The year is ending. College. Seminary. High School. Novices as work or internships. And the question is: will you lead with what you know or will you be a follower forever? 

Thirty years ago, entering seminary in Eretz Yisroel, I remember the incredibly liberating feeling of being a nobody.

I had been accepted (by the skin of my teeth) to a prestigious seminary in Yerushalayim and I was surrounded by the G.O presidents of every school, the editors-in-chief, and the production heads. These girls had been the chosen ones to attend THE Convention (I still have no idea what it was, only that it took place over Shabbos, I wished I had been chosen, and the girls lucky enough to go came back gushing about their wonderful experiences there meeting all the other representatives from Bais Yaakov schools around the USA), they were the composers of songs that caught like wildfire despite the absence of the internet (Ima, Ima Don't You Know), they were originators, they were educators, they were talented beyond description (one girl played about ten instruments that she happened to teach herself), and they were brilliant.

And then there was me.

I had come from a Bais Yaakov school, where I was on the fringe of one group that agitated the administration. We asked for classes that made everyone uncomfortable (Holocaust Studies and Psychology when these were still considered heresy to even talk about), we fought for change, we demanded to be heard. We felt that there was no one else to speak; and if so, we would speak for everyone. Not everyone appreciated it, but we appreciated ourselves.

When we felt nepotism caused one girl to be chosen as the main part of the play instead of another, we made noise. When a teacher had no idea a student had lost her mother and made an insensitive comment reflecting her ignorance, we protested. And when we felt our education was lacking depth, we banded together to learn Sichos Mussar or Michtav Eliyahu on our own (we had no English translated version in those days).

We were leaders. We were somebodies. We walked the halls and knew everyone knew who we were. Even when we lowly tenth graders.

And then I entered seminary, six thousand miles away from home, and I was a nobody.

It was wonderful.

I received a chessed job and failed at it miserably. Two of them. And disappeared to the nursing home daily to feed an old lady Anita instead. Nobody at seminary noticed, asked, or cared. Instead I took orders from nurses and a crochety old lady who demanded I listen to her stories over and over again while I fed her applesauce.

Erev Shirah, the yearly production rolled around and I was picked as prop head, only because I mentioned in passing that I had done it before, and nobody else wanted it necessarily. The other girls were successfully practicing their parts in fluent Hebrew or creating songs and dances and I don't know what. I truly don't know what because I dropped out shortly after. I was I no mood to head anything. I spent the hours otherwise wasted on production hanging out by a family that had adopted me, doing activities like washing dishes and peeling potatoes. I sat in Nomi's kitchen following orders; these domestic duties were totally out of my league and I knew it.

Classes were a confusing mix of endless papers that seemed like mindless activity and exhilarating ideas I had never heard of. Everyone was so much smarter than I was that I could not lead or even contribute to discussions. I sat and listened. And listened some more. My classmates amazed me with their intellect, with their goodness, with their ability to fit into seminary life seamlessly from their prior experiences as heads-of-their-life while I wandered aimlessly not sure where I belonged, or even who I was anymore. They were still leaders, innovators, still personalities that commanded their peers' and teachers' respect. Unlike me who became unmoored in this strange country, where I was even at the mercy of the cook ladling out the oafballs at lunch (oaf as in Hebrew for chicken, if you want to know), as a non-entity nobody glanced at twice. Not even once, if you want to know.

It was heady stuff this nobody-ness, this strange personae of a follower instead of a leader.

It liberated me.

It allowed me to learn all over again who I am, what I care about, and what I want to do about what I care about.

That seminary year has been long since filed away, but that lovely feeling of being a nobody has stayed with me still.

Because as the seminary year rolled through the months, I met like-minded peers. And I began to emerge again, not as follower, not as leader, but as simply me. With that dual ability to be one or the other, follower or leader, as the situation called for it.

I remember Tali. She epitomized the ability to be both.

How?

Once (of many) a group of girls asked Tali to play her guitar and lead them in singing.

I had never met someone like Tali. She simply picked up her guitar and sang. She didn't pretend to protest like so many talented people do, “No, I am not good enough,” trying to make others protest in return that she is good enough until she bows to the pressure and sings. No. Tali knew her strengths. She could play guitar. She could sing. She followed the lead of her peers who commanded she do their will; she led them in song.

I married and learned about many things I had never know before. I followed my husband's lead about chassidus, about how to krazzle the peyos of little boys. I became a teacher and listened to my mentors as they spoke about reading and writing workshops, new ideas I had never heard before. I became a mother, cast into the most intense experience ever, a novice in every sense of the word and listened some more—to my children who taught me as I led them. When I became a social worker, I dared not lead; but even as I followed the greats in my field, my clients looked to me to lead. I latched onto to leaders that I could follow. I loved following. As long as I could follow I could learn.

And as in seminary, I began to emerge, as me. A follower when I needed to learn; a leader when I needed to teach others. We grow up. Children and students and clients. Because we all move past seminary.

And those I love and have inspired—my spouse, my children, my clients, my friends and family—sometimes I lead and they follow; and sometimes—when I am tired—they allow me to sit down and take a breath, and they take the lead instead.

Look me up on LINKEDIN  https://www.linkedin.com/in/mindy-blumenfeld-a8067583   

Check out my book THERAPY SHMERAPY,  available in bookstores and through Amazon

Browse through my previously published articles on my former blog Therapy Thinks and Thoughts at frumtherapist.com/profile/MindyBlumenfeldLCSW

Read current articles in my bi-weekly column THERAPY: A SNEAK PEEK INSIDE in Binah Magazine, available on newsstands every Monday.