From the VERY beginning...

To truly understand me and Expeditions in Education, I feel that I must share more about myself...
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​Knowing your story is one thing, but telling your story is quite another. I am writing my story as I approach the end of my 50s. It's amazing how much your mind can recall from days gone by, but yet you can't remember your keys. I may not have a story that would make the bestseller's list, but I am proud of where I came from and where I am going. I'm not sure how I'll organize the events of my life, for now they are in chapters, but I know that I want to record them in writing for my children and grandchildren. It has taken me three years to gather my thoughts and now I am ready to share them. This is chapter one. It's unfinished, but putting it out there should make me accountable for finishing it. SO without further ado- I give you....


Chapter 1: A Pastor's Daughter's Melody
"In every sunrise, there lies a promise of a new beginning, an opportunity to paint the canvas of life with vibrant strokes of hope and possibility."


Though born in Greensboro, NC, I spent the first three years of my life in the peaceful town of Mount Airy. Here, church spires reached high into the sky like outstretched hands, and a sense of togetherness flowed as gently as a calm river. It was within this serene setting that I came into this world. My parents, Jake and Carolyn, were the heart of our community. My father served as the pastor of our church, while my mother was a beloved elementary school teacher. Their dream had always been to raise a child surrounded by the warm embrace of our faith, and finally, that dream had come true.


My name was Dacia, to be precise, Dacia Joyce. I had wide, curious eyes that sparkled with mischief, and a captivating smile that could charm anyone. But there was something unique about my early years—I didn't have hair until I was about two years old. To remedy this, my mother lovingly taped a bow onto my head, creating a playful and endearing image that would become a cherished memory.


The name "Dacia" held special significance. My parents named me after a close college friend of theirs, a testament to their enduring friendship. Additionally, it was a nod to the "Land of Dacia," a historical region mentioned in the Bible, symbolizing strength and resilience—qualities that my parents hoped I would carry with me throughout life.


With my bow-adorned head and a pair of thick glasses perched on my nose to correct a lazy eye, I cherished life. From a young age, I found solace in the church led by my father. The ancient oak pews stretched out before me, seemingly infinite. I would claim my spot in the front row, my heart in sync with the melodies of the organist. When the music soared into lively hymns, I couldn't resist the urge to jump to my feet and dance with unrestrained delight, twirling and pirouetting in my own world of faith and music. This is where I discovered my love for music and places of faith.


Yet, there was one thing that could furrow my brow and bring a pout to my lips—the elderly women of the church who, no matter how many times they were corrected, continued to mispronounce my name. "Dasher!" they would exclaim, thinking it was an affectionate nickname. To me, it felt like a missed note in a beautiful symphony. "It's Dacia," I would gently correct them, my voice soft yet unwavering, reflecting my determination.


Another quirk of my upbringing was my early involvement in the church's youth group. My parents weren't just members of the congregation; they were leaders in the church community. So, it seemed only natural for me to join the youth group, even though I was noticeably younger than my peers. I would sit attentively, absorbing the wisdom shared by my elders, my eyes shining with an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a burning desire to make a difference in the world.


When at home, I found comfort within the cozy confines of my bedroom, adorned with an assortment of stuffed animals. My imagination knew no bounds. Countless hours were spent teaching my plush companions their ABCs, scribbling letters on the walls with crayons, and confiding in them about my dreams. Little did I know that my stuffed animals would soon be replaced by sisters, and my make-believe classroom would expand.


As I grew older, I witnessed my parents' dedication to their church and the wider community. Their selflessness became a wellspring of inspiration for me, urging me to consider becoming a catalyst for change in the world. In my eyes, the world unfurled like a vast canvas, waiting for me to add my unique brushstrokes.


So, the first chapter of my life was written in the embrace of a nurturing church and to the harmonious melodies that echoed in my heart. It was a chapter infused with faith, music, and an unyielding determination to leave a lasting mark on the world. Little did I know that my journey had only just begun, and that the story of Dacia Joyce was destined to be a beautiful and inspirational symphony, heard by all those willing to listen. (Editor's note: I was only three years old, so I can brag, right?)