No matter where you go, every place has it’s “good parts” and “bad parts”.

Even my own zip code, despite being one of the richest zip codes in the Denver metro area, has it’s “bad parts”. In the zip code next door, it’s not uncommon to be accosted by panhandlers at stoplights and by the mall. Hell, petty crime’s gone up significantly since I moved to west Littleton, which has caused stores like Target and Michael’s to put certain items behind lock-and-key in order to deter crime. 

Even then, I feel relatively safe in my neck of the woods. Ok, I’m still skittish and try really hard not to walk alone to my truck in the dark. But, this side of town is nothing like the inner city, where I’m about to attend school (for the second time in my life). 

No, I’ve never attended university in my life. But, I did go to a small, all-girls charter school in middle/high school, just a mile south of the University of Colorado campus in Denver. 

Back then, I liked the city about as much as I like it now. Despite never going hunting and rarely going fishing, I still managed to hold the title of “redneck” at Girls Athletic Leadership School (GALS). I fascinated my lifelong city-dwelling classmates with stories of “helping” herd escaped cattle back into the pasture on the family farm, and going to my great uncle Courtney’s house to ride horses and eat wild game he harvested in the fall. 

In reality, I had very little experience being a “farm girl” back then. But, the little experience I did have in the country, was still lightyears beyond what experience the rest of my peers had. And it was enough to spur me into getting my hunter’s education license, volunteering at horse rescues nearly every weekend, and getting more involved on the family farm whenever I was there. 

On the flipside, my teachers and peers at GALS took it upon themselves to show me around downtown Denver, especially since my school was located in the heart of the Santa Fe Arts District. When I started attending GALS, it was a small school of 300 students in a rather rundown elementary school that hadn’t seen students in years. Because of that, there weren’t enough classrooms to accommodate many of the electives GALS wanted to offer. So, we walked to places that could accommodate us. 

I had art classes at the Center for Visual Art. I had PE at the Boys and Girls club when our gym was closed for renovations. Or, we’d jog around Sunken Gardens Park, play baseball at West High School’s baseball field, or tennis in their tennis courts. The list of classes and places we’d walk to for them goes on. Hell, for field trips, we’d take the light rail instead of getting on busses. 

While I did gain a lot of valuable experience from my time spent going to school downtown, I never really appreciated it. During those years, I was riddled with anxiety and depression because I felt so stifled by the city life. I literally begged my parents to drive me to a horse ranch in Watkins, where I spent my mornings mucking stalls and filling up hay nets. 

The combination of GALS, Tae Kwon Do, and volunteering at horse ranch kept me physically very strong and healthy, all things considered. But mentally, I wasn’t doing so hot. I could barely contain my joy when my mom announced that we were moving west, where I’d attend a tiny private Christian school just a few short miles from the foothills. 

Oh… if only I knew back then what I know now. 

Ten years later and in three weeks’ time, I’ll be routinely commuting to downtown Denver for school, yet again. 

Part of me is excited and grateful for the opportunity to attend university and pursue a degree I am, so far, quite interested in. After all, I’m acutely aware of all of the hell I’ve been through and the miracles it took to get me to where I am today. And I intend to take full advantage of every privilege and opportunity that comes my way. 

However, a greater part of me is anything but excited to go to school in downtown Denver again. In fact, I’m dreading it. Afraid of it, even. 

There’s not really a particular reason as to why I’m not looking forward to starting this new, exciting, and unexpected chapter in my life. Aside from my numerous grievances I have with the city life, I’m worried about how well (or how poorly) I’ll acclimate to the culture of CU Denver, or whether or not I’ll accepted and respected by my peers and professors alike. Especially since I have no idea what I’m getting myself into in the first place!

I’ll be the first in my immediate family to attend a university like CU Denver, and the first in my entire family to attend CU Denver, period. In two short years, I’ll be the most college-educated person in my immediate family, too. Assuming I stay on the track I’m currently on and fall in love with the research side of things, I’ll be the first in my immediate family to attend graduate school. Perhaps, I’ll be the first ever Dr. Nibbe, too. 

Good lord, just typing that made me want to drop out of school and dwell in my mom’s basement forever… and I can’t really articulate why.

Perhaps, it’s because I’m deeply afraid of losing touch with what I find most important. Perhaps, it’s because I’m worried I’ll become another stereotypical arrogant prick. Perhaps, it’s because I never want to be the “smartest” person in the room. Perhaps, it’s because I’ve always dreamed of living a simple, low-key life. Perhaps, it’s because I’ve always viewed myself as stupid and inadequate, and was told so by many other people throughout my entire life. 

Perhaps, it’s all of the above, and then some. 

Regardless of the specific reasons as to why I feel the way that I feel, the feelings of dread and fear, coupled with the very real possibility of becoming the most educated person in my entire family, are damn-near crippling to me. I seriously can’t think about them too much, or else I might actually drop out of school and barricade myself in my bedroom forever. 

Instead of focusing on the things that fill me with dread and terror, according to my therapist, at least, I must focus on things that do the opposite of that. 

Starting the week before Christmas, I started driving downtown and looking for things that I will enjoy in the city; things that I can do every day after class to recharge and keep myself motivated. 

First, I went to the Denver Art Museum, which I knew that I’d enjoy right away. Two weeks later, I drove to Sixteenth Street Mall with my dad, thinking that’s where the annual German Christmas market would be held. Turns out, it’d been moved to Civic Center park, which was about a half-mile away from where I’d successfully parallel-parked. 

Since I didn’t want to repark the Xterra, I decided to brave the construction and rampant homelessness (and open drug-use) that have taken over Sixteenth Street mall, just to go to an overcrowded and equally underwhelming Christmas market with my dad. At least the goulash and perogies were delicious, though I'm not sure if they were worth the walk. 

Then, just a couple weekends ago, I drove myself and my mom to Santa Fe Arts District, where there was ample parking, clean and safe streets, and plenty of art galleries to peruse. In fact, nearly every art gallery was open on that frigid Saturday afternoon, though my mom and I only had a couple hours to spare. 

We first wandered into the art gallery closest to where we’d parked: the D’art Gallery on the corner of 9th avenue and Santa Fe drive. There, a long-exposure photographer was showing off his works. My mom was interested in them, and while I thought the technique was interesting, I was less so. So, we crossed the street and checked out the next nearest art gallery that was open: the Colorado Access gallery, which featured art from students of nearby schools. 

Again, I wasn’t all that interested in the art, nor was my mom. Just a few minutes after walking into that gallery, we left, and headed up the street to another open art gallery: the Grace Gallery. Finally, we discovered some art that actually caught my attention. In fact, right towards the front of the store, I noticed some beautiful nature photography. And it was expensive, too! 8X8 metal prints were going for around $70 bucks, and regular unframed photo prints were going for $30 bucks a piece. 

I mention this because I’ve thought about selling my art for years, but never took the leap of faith. Meanwhile, I was stood staring at photography that looked a lot like mine, most of which was selling for hundreds of dollars. 

“Maybe I should try submitting my art to a gallery sooner than later…” I silently thought as I turned to check out the rest of the gallery, when I ran into the photographer himself. 

“Hello!” he introduced himself (though I forgot his name).

“Hello!” I answered back.