The Moth - The Deep End: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: February 24, 2026

In this hour, stories of jumping, or being thrown, in the deep end—figuratively and literally. Leaving the "nest," reptilian co-workers, and a school swimathon. This episode is hosted by Jay Allison, producer of The Moth Radio Hour. Storytellers: Mukosi Shimaka-Mbasu realizes that participating in the Science Fair means talking to strangers.  Gary Sizer cares for his mother after her ALS diagnosis. During lockdown, Mytrang Nguyen has to share her office with two lizards. While participating in a swimathon, Clare Wallder follows the adage "slow and steady wins the race." College-bound Ianna Banfield practices being away from her mother.  Podcast # 967 To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Jay Allison. The proverb goes hope for the best and prepare for the worst, but sometimes events go so profoundly awry, the best we can do is keep our heads above water. In this episode, The Deep End, where all our storytellers find themselves. First up is Makosi Shimaka Mbahu,

who told this story at one of our Open Micke StorySlam in Washington, D.C., where we partner with Public Radio Station WAMU. Here's McCosie. All right. As you heard, my name is Mukosi Shmaka-Mbasu. I'm from here. I was born in the Columbia Hospital for Women. I think it's a set of condos now,

so I was saying before the show, that's fine, that happens. I was born to a Jamaican mother and a Kenyan father. That's only important because as I'm sure most of, not all of you know, there are some subtleties to American society that

you have to experience to understand. And given that at the time that this story takes place, neither of them were citizens, that's something that we had to navigate together. This story takes place when I was 10 years old. I was in fifth grade.

Just two or three, miles east of here in PG County and it was the science fair for those of you who have competed you understand it is a place where you demonstrate your ability to apply the scientific method you formulate a hypothesis you gather data you run experiments you collect results and from those results you formulate a conclusion all of which are displayed on a large trifold cardboard display if your experiment had some sort of thing with it also you bring that mine was a four by four large wooden

frame because my experiment conceived of and executed by me was to show that pulleys single double and triple will geometrically decrease the amount of weight you need to move a set amount of pounds a set number of inches I thought it was cool but at ten years old you know it may maybe some people had different ideas. Now, I too am a lifelong person with ADHD, but that's not the hard part, right? I have medicine for that. But what I didn't know and wouldn't for another quarter century was that I'm also autistic. I'm on the spectrum. And due to my specific place on the spectrum, speaking to people who I don't know, have no frame of reference for, don't know who they are,

where they're from, what they like. At 10 years old, that was an insurmountable task. And again, if you've been in the science fair, you understand that's all it is, is you are talking to a parade of stranger adults who have endless questions about this project that you've completed. So instead of seeing it as a sort of exercise in scholastic achievement, I saw it as a very mild but consistent form of torture in that I don't know how to speak to these people and they're continually asking me questions, which I am continually stammering through and just really fumbling the ball here, if we're being honest. So as this happens, I feel as though I'm being individually persecuted because one adult comes, they ask questions, and while I have a very

detailed and foundational understanding of this experiment that I took great joy in executing, I can't get the words from in my head into their ears. It's not working. I don't have the tools. I can't do it. And much to my chagrin, what would happen is, they would then disappear into the crowd of adults and seemingly beckon yet another adult and send them my way to torture me further. What I found out a few years later, I guess what I came to a realization was, is that they were actually somewhat interested in the experiment, and they wanted to speak to this child who had single, double, and triple pullies, and at four-by-four frame.

But it was the pulling of teeth and the lifting of fingernails for me at that age. And as the frustration mounted, as this endless cavalcade of adults just continually came by my project over and over, it could have been 30 minutes, it could have been three hours. I don't know. I don't know. There was a sort of time collapse that happens when you're in the bad mental space of what I can only say is what the fuck, right? Like it's, but as this ends, and as I tear out of the cafeteria in tears, I'm in the counselor's office, I just can't get my proverbial stuff together. The antiquated PA system, which I'm sure a lot of you are familiar with, chirps on and informs all of the participants to come back to the cafeteria because they are giving awards out, which I personally was ready to go home. It's 2 p.m. and I could have walked all 20 miles back to my house. it's what you sign up for. You have to go back to the cafeteria. So we go back and I'm using my shirt, my sleeve.

I'm using anything I can to just wipe the tears that cannot stop falling out of my face. And much to my surprise, one of those awards given out was mine. And not only was one of the awards mine, it was, thank you, it was the first place award. which again, thank you because, you know, that is like the gold star moment, right? But in actuality, what it means is you then have to go to the high school in a bigger room with more stranger adults and do the same thing for actually longer. But I do want to focus on the actual gold star moment because that first place award meant a lot to me. And as you can tell by the fact that I'm up here, it's something that stuck with me for the rest of my life.

Thank you. Makosi Shimaka Mbassu is a first-generation American and native Washington, D.C. resident. He says he enjoys life's moments whatever they are, and the stories we can tell about them. We asked our storytellers in this episode what the next deep end for them might be. I have no idea what the next deep end level challenge may be, but I'm confident, based on everything that has taken me up to this point, that I'll be ready to leap or at the very least willingly, accept the nudge when presented with it.

Our next story was told at a story slam, this time in Asheville, North Carolina, where we partner with Blue Ridge Public Radio. Here's Gary Seiser, live at the mall. Japanese knotweed is resilient, it's tough, and it's invasive. About seven years ago, my wife and I bought a house. house that had sat abandoned for five years and the previous owners had been very negligent about how they handled their invasives and the yard was just full of the

stuff and we were out of the yard hacking at the knotweed with machetes when my brother called with news that mom had fallen down and that she couldn't get back up and that they had to call an ambulance. Now in that moment I wasn't particularly shaken because this sort of thing had happened before. This was after she had suffered probably four minor strokes, I think. One of her knees was titanium. I think the other one was two. She was in her early 70s,

but she had been volunteering at a local art gallery when this had happened. She just kind of tipped over and couldn't get herself back up. This time it was different, though, because Jim told me that after they ran some tests, they figured out that she was experiencing the early stages of ALS. Now, it sounds like most people know what that means,

If you know what ALS is, you kind of know how this story is going to end. Taking care of someone who has ALS is not quite like pushing a boulder up a hill. That boulder is coming down the hill, and the best you can do is slow it down or get out of the way. This diagnosis came right around the beginning of the uptick of the COVID epidemic, so any long-term medical care or nursing home facilities was basically going to consist of putting her in a room and not seeing her again. So the family made the difficult decision. She was very much behind this,

that we were going to do this on her terms in her house with the family of support. So I got in my car and I drove up to Pennsylvania and we made one stop along the way to get gas, made no other contacts with people because I didn't want to risk spreading anything. And I moved into my mother's small two-bedroom apartment.

And my brother and myself and a cousin work shifts taking care of her as the boulder rolled down the hill. I spent weeks sleeping on the floor in her spare bedroom, and my entire existence centered around listening for the sound of a bell. Anytime that bell rang day or night, it meant that mom needed something. And this was an interesting arrangement because now the roles had been reversed, right? She had brought me into this world, and she had taken care of me and raised me and changed my diaper, And now we were doing this for her.

And it was incredibly difficult. Over the weeks, it became apparent that this boulder was going to roll down the hill very quickly. Some people contract ALS. We're all familiar with. Stephen Hawking is a terrific example. Lived for decades with this ailment. Mom lost weight very quickly. Very quickly lost the ability to speak, to move.

Her dentures were a choking hazard. So those had to come out. And in less time than anyone imagined, this beautiful, intelligent woman who had raised us and taken care of us was now a toothless skeleton who could only groan and point at things. We got her one of those computer screens that you could blink at and type a message, but her eyesight was poor and that didn't work, so she was restricted to just writing things on a notepad.

Now, despite all of this, she still kept her spirit. She still was the same beautiful and intelligent person. on the inside. Her spirit was still there. There was one instance in particular that I remember I'd just finished changing her bed clothes or arranging pillows or something and I'd been leaning over her and moving her around in the bed and it was very strenuous and I could tell by her face that something was bothering her and she needed something else and I said, Mom, what is it? What else can I possibly do for you? And she started making these motions with her hands and it reminded me of, do you remember that there was a magician and

in the 70s and 80s, Doug Henning, who did the illusion of magic. It was like that kind of thing. I thought she was telling me that the angels were coming. And I said, Mom, what is it? And she motioned for her notepad, and she wrote, you need a shower. Okay. Okay, so she's still in there. That was one of the few high points during this ordeal.

Not long after that, one night when I was with her by myself, she was, you know, we were holding hands and just talking about life. And she confessed to me that she wanted to die. She begged me to put a pillow over her face. I said, Mom, I can't do that. I'll get in so much trouble. But she really meant it. And it was a sincere, heartfelt moment that just crushed me. And I remember, I think it must have been that morning or the following morning. It was not too long after that.

I was on the floor in the spare bedroom when the weight of everything that was going on hit me. The importance of what I was doing. This was the most important thing I had ever done. and it was doomed to fail. There was no way to succeed. And something inside me broke, and the boulder rolled over me. I've had panic attacks before, but this was like the walls were melting, and I was watching myself from the ceiling,

and I could see my cousin rush in to comfort me. And I have very few memories of that incident, but they told me that I was speaking in tongues, and I just lost it. I broke. And the next thing I remember was my father-in-law who lived in a city about an hour away had come to take me. And before I left, my mom, I remember that she touched my hair, and she gave me the ASL sign for I love you. And I said, I'll be back.

And I went home thinking that, you know, in two weeks I'll recover. And, you know, I saw my doctor and I'd been diagnosed with a mild psychotic break and they put me on some sedatives. And about two weeks later, I got a second phone call from my brother. And he said, we were giving mom a bath, and she was in the warm water, and she exhaled, and never inhaled again. And that was it. I never saw her again. So I made it back for the funeral. And then I came back here, and for about two weeks, I was just numb.

And then I remember one day I was sitting at home alone, and this is very soon after all of this had just unfolded. And I was probably just staring at a wall. I don't know what I was thinking. Probably nothing. And I heard the sound of a dog barking in the distance. One of our neighbors has one of those dogs that makes a noise like a screwdriver to the ears. And it just really started to aggravate me. It filled me with rage.

And I knew that if I didn't get out of the house, I was going to break something or do something that I regretted. So I went on to the porch, and I found the machete, and I went into the yard, and I found some knotweed. and I began hacking and slashing and pounding the earth with this machete, and I was bellowing with rage, making the sound of a monster from your nightmares. And I screamed until my throat was raw. And I lifted the blade and I hacked at the earth until my elbow was swollen and my shoulder was numb and my hands were bleeding. And in my mind's eye, every strike of this blade was about to split the earth in half. But all it did was just bounce off the ground and nothing happened until there was nothing left.

me and I collapsed. And I just exhaled and hung my head with my hair hanging in my face. And it was good. Because in that moment I knew that I was alive and that I was strong. And once again, I could feel. That was Gary Sizer. Gary writes travel comedies and narrates audiobooks. He is working on his next book while living in Montenegro with his wife, Sasha, and their

Kat Chester. Gary told us that this experience influenced how he defines a deep end and says that it changed his perception of what's inconvenient and what's truly important. We asked him about his next deep end. I'm in the deep end now. I've spent the last year selling or donating anything that wouldn't fit in a suitcase. And two months ago, I left the U.S. with no concrete plans to return. We also asked him how he's feeling these days. Things are going pretty great. I live in a beautiful place with the person I love most. I eat good food, breathe clean air, and enjoy the weather, even the rain, every single day.

In a moment, a charity swimathon and the wisdom of lizards when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Ah, where are my gloves? Come on, heat. Winter is hard, but your groceries don't have to be. This winter, stay warm. Tap the banner to order your groceries online at voila.ca. Enjoy in-store prices without leaving your home.

You'll find the same regular prices online as in-store. Many promotions are available both in-store and online, though some may vary. This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Allison. In the show, we're hearing stories. of deep ends about facing challenges were unprepared for. Our next storyteller went literal with her deep end. Claire Walder told us at a story slam in Melbourne, Australia.

Here's Claire, live from the mall. It's the mid-1970s, and in a small town in rural central West, New South Wales, at the local school, the sports ground is just a patch of hard red dirt. And teams are being picked, usually for softball, but sometimes even worse, volleyball. And as always, there is one kid left over, and that's me. I can't run, I can't catch, I can't throw, and I'm slower than a wet week.

Now, there are those of you out there who will say to me the team sports are great for developing leadership skills and encouraging kids to work together. But for those of us who are always pick class, it is embarrassing, it's pointless and it's boring. Now the game starts, and I know where to go to the outfield where I'll stand staring at the soft, sky, waiting for the odd ball to dribble my way.

All that is about to change because the town where I live is officially the most charitable town in New South Wales and they give more in real terms than any of those rich, posh suburbs in Sydney. And we are going to have a swimathon and we're going to raise money for the guide dogs or the Red Cross or something. And kids are going to be sponsored to swim 40 laps of the local 25 metre pool.

And in an era when an ice cream costs 5 cents and the going rate per lap is 2 cents my dad has agreed to sponsor me 20 cents.

Now in case you think My dad's being generous, he's not. He's being cheap because he has spoken to my mother and said, so, how far do you reckon she can swim? And mum says, she's pretty hopeless. I don't know, three, maybe four laps at the most. And lest you think my father is being encouraging,

I'd like you to remind you that this is the mid-70s in rural New South Wales and that sort of namby-pamby, new age parenting bullshit is not coming into vogue for another 20 years. But I am encouraged, and on the day of the swimathon, we make the hot walk from school down to the local pool. Now, the rules of a swimathon are fairly simple. You jump in one end, you swim to the other,

end, you climb out, you walk back, get your name marked off, repeat. And off we go. And of course, soon, the faster kids, they're beating me. But it doesn't matter because it's not a race. All I have to do is keep on swimming and I'll get there in the end. And soon I have swum my four laps at the most and I keep going and I swim 10 laps and 15 laps and the teachers are amazed

they have never seen me do anything like this and I keep on swimming 20 25 laps and the teachers are starting to get a bit worried and I go are you okay you look a bit tired

and I am tired My little heads They're slap at the water And my body is at a 45 degree angle As I drag myself up the pool And I keep on going And as the faster kids finish

They take away a lane rope So that they've got room to play And I get to about 32 laps, 35 And they take away the last lane rope. I am the only kid who is left swimming this swimathon and I now have to swim around

all the other kids as they're doing handstands and dive bombing and playing crocodile may across your golden river and the teachers are worried they're worried because the buses are going to be here soon But I don't care.

I just keep going. And I get up to about 38 laps and they say the buses are here. And I just keep going. I'm knackered. But I keep going. And then I make it 40 laps. And I have enough time to throw my uniform on over my wet cosy to climb on the hot, un-air-conditioned buses with vinyl seats

for the long, dusty, sticky ride home. And I find Dad in his workshop and I say, you owe me. And he says, this is not going how I thought it would. And I said, I swam 40 laps. Sponsored you 20 cents. Dollars. And he will be $8 for decades. But it is a defining moment for me. I realize I don't have to do team sports. disagrees with me. But I have gone on in adulthood, like you, and I have cycled around the bay in a day. Yes, it did take me 12 hours. And I have trekked the Annapurna trek in Nepal. Yes, I did come in last every day, thanks for asking. But when I did the peer to pub, I beat 36 other people. So, if you have a small person in your life,

who is always picked last? And they come home, clutching a swim-a-thons form. Sponsor them at your peril. That was Claire Walder. After growing up in a dusty, small country town, Claire ran away to Melbourne, where she says she became her best self. She works in a library, bicycles,

and loves to talk and learn about all different things. In case you're wondering, Claire's dad never made the mistake of sponsoring his tenacious daughter again. She told us it was a rough and ready upbringing at times and has stood me in good stead throughout the years. She was, he says, the best dad for her. Claire's next deep end? My next challenge is working out what I want to do with the next part of my life. I'm volunteering at a food share and a bush care group and I'm looking forward to seeing what other opportunities. I can find.

I don't really care if people underestimate me. I know what I'm capable of, and those that know me never doubt me. If you have a story about the time you were thrown into the deep end or any great story about your life, pitch it to us. You can do that on our website, the moth.org, or call 877-799 moth. Again, 877-7-999 Moth.

You can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive. You can buy tickets to Moth storytelling events in your area. You'll find out about all of that through our website, The Moth.org. There are moth events year-round. You can find a show near you and come out and tell a story. Next up is Maitrang Nguyen, who told her story at a Moth Grand Slam in Washington, D.C. Here's me Tring, live at the Lincoln Theater. When the pandemic shutdowns happened, my dad had recently passed away.

It was sudden in the middle of a fight with cancer. And my elderly mom was so deep in her grief. She was not accepting any help or support from any of us. I was working from home full time with two teenage daughters, also stuck inside, in a small house with an open floor plan. It was rough. So when the universe offers you a gift, you take it right away, right?

And my pandemic gift came in the form of an offer from our dear friends and next-door neighbors. They were going to ride out the pandemic shutdowns at a second home in Tennessee. They wanted to know if I wanted to use their adorable, sunny, cute little laundry room as my home office. There was one catch.

they asked if I could watch their lizards. Now, I hate hate reptiles. It's just been a phobia I've had since a child. It's embarrassing to talk about because it's completely irrational, but it's very intense. And right there, in my sunny pandemic oasis,

was a tank with two elderly bearded dragon lizards. And, I mean, I've always been scared of them. They were always frowning and giving me a side eye. I tried feeding them a few times. I wore these huge contracting gloves and used chopsticks, so I didn't have to touch anything. And they were so old.

They just always looked dead. They weren't breathing. They weren't moving. They just always looked like they were dead. So I'm not going to lie, those first couple of days in that office were a little rough. Okay, think about it. I'm back there, eight, nine hours a day, three feet from a tank of lizards and a laptop.

I know nothing about reptile, health, behavior. So I'm just Googling everything. Like, why are they turning orange? Like, why is their face coming off? Should I help peel their face off? Do lizards need lotion? And then feeding them was so hard. They're just so old. Like, the worms would just jump out of their mouth and, like, run away and escape. I'm like, do lizards need dentures? Is there insurer for lizards? Like, why is this so hard? But after a little while, we, kind of fell into a rhythm and I would get there in the morning, think they were dead

and when I jumped on my first Zoom call and started talking they'd hear my voice and they'd kind of wake up and start moving around a little bit, which was kind of cute. And then I finally mustered up the courage to just pick them up with my bare hands and when I

did it, I really looked at one of them and it was just so old and fragile with this delicate bones and papery skin And that side I looked wise to me and knowing. And at that moment, I decided I was going to be the best elderly lizard caregiver ever. Ever.

I gave them baths. I took them out in the yard. Their skin and color started to look amazing. I figured out how to feed them. Like, I came up with all these techniques, and every time they successfully chomped alive, warm to dead. I would snapchat it to my family with heart emojis and party hands. They were horrified.

They were like completely horrified. I feel like the pandemic, like I reached a turning point when there was just, I don't know, there was tension in the house, yelling, stress. And I just remember leaving the house, it was night. And the next thing I know, I was having a martini with the lizards. I mean, please think about this for one minute. I was having a drink with Onyx and Jade. And then one week, Jade kind of started to slow down.

She was getting pale. None of my lizard caregiving tricks were working. And one night, I had been trying to feed her for like an hour after days of her not eating. And she kind of just put her head down and crashed. So I gently put her back in the tank and the next morning she hadn't moved. And she had died. and my worst elderly caregiving fear had come true again. My poor neighbors, they were consoling me, which is ridiculous,

because this was their lizard. They were like, no, it's okay. Thank you so much. We really appreciate it. Also, you know, she got a great life. Can you also dig a little hole next to the garage and kind of handle that? I get it, you know. I get it.

It wasn't my fault. I shouldn't feel guilty. And, you know, I need to just accept that dying is a part of living. It's not something to be constantly fought and feared. So the next time I saw my mom, we were all stressing out about her nutrition. It didn't seem like she was eating. And I just decided I was going to drop it and hang out. And I noticed her feet were looking very neglected.

I needed some TLC. So I decided to give her a pedicure. So I put that warm, soapy water on her feet and rubbed it. and she kind of perked up, and I massage lotion into her toes, and she was just so happy. And I held her feet in my hands, and they were just so old and fragile, with delicate bones and papery skin.

This is a life that has been very full and lived in those feet, and still living. And in that moment, I just had this moment of total gratitude and understanding. So when I ask myself how I made it through this pandemic, I have to smile inside because I changed, and I love, love lizards. Netang Wynne is a public interest lawyer living in Washington, D.C.

She tells us she's currently avoiding the news and choosing to embrace and lift up the things that bring her joy. Her daughters and husband, visual art, theater, principal leaders, poetry, friends, and shared meals. Her best ideas and stories come while training for marathons, and you'll find her on the streets and trails of D.C. working things out with every mile. We ask me during what her current deep end is. I think the deep end I face during the pandemic is the same fear I face in the future,

the loss of people and things I love. Because death is the only certainty in life, I'll keep reminding myself to face loss with courage, and gratitude for all that is good in the present moment. Shosa told us that after this story, she continued to lizard sit whenever needed, including when Onyx died. My neighbor hesitated to ask me to care for her,

knowing she was in her final days and how her sister's death had affected me. He trusted his instincts, though, and asked me to care for her anyway, suggesting it might provide a poetic bookend, he said, to my lizard story. He was right, and I'm truly grateful I was with Onyx when she passed,

just as I had been with Jade. Finally, she told this. As my mother's health declined in everyone's lives returned to normal, I tried to bring my mom small moments of joy when I was with her. I sought closeness through touch and pedicures, gentle leg massages and trimming her hair. I learned to cook her favorite Vietnamese dishes. I shared stories of her remarkable life with my daughters.

And we took walks together. And I named all the ways she shaped me and the people and places she touched. When we return, a young woman does a trial run before leaving the nest. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public. media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Allison.

Our final story in the show about Deep Ends comes from Ianna Banfield. We met Ianna through our education program, which creates space for students to listen, celebrate each other's voices, and tell their own stories. She told this version of her story at our annual gala called The Moth Ball. Here's Iiana.

I am 17 years old and I have never been anywhere without my mom. Now, I know that sounds ridiculous because, you know, I still have to go to school and stuff, right? Well, even when I am not with my mom, I am with my mom. I could be hanging out with my friends in an area that has nothing to do with where my mom should be. And when the hangout ends, my friends ask me, oh, what train are you taking? And I'm like, my mom is in a deli that's about a block away from here, so I'm just going to meet up with her. And they're like, are you serious? How does your mom always manage to know exactly where you are and the exact right time to pick you up?

Is she psychic or something? I'm like, yes, because she has to be. I am her only child. I have around 14 food allergies. I'm a severe asthmatic, and I've had more near-death experience. experiences than the typical human being. So obviously if something were to go wrong, my mom needs to valiantly bolt out of the nearest deli with an epipen to come to my rescue.

It's pretty simple. Yet even when I explained this to my friends numerous times on numerous occasions, they would always follow up with the same irritating warning that soon I'll be going off to college and my mom will be able to hide in a nearby deli on campus to come to my rescue. But I liked how things were, and I know I would be fine. Plus, there are a lot of delis nearby that my mom can hide in. I'm sure there are. So I just accepted that my first time being away from my mom would be when I go off to college.

However, my guidance counselor decided to test this theory a little early. So she announced that we would be having an overnight field trip to Washington, D.C., which is about maybe five, six hours away from New York City, which means that if something were to go wrong, my mom can't pop out of the nearest deli to save me. I was excited. I saw this as a test and a chance to finally prove to everyone that I can be independent. So I signed up, I packed my bags,

and then three weeks later, I was on the road to Washington, D.C. So when we first arrived, everything was pretty typical. It just felt like when I would hang out with my friends back in New York. However, I will admit that when the sun started setting, it felt odd because this was a time where I would normally say goodbye to my friends and then go see my mother. But instead, I was not going back to my mother. I was going to a hotel.

And when we pulled up to this hotel, it wasn't really giving the warm, friendly, welcoming vibes that a hotel should give. It was very eerie. The paint was peeling off the walls. The hosts were giving us like weird grimacing looks. And like it looked kind of like if the Adams family decided to open up a hotel. That's the best way that I could describe it.

And my guidance counselor arranged for us all to be on the third floor because that's where the surveillance camera. were and that's where she would basically keep an eye on us to make sure that we don't step out of line. But when we got to this third floor, there was this insufferable smell of cigar smoke everywhere that we wet. And as I mentioned previously, I have really bad asthma. So I was not having it. And my friends, they did not want to smell cigar smoke while they were trying to go to sleep. So we told our guidance counselor that we want to be moved to another room. However, the whole entire floor smelled like smoke and there were no rooms available. So my guidance

counselor trusted us enough to move us to the second floor, which was where all the guests were and basically no none of the supervisors are going to be there. It was going to be like we were completely on our own because our guidance counselor was going to be upstairs and there were no people around to make sure that we don't step out of line down there. So my friends and I, we would excited because we felt like we were real grown-ups. We were the cool teenagers who were going to be on our own and who could stay up an hour past curfew. So that's basically what we did.

We stayed up an hour past curfew. We threw around more jokes about the hotel. And finally, we got a little bit tired and decided to go to sleep. So as I was resting my head on the pillow and about to drift to my dreams, One thought came to my mind. I was like, this independence thing isn't so bad. I don't know what anyone is talking about. And finally, I drifted to sleep.

So a few hours later, I'm in my dreams. You know, I'm vibing. I'm having a good time. And then suddenly, I hear this strange sound. It's like, what is that? Then I smell the familiar scent of smoke. And I'm like, wait, what is that? And so I get up, I'm like, what's happening?

What's happening? I look around, I see my friends, our hair is all crazy, everyone's all disheveled. I look next to me, and I see that the clock says five in the morning, and then someone yells, fire. And the first thought that came to my mind was, oh, my God, I should have never left my mom. I am never leaving my mom again. frantically move in. I'll come to my rescue. But there is no deli, and there is no mom.

There's just me and my friends. So I knew that it was up to me to get out of here. So quickly, I don't waste a single second. I grab my bag because I know that has my phone, my pump, and basically everything I need. My friends and I take one look at each other and we just bolt out of the door. And we bolt out of the door. We see that all the smoke rising, it's getting thicker, it's hard to see. And I feel the dread pulling up within me, but I push it down because I'm just trying to focus on getting the heck out of there.

So we run down what feels like endless flights of stairs so that we can get to the nearest exit, which leads to the lobby, which we were hoping would lead to the actual exit where we would escape the hotel. So we run to the door, and finally after taking a few turns, we see it at the end, and we're celebrating. We're like, oh my God, we're making it, we're making it. So we run fast. My front pushes the door. The door doesn't budge. The door is locked.

And I see the smoke rising higher and higher. It's getting harder to breathe. And I look around. There's no other way out. And I know that if, God forbid, we were stuck here, I would be the first one dead because my asthma and it just seemed like the world was always plotting against me. So I knew that I needed to find another way. And then just then, a light bulb flashed over my head.

I remember that earlier while my friends were exploring the creepy hotel and making fun of it, there was an exit, like kind of in the stairwell. It was hidden in some weird creepy corner. I mean, it was like some fire escape clearly, so it should have been in plain sight, but it happened that way that it was in the corner. So I tell my friends, I'm like, we have to go there.

And so we're crossing our fingers and praying, and we run to that area, hoping that that will be our way out. And finally, we see it in the corner. My friend runs towards it. She pushes it open. The door opens. The wind rushes our faces, fresh air graces our lungs, and we're safe.

And I look around and I see the familiar faces of my classmates. I see the guidance counselors. Everyone's okay. No one got hurt. And firefighters come and extinguish the fire. Turns out it was some idiot who decided that it was a good idea to bake foil paper in the microwave five in the morning or something, I don't know. But as I'm standing there, bewildered at the fact that just 10 minutes ago I was fast to

sleep, I realized that I made it out of that fire. And yes, I was scared, and yes, my mom wasn't there, but I took care of myself. I took initiative, and I'm alive. So if I could survive a fire and a sketchy motel in Washington, D.C. without my mom, then I could survive just about anything. Thank you. At the time of this recording, Deanna Banfield is currently a rising college junior from Brooklyn, New York. We asked her how college is treating her so far,

and she said she admitted that she probably cried herself to sleep almost every night during orientation, because she couldn't envision being on her own for such a long period of time. But she learned to navigate the campus, handle sticky situations, and says she's grown into an adult who takes initiative. She tells us her next deep end is graduating from college. Being a student has become part of my identity. I don't know a world without this lifestyle. I can't predict what awaits me during this upcoming chapter of my life,

what job I'm going to take on, where my future home will be, and how I'll turn out overall. But I have confidence that, even if things might not come to me right away, I'll persevere against whatever obstacles are thrown at me and fulfill my dreams. Adjusting is a part of the journey. That's it for this hour of deep end stories. I can tell you what my deep end is these days, mine, along with all my colleagues. It's where we find our beloved institution of public broadcasting, which has been thrown into the deep end. Public radio, it must be said, is only partially about politics. It's mainly about education, music, exploring other cultures, history, scientific discovery, really the full humanity of ourselves and our listeners.

And it's about story. So, no matter what happens, we will keep going, never mind the deep end. We're determined to hold to our ideals. And if that sounds good to you, stick with us. We can use all the company we can get in the deep end. Until next time, that's the story from The Moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer, Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Jody Powell, with additional Grand Slam coaching by Michelle Jolowski,

and education program instruction by Julian Goldhagen and Shana Creamy. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Clucay, Sarah Austin Janice, Jennifer Hickson, Jordan Cardinale, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Eureña. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the drift, other music in this hour from Tall Bird, Phil Cook, Charles Berto, Ariel Besson, and Lyle Brewer. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey,

including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us, your own story, and to learn all about the moth. Go to our website, the moth.org. Ever listen to The moth and thought, I have a story to tell.

We'd love to hear it. The moth pitch line is your chance, to share a two-minute pitch of your true personal story. Record it right on our site at the moth.org or call 877-799 moth. That's 877-999-999-66-84. Here's the thing. We listen to every single pitch. Your story could end up on our podcast, our stage, or inspiring someone who needs to hear it.

Share your story at the moth.org or call 877-999 moth. Everyone has a story worth telling. Tell us yours. Thank you.