Rebuilding Rob

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The Boy Who Looked at His Feet

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A cinematic, low-angle shot of a long, empty high school hallway with polished linoleum floors reflecting overhead lights. The perspective mimics the view of someone looking down at their feet while walking. In the far distance, a soft silhouette of a person walks toward a bright exit, symbolizing transition and growth.

Thanks to Eric Fulton for this writing prompt. Granted, I tweaked it a bit. For those of you who don’t know, Eric is the geo- tracking, pizza-making mastermind of Eric Fulton’s blog. If you haven’t had a look yet, check it out!

What would my younger self find the most impossible about my life today?

When I first started driving, I was an intense guy. I’d scream at other drivers with the windows up and the AC blasting, convinced everyone else was making terrible decisions. Today, I’m much more mellow. I still yell at the occasional tailgater, but by and large, I’ve calmed down. That calmness isn’t just for the commute; it’s a byproduct of the ‘teacher armor’ I’ve spent years forging.

But more than what younger Rob would be surprised I tolerate, I think he would be impressed by how well older Rob is doing. I’m a far cry from some grand definition of “success,” but I’m doing things younger me never dreamed I’d be capable of.

For starters, he’d be shocked I became a teacher. I thought about it a lot back then—inspired by Dead Poets Society (and for the record, it’s still a crime that DPS lost Best Picture to Driving Miss Daisy). Younger me would be stunned to see me standing in front of a classroom every day, patrolling halls, and advocating for students. But that armor is a far cry from the boy I used to be—the one who occupied the same hallways I now command.

Back in high school, my self-esteem was nonexistent. I looked at my feet when I walked. I was afraid to ask girls out—not because of the rejection, but because I was terrified they would laugh at me. To survive this job, I’ve had to build a “teacher armor” that balances “strength in gentleness.” In the communities where I’ve taught, I’ve often had to be strong more than gentle, but I’ve finally found that middle ground between being a “hard-ass” and a “wimp.” I’m so deep in this mode that I sometimes catch myself correcting strangers’ children in the grocery store before I even realize I’m off the clock.

To see me now—with two children, having navigated a divorce, and realizing I don’t need a relationship to be happy—would overwhelm him. I’ve learned that the wrong person can make you lose yourself, and I’ve finally chosen “Option C”: choosing my own peace. If I could go back to that boy in the hallway, I’d tell him that relationships aren’t the finish line for happiness. And then, I’d tell him that he would eventually sleep with that upperclassman he used to watch from the newspaper room 30 years later. But that’s a story I’ve already told HERE.

To that, he’d probably think I was out of my mind. He wouldn’t believe I was an older version of him—but I’m glad I am.

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AI art created with Google Gemini

The article “The Boy Who Looked at His Feet” first appeared in Rebuilding Rob.

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