelatinous than my degrees, my accomplishments, my title, my status, and my ideas. It’s the soul — that gut voice inside of me — and I’m learning how to feed it.

So as I reflect on today, June 5th, I have to think that the 21-year-old me, the ballsy one that thought she was better than a data-entry job, is proud of 31-year-old me. I woke up in a beautiful, tree-lined condo purchased by my incredible husband to begin our nest in Arlington. He’s out of town, so I had the entire queen bed to myself, nestled under a weighted blanket purchased by my dear Mother-in-Law. I feel a little heavy because I had one too many “Frose’s” with a former professor-turned-mentor of mine when we went for drinks last night. I pinch myself that these relationships have evolved into so much more than what they started out as-I recall a dimly lit classroom with a pathetic pinup for drafting class and this person wielding a red marker with avengence, honestly critiquing and providing us with the gravity associated with the design of interior space. How far I’ve come, even in those 5 years.

I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee, and went upstairs to the study to do my morning stretches. I worked on my passion project for some time, a collaboration with an old friend that we’re pursuing across states and across professions (she, an elementary school teacher, myself a commercial interior designer). I read from my Quotes by Nasty Women book and furiously “post-it”-ed (thanks to my friend Patty, yes, that is a verb) some of my next professional steps out on a big, empty wall. These are some of my favorite opportunities — empty walls just calling for me to work through life’s challenges via post-it notes.

I went into the bathroom to get ready, listening to my favorite podcast series, Oprah’s Super Soul Sundays. A repeat episode pops into my playlist, and Oprah recites the familiar yet timely verse from Maya Angelou: ’Cause I’m a woman / Phenomenally. / Phenomenal woman / That’s me. Damn right. That’s me.

I get dressed and decide to wear a meaningful accessory — a scarf distributed as part of my fourth annual Women Of The Spring (or WOTS) weekend. It’s an annual gathering of my sorority pledge class from Truman — a weekend to connect in various parts of the country, now that we all have disposable incomes to take annual retreats. This year, I hosted these seven women in Luray, Virginia. It was incredibly restful, restorative, and grounding. It provided the perfect contrast to the extreme sorrow I would experience the week following, when I would learn that my brother-in-law was killed in an Army training accident. This scarf is the symbol of both that naive optimism and sisterhood. I need this today.

I head downstairs, and realize I have very little in my refrigerator, so I take some extra time to make an egg-tortilla-avocado breakfast, something typically reserved for the weekends. My mom texts me to let me know my dad is being prepped for surgery — a somewhat routine procedure, but anxiety-ridden nonetheless. Good vibes only. I wish I could be there. This is the heartache of venturing away from the nest. Sometimes you have to miss important things, and it never gets easier….

I sit and I listen to only the headlines from NPR and the Wall Street Journal on my Alexa device (would 21-year-old me even understand this concept?) — nothing new here, the government is in a crisis, the conservative wave is only rising, no politician is perfect, blah blah. I leave my condo and walk — slowly yet purposefully — to my bus, where I start writing this piece while soaking in an “oldie but goodie” playlist with an undercurrent of motivation and change. I can feel it. Something bigger than me is at work here. Carry on.

I stop at my transfer point to drop off my matron of honor gown at the dry cleaners. My cousin, who is more like a sister to me, is getting married at the end of the month. I’ve just come off hosting her bachelorette party in Nashville- time to focus on the wedding itself. Matron is such a loaded term, but I smile a little even imagining myself as a matron. In my mind, I’m still 21. However, I did get married before her, even though she’s older than me — once a running joke but now simply a fact. As one of our favorite cousins once told us back when we were single: “…the Landwehr women get married later in life, if at all.” I’ve never felt more proud to stand up there with my cousin, both of us older, wiser and more sure of our stations in life than our 21-year-old selves. How lucky am I to be a 30+ year old bride AND bridesmaid, an anomaly in our hometown — where high school sweethearts reign, and leaving is seen as a treasonous activity. I’m excited to go back and see my family, but not without the pain that comes with the rest of this month.

With every one of these sentences, my 2009-self says “how cool is that?!”, but my 2019-self knows… these simple pleasures in life are not without struggle, loss, uncertainty and heartache.

Today, my dad is having surgery to remove his prostate. Ten years ago, did I even understand what a prostate was? Was my dad still the strong, steady, impenetrable figurehead that I grew up with? The past ten years have seen a spiritual awakening and resurgence in both my dad and myself. His spiritual awakening has activated parts of himself, and in turn, parts of me. We’ve been through some testy patches together, but my dad’s constant, quiet, succinct and passionate tone could always get us through. With this “second half of life” Dad, he’s much deeper and more fulfilled — he’s vulnerable, and he’s hurting, and that’s okay because he’s sharing that pain and that deep soul work. We’re hurting and learning together.

In less than two weeks, we will bury my brother-in-law at Arlington Cemetery, the scene I fondly looked out upon from my first apartment here in Arlington. That word — Arlington — has developed more meaning for me in the last seven weeks than I ever could have imagined. Our family will travel from all parts of the country to be together and support each other during this difficult time, just like they did for an uncle’s memorial service back in February. During this difficult time, we’ve also learned that there will be two new little ones with us by the end of the year. How circuitous life has become.

I suddenly look up from my furious phone typing and I’m in Georgetown — the once posh, inaccessible, staid neighborhood of DC that was both intimidating and intriguing to me upon first arriving in the District. I have a lunch scheduled with a dear friend of mine, a sorority sister from Truman who moved to DC 6 months before me, and has since found her path — having lived in NYC and recently returned to DC. We’re both learning together that it’s okay that we’re not okay.

I’ve been working in a design firm for the past 5 years. It’s personal, it’s messy, it’s rewarding. No day is the same, and that’s a great thing. I’m learning to listen to my training. To listen to my mentors. And to listen to myself.

I’ve also just completed my first academic year of teaching design at George Washington University’s Interior Architecture program. One of the most rewarding transitions thus far has been the evolution of having my former professors now become my colleagues, mentors and friends. This afternoon I’m meeting with one of my former students about her transition from school to practice.

Am I happy? Mostly. Am I satisfied? Mostly. Am I fulfilled? Time will tell.

Sitting back and reflecting on my last ten years, I fold into the rhythm of my day. And I I hear that little 21-year-old inside me rumbling….

It really does come full circle.

Becca Landwehr

energetic. collaborative. ambitious. curious.