Allow me to set the stage for one of the most embarrassing days of my life. To do so, I need to go back a bit.

2011 was an interesting year for me. It was the year I finally worked up the courage to quit my job and go back to school to become a teacher. The whole experience was set in motion during the summer of 2010, when I woke up to a bat flying around my apartment.

There’s something you should know about me—or at least the younger version of me: I was in no way, shape, or form a “critter in the house” kind of person. I suppose I get that from my mother, who would make us scrub the entire house the moment we saw a mouse.

A bat flying around my house might not have been such a big deal if I thought it was a one-time thing. These things happen occasionally. I get it. But after swatting it with a snow shovel (lol) and scooping it out of the house into my yard, I told the upstairs neighbors about it. Their response? “Oh yeah, we get them all the time.”

How I made it two years in that apartment without a bat sighting when they got them upstairs all the time is beyond me. But as soon as they said it, I was done. I left my house that day and didn’t return until weeks later, only to get my stuff and put it into a storage shed.

I decided to go stay with my parents until I could find another place. While I was there, I got it into my head that maybe I could go back to school. I figured I could pull my retirement contributions and use them to help fund my expenses. I could use student loans to pay for tuition (and a dorm room), and just stay with my parents on the weekends when I had my kids.

So, in May of 2011, I quit my job and began a Master of Arts in Teaching program. It was a year-long program designed to take career professionals like me and certify them to teach in a secondary education (7th through 12th grade) classroom, in whatever content area most closely matched their original bachelor’s degree. I was ecstatic to leave behind the job I hated and pursue what I felt called to do.

But let me be clear: while I found a way to fund this yearlong pursuit on my own, I was far from financially stable. The program started in May, and much of the coursework was done in all-day summer sessions. This allowed for a 100-day internship during the fall and spring semesters (50 days each), where I’d be in an actual classroom.

The catch? Most of the extra financial aid wasn’t available until the fall and spring semesters. That first summer, I was relying mostly on my retirement funds. Which meant I was broke as hell.

And that’s where the story actually begins.

*****

The fall internship placed me in a middle school classroom with a veteran teacher. I wouldn’t begin teaching until a few weeks into the school year, giving the teacher time to establish procedures before handing over the reins.

Still, we were required to report on the first day of school to observe how the teachers set the tone and managed their classrooms from day one.

Now, the timing here is crucial. The first day of school in this county came late enough in August that I had completely burned through my summer funds, but not late enough that the fall semester had started at my college—so no student loan refunds yet.

I was broke. So broke, in fact, I couldn’t even afford cigarettes. I had been smoking for 11 years at that point (about a pack a day). And since I’d literally run out of money, I ended up quitting smoking for the first time. (I only made it six months, but I digress.)

So, I wake up on the morning of the first day of school. I’m excited. I put on my “teacher clothes” and prepare to embark on this new adventure. My very first day with students.

Quick geography note: the distance from my parents’ house (where I was living, since my dorm wasn’t available until the semester started) to the school I was interning at was about 40 miles. This was about an hour and fifteen-minute drive. Thankfully, I only had to make that drive once, since I’d be moving into my dorm before starting the actual internship.

I’m driving toward the school, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, when I feel a fart coming on. I didn’t think anything of it. How many times do we fart in our lives? Thousands? Rarely does anything come of it.

But on this particular day, I let it go, and the most horrifying thing happened. I sharted. I sharted. I fucking shit my pants. I kid you not, I could feel it. The fart came out like a bubble, and when it popped my pants were wet with shit.

I was absolutely mortified.

Here was my conundrum: it was the first day of school with the students. First impressions matter, especially in teaching internships. I couldn’t be late or call off without risking my future career. This internship was essential to getting hired after graduation.

But I was broke. I couldn’t afford to buy new clothes. And I was over an hour away from my parents’ house, where the rest of my wardrobe lived.

The one saving grace? I had worn black dress pants that day. While my pants were indeed wet, it wasn’t visibly obvious. So, I did the only thing I could. When I got to the school, I bolted to the bathroom, threw away my underwear, and cleaned myself up as best I could.

Then I spent the entire first day smelling like shit.

The students must have smelled it. My mentor teacher had to have smelled it. I was anxious the entire day, completely humiliated.

When it was finally over, I left school and cried all the way home. I was the smelly teacher on the first day. That was the impression I left on the first batch of students I ever interacted with.

Fortunately for me, my mentor teacher was promoted to principal at another school shortly after that. I was reassigned to a different teacher at a different school. And the rest is history.

*****

So, what did I learn from this incredibly embarrassing moment?

I learned that not all experiences come with some grand, positive takeaway. Sometimes shitty things just happen. And when they do, we adapt. We make the best of a shitty situation (pun very much intended). We get through those days like any other—one moment at a time, one foot in front of the other, eyes forward.

I also learned to always keep an extra set of clothes in my car. Because you never know when you’re going to shit your pants.

I made it through that day and went on to crush my internships. Both of my mentor teachers gave me glowing recommendations that helped me land my first teaching job.

But I still look back at that day and laugh. I shake my head and marvel at the odds of something like that happening then, of all times. Maybe we only shit our pants once or twice as adults. So what are the chances it happens on that day?

But such is life. We all have our crosses to bear, our embarrassing moments to survive. Life isn’t all sunshine and rainbows.

So yeah, life stinks sometimes—literally and figuratively. But you keep showing up, even if you have to do it with no underwear and a prayer. Because at the end of the day, surviving your most humiliating moment can be the first step toward becoming who you were meant to be.