A Childhood Full of Love, Laughter, Lessons, and Leotards

I grew up in a wholesome home overflowing with love. My parents were the ultimate dynamic duo—we called them Batman and Robin. They supported each other through everything, and no decisions were made without the other’s input. The bond they shared was inspiring and something I’ve always dreamed of having in my own life.

Family time was the heartbeat of our home. Whether we were playing games, watching movies, or sitting on my parents’ bed talking about life, those moments are etched in my heart. One phrase I heard often growing up was, "Secrets have no friends." This simple idea resonated deeply in our family; we shared everything with one another.

My parents weren’t shy about showing their affection, which sometimes grossed me out as a kid—I’d roll my eyes and tell them to “get a room!” Looking back now, though, I see how beautiful their connection truly was. My dad’s unexpected passing in January 2015, just shy of their 41st wedding anniversary, was heartbreaking. Even so, the love they shared and the example they set continue to inspire me.

Life on Eisenhower, in our small three-bedroom, one-bathroom home, was modest but rich in love, imagination, and support. We didn’t have a lot of material things, but we never lacked what truly mattered. My mom ran a small in-home daycare so she could stay home with my brother and me, while my dad worked full-time during the day. As we got older, my parents shifted their schedules—my dad worked days, and my mom worked nights—so that one of them was always home with us.

When I was little, my quirks made life fun and memorable. Clothes? Overrated. I lived in bathing suits and leotards, and there are plenty of incriminating photos to prove it! I’ll never forget the time a tornado touched down near our house. My mom told me to grab everything I needed to stay safe, so I grabbed my two favorite bathing suits (one was a neon ombre with a fishnet overlay), my boombox, and a bag of marshmallows. Needless to say, I wasn’t exactly prepared for a disaster—but hey, I was in second grade!

Growing up, I had many nicknames, but one of the classics was Louise Lane. I was (and still am) incredibly nosey. I had to know everything—every detail, every story, every happening. One time, I remember my mom casually saying, “Who’s that out there with Dad?”

Well, Miss Louise Lane, reporting for duty, grabbed a notepad and pencil and headed out to do some serious detective work. I thought I was being stealthy (spoiler: I was as subtle as a flashing neon sign), but I managed to gather all the “intel.” I reported back to my mom with a full rundown: the description of the man’s truck, what he looked like, what he was wearing, the conversation they were having, and even how my dad was reacting.

My mom was completely caught off guard. She had no idea why I was suddenly delivering a full investigative report. I just looked at her and said, “Well, you wondered who it was!” Clearly, in my mind, I was just doing my job.

Another keen attribute of mine? I am incredibly graceful! It truly takes talent to trip over air or to fall up the stairs, and I have the record to prove it—six broken arms in total.

Up until I was five, we lived in a home that my dad and grandpa built from scratch, which still stands today on Radium Road. I have plenty of memories from that house, including my very first broken arm. At the age of three, my older brother, who was six at the time, managed to convince me that I could fly if I jumped off the fireplace mantel. Spoiler alert: I couldn’t. Off to the emergency room we went!

Not long after, I had another brilliant idea: I wanted to know what it would feel like to roll down the stairs. Now, the basement stairs were unfinished because in 1980, the Great Bend flood halted my dad’s progress on the house. Being the planner I am, I told my brother, “If I start crying or yelling, go get Mom and Dad.” I barely made it halfway down before the tears started streaming. I landed at the bottom with a broken nose, and it was another trip to the ER. Of course, I was already planning my next stunt by the time we got home!

Throughout my childhood, we lived in three houses. First, there was the home my dad built on Radium Road. Then we moved into town on Eisenhower, and eventually, my parents compromised on a house just outside the city limits. My dad had always dreamed of farm living, but my mom didn’t like the idea of being far from civilization with little kids. Each home we lived in tells a story, holding its own memories, milestones, and adventures—sometimes painful ones, but always unforgettable.

As I moved into my school years, things got more complicated. I was often teased for being taller than my classmates—I was 5’7” by fifth grade—and for blooming earlier than most kids. I was also labeled a “teacher’s pet” or “brown-noser” because I loved helping out. After school, I would stay behind to help my teachers with bulletin boards and other projects. I loved crafting and seeing my work on display in the classroom and hallways.

Reading was another passion of mine during childhood. I devoured books like The Babysitter’s Club, Amelia Bedelia, the Judy Blume Fudge series, and Ramona the Brave. Those stories sparked my imagination and became a big part of my world, though I lost that love for reading during my pre-teen and teen years.

Middle school (7th and 8th grade) was, to put it simply, awkward. These were the years I despised the most. My teachers often paired me with the “weird boys” in group projects. They weren’t motivated, and honestly, they were gross. I remember finally getting the courage to ask my science teacher why she always paired me with them, expecting her to stop doing it. Instead, she told me, “Nicole, I put you in their group because I know you’re the only person who will be kind to them.” That moment was humbling and made me realize that even though I don’t understand the why, people usually have good reason for their decisions.

High School Years—Humbling, Growth, and New Perspectives

High school was a whirlwind of socializing, extracurriculars, and figuring out who I was—more a social playground than a place for educational growth or preparing for my future. I was involved in just about everything, including tennis, soccer, softball, Pep Club, Kayettes, Spanish Club, Prom Committee, and orchestra. I thrived in these environments, using them as outlets to express myself, stay busy, and connect with others. I loved being part of so many groups, but in hindsight, I realize I didn’t truly grasp the significance of these experiences on my life and future at the time.

The early years were marked by arrogance. I was part of a group of girls—my “posse”—and I thought I was too good for everyone else. I reveled in that mindset, believing my place in the social hierarchy was secure.

There was one particular moment that stands out: A guy a grade ahead of me asked me out in the stairwell, and without hesitation, I dismissed him, saying, “Why would I date you?” His response was a sharp “You’re a bitch,” but I didn’t hear it as an insult. In that moment, I somehow thought it was a compliment. I was so absorbed in my own arrogance that I couldn’t understand how my behavior could hurt others.

But then came a humbling experience that truly shaped my outlook on life. A friend invited me on a church retreat to Omaha, Nebraska, and I went, though not for the right reasons. While there, we toured a homeless shelter, and I was confronted with a reality I had never considered. The people at the shelter weren’t just those struggling with addiction or bad decisions—they were everyday people, like me. One family of five had lost their home when it burned down during their vacation at a beach resort. Their entire life was gone in an instant.

The moment that stood out most, though, happened at lunchtime. We were served a simple meal—spaghetti. Growing up, I had always been a picky eater and had my food rituals. My family knew better than to mix the noodles with sauce, and the sauce never touched the meat. But here, at the shelter, I was asked to eat what they were serving. I begrudgingly took my plate, not thinking much of it.

But as I sat there, idly poking at my food, a homeless man sitting nearby noticed me. He was older and had a look of weariness in his eyes, he reminded me a lot of the character Alan from Jumanji when he came through the game after living in the jungle for a number of years, but he wasn’t judgmental. Instead, he quietly said, “If you’re just going to play with your food, I’ll take your plate. I’m starving.”

I was caught off guard by his honesty. He didn’t ask for anything in a harsh way, but it was a reality check for me. I realized how lucky I was, and here was a man, someone who had lost everything, asking for something that I was so casually wasting. It made me feel small in the best way possible—like I had been living with blinders on.

I handed him my plate, no questions asked. It wasn’t just about the food—it was about understanding the gravity of what had just happened. It was a moment that made me realize how deeply privileged I was, and how often I took things for granted. I had never thought about hunger or hardship in such a personal way before. The experience stayed with me for years, and from that point forward, I became much more aware of my actions and the way I looked at the world. It softened my arrogance and helped me approach others with more humility and compassion.

But with this change in perspective came loneliness. Slowly, my friendship with the “posse” began to fade. The appeal of being part of the group started to lose its shine. I realized the impact of my past behavior—the rejection from people who no longer wanted to be my friend because of how poorly I had treated them was painful, and it stung. I was forced to face the consequences of my actions, and I couldn’t ignore them.

By senior year, I was more isolated than ever. My relationship with the “posse” had dwindled, and I was left feeling like an outsider. But in a way, that loneliness became a turning point. I found comfort in being myself, without trying to fit into the mold of who I thought I should be. I was ready for the next chapter of my life. 

I was also able to focus more on my education during my senior year, especially in areas that truly interested me. I’ve always loved writing, and my senior English teacher, Mrs. Seeman, played a huge role in deepening that passion. She was one of those rare teachers who inspired and encouraged her students to push beyond their limits.

It was a tradition that every senior write a major paper. While I don’t remember the topic of mine, I do still have a copy of it. Mrs. Seeman loved my work so much that she asked if she could keep a copy to share with her future students as an example of how to write an exceptional paper. That moment has always stuck with me—it felt like a validation of my voice and potential as a writer.

I started dating a guy my junior year who was a student at the local college. He was on the Barton baseball team and so I spent more time with the college crowd than I did with my high school friends, and as my senior year went on, I couldn’t wait to leave the small confines of high school. I was eager to move on to college and start fresh. High school had been a place of growth and humility, but I was ready to move forward and find out what came next.

Reflecting on my childhood, teenage years, and the experiences that shaped me, I can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. Life seemed to come naturally and easily to me back then. Even though the obstacles I faced felt big at the time, looking back, I realize just how good I had it. I was surrounded by love, opportunities, and lessons that prepared me for life’s bigger challenges.

I never could have imagined how drastically my life would change in the years to come. Those twists and turns have taught me even more about resilience, humility, and strength. But as I think about the foundation I had—one built on love, family, and the belief that I could overcome anything—I know those early years gave me the tools to keep moving forward, no matter what comes my way…..and boy did I have some dark clouds coming my way.