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Daniel Beutler
College Essay
31/October/2014

I measure my life in steps. My father woke me up early one Saturday morning some 6
years ago. He told me to go to his room after I dressed. I walked down the stairs. 12 steps. I
walked into his room. 8 steps, I walked up to his bed. 2 steps. I sat down and he told me that my
mother was sick and might not get better.
These 22 steps leading up to this news paved the way for the rest of my life. These are
steps I have taken more times than I care to admit. I know the sound of my feet hitting the
hardwood floor 22 times exactly like I know my mothers voice. These are sounds I hope to
never forget. These steps, the connection of feet with the floor changed my outlook on life. I
hadnt before that point considered my parents' death. I hadnt considered myself growing up. I
was a child before that day. After that day, I very quickly had to grow up.
I have been counting steps every day after the news broke, but not all of them concluded
with the sound of my feet fitting the floor. My mothers steps to recovery, my steps to coming to
terms with her illness, and the steps I took to becoming who I am today. My mothers fight, her
battle with a lump of mutant flesh forced me to take many steps. Those steps sounded more like
a rush of wind. For every step I watched my mother fight to take, I took one myself, and I
learned the fragility of the human form. These steps took me to places I never thought I would
go. I learned to savior every moment and to work hard.
I learned to live life from my mother and hard work from my father. When people talk
about survivors of illness they often neglect to mention the caretakers. My father led by example.

Following my mothers diagnoses, he worked long hours to put food on the table and keep bills
paid. He taught me to count my steps and to savior them. I learned the value of steps from my
mother. They are something that nearly everyone I have ever met has taken for granted. They are
a limited resource.
The sound of my feet echoing on the hardwood floors of my home were not just heard
when my mother had first been diagnosed. When I was at the end of my fourth grade year, my
father called me to his room. As almost a precursor to my news of my mother, I took the same 22
steps. He told me a much different set of news. I am learning disabled. My teachers, my parents,
and I always knew that I was in some way different but we finally had a diagnosis. He told me to
try my hardest to overcome it, that my Dysgraphia couldnt define me unless I let it.
To this day I cannot put pen to paper and write anything close to legible. For a time I
hated myself for this, I couldnt do a simple a thing as drawing a picture. It was a subject that the
smallest of children excelled at but I found difficulty in every line I put to paper. But I refuse to
let that define me. I have instead chosen to add that to the collection of steps that I know as me.y