Dave Schuster
There were several refrains throughout my childhood and adolescence; “He can’t wait to be called on in class.” “He would have had an A if he turned in any homework.” And my favorite, “He has so much potential, if only he would apply himself.” Any kid growing up with undiagnosed ADHD could name a dozen others that sting somewhere deep. I had the double-edged sword of intellectual abilities that both allowed me to compensate and fall through the cracks.
To be clear, my parents were loving, caring people that truly wanted the best for me. The unfortunate truth was that they were not prepared to help me in the ways that I needed, despite both being teachers who were deeply connected to my outward facing life. That they understood little of what was going on internally became clear sometime in Junior High. That created walls between us that lasted years.
By the time I reached college I had developed a number of coping strategies, based on the understanding that my brain did not work the way my peers’ brains did. Some of these were healthy, others were not. I was lucky, I did not end up down as dark a path as some around me. After four years of college, completing a degree in Chemistry I understood that I was more interested in how others’ brains worked so that I could learn more about how my own did. Shortly after joining the Cognitive Science program, I was diagnosed with ADHD, as well as issues that made writing by hand challenging. (I am of an age where a laptop in the classroom was a novel occurrence.) This knowledge, along with my studies began my lifelong journey to understand how to work with my gifts and challenges.
A couple of years after college, some friends of mine came home for a holiday break. We went for a hike a short distance from my parents’ house, in a spot that was and is very dear to me. I was in my hometown without much direction. I was working, but some of my less than healthy coping skills were steering my life direction more than anything else. They were happy, healthy, and excited about what they were doing. It was then that I learned about Wilderness Therapy.
A month later, most of my worldly possessions packed into my station wagon, I was on my way to North Georgia. During my training, on more than one occasion, I asked myself, “What am I getting myself into?” This would be the theme of the summer as I was continually challenged both in developing the skills to work with the kids spending their time out there with us, as well as confronting my own shadow. At the end of that first summer, I knew I was hooked. This was the first time a job fit me, rather than the struggle of me trying to fit the job. I worked for nearly five years straight in the field between the first two wilderness programs. It was at the second that I met Ruben…
Ruben and I quickly realized that we were closely aligned in how we approached the process of working with families to find their healing. While neither of us suffer from lack of self-confidence, neither of our egos could be fooled into thinking that we were there to do more than walk with kids, their parents, and the family as a whole as they found their path. We could provide guidance on the journey, but the final outcome was not ours, it was theirs. Neither of us were ever afraid of the process looking and being messy, more likely we reveled in it. In the mess change happened. Growth happened.
Like all good things, that partnership came to an end. Like all things in life, it wasn’t permanent. I left to explore possibilities in Alaska, where I ended up working at, and then running a therapeutic preschool (yep that’s a thing). Found my way back to Utah to work in the field at another wilderness program. To Colorado, where I first was introduced to post-treatment coaching. On to Montana, where I ran the residential department of a therapeutic boarding school for girls. Back to Utah, where I did one last run in the wilderness. I estimate I spent 1400 days sleeping on the ground, making fires, and teaching boys and girls how to engage in life on their terms, as their best selves.
And now, once again partnering with Ruben to help families chart their own paths, I coach kids, young adults, and parents, help families with the transition back home, as well as the transition into wilderness. I bring a deep understanding of the journey that families find themselves on, lending context and perspective as we all try to navigate the changing world together from within our bubbles. Things have changed. Become more complicated. And that is okay, none of our journeys were going to be a straight line anyway.