Treehouse: The Night That Meant Everything—But No One Believed Me
Man, so I just wrapped up community college, took a year off to figure out what I really want, and now I’m working full-time as a Data Entry Supervisor.
It’s not the kind of job that gets you headlines or anything, but it’s steady, and honestly, it’s teaching me a lot about responsibility—managing people, keeping the data clean, making sure everything runs smooth. Most days, I’m buried in spreadsheets, double-checking numbers, handling the little things that keep the whole system from falling apart. It’s a grind, but I’m learning how to stay focused, how to lead, and how to deal with pressure without losing my cool.
So, the other day, I’m talking with my boss—he’s an older guy, been around the block a few times—and I start telling him about this bowling trip I went on with the baseball team senior year. I tell him how that night stuck with me—the music we played, the vibe, the way we were just in the zone. I said, “Honestly, I still play some of those songs. There was just something about that night, something real that I carry with me.” And then, he cuts me off, chuckling like I’m some kid who hasn’t lived yet. He says, “I know the manager of that bowling alley. What happened that night? You think being ‘in the zone’ makes sense? Trust me, you haven’t seen real life yet.”
And man, that hit me harder than I thought it would. Like, he was basically calling me a child, saying my experiences don’t count because I haven’t been through enough. I felt this sting, this weight in my chest. I wanted to tell him, “Hey, I don’t need you judging what’s meaningful to me.” Because back at my old place, I’d be up until 1 a.m. playing Rockstar Games, totally zoned in. I can still remember the sounds—the hum of the game, the clatter of the controller, the smell of the pizza box I ate whole—and falling asleep on the floor after cleaning up. Those moments were mine. They mattered.
(pauses, voice softens)
When we talk about what hits us—whether it’s music from high school, drive-in movies, or just hanging out with friends at a pizza joint—we don’t need to be talked down to, or made to feel like our memories are just childish nonsense. What’s meaningful is personal. It’s real to us, no matter what anyone else thinks. And honestly, if my boss can’t respect that, maybe he’s the one who hasn’t really lived.
Because sometimes, it’s those small moments—the music, the late nights, the laughter—that shape us more than anything else. And I’m proud of that. I’m proud of my story. And I’m not about to let anyone tell me it’s not worth something.