Responsibility is ironic. It can lead to neglect.

I’ve been so caught up with achieving personal success, I fear I may have neglected things even more important to me: the people I love and care about.

I’ve always had an overwhelming desire for my family to be proud of me and impressed with my accomplishments. My friends and I have always been driving forces, encouraging each other to work hard and become the nurses, teachers, psychologists, actors, dancers, physical therapists, FBI agents, journalists, or whatevers we’ve wanted to be.

I spend so much time working for this newspaper, studying and trying to ensure I will deserve and find something worthwhile when I graduate, that I neglect informing those who are important to me how important they are.

My ambition has caused such a distraction, that I’m scared I’ve missed out on many more significant things.

I’m a junior and I haven’t experienced the youthful fun of college life. I’ve stayed in weekend after weekend to study. I’ve avoided dating that had potential to be meaningful so I wouldn’t be distracted or get hurt. I’ve left Easter dinner early, missed birthdays, sporting events, dance and theatre performances and cut phone calls short.

I want my family to know how much I love them- to be aware how thankful I am for all they’ve done for me. I want my friends to know they make me proud. I want everyone I care about to know how special they are to me.

I want my grandpa to know I made my way through 12 years of math because he helped me understand the basics. I want him to be aware my interest in journalism came partly from climbing into the recliner with him after school as he read each afternoon’s paper. I want him to know how motivating his “$1 an A” policy has been throughout the course of my education.

I want him to know I still sleep with the bear he gave me when I was 4 years old and sick in the hospital.

I hope my grandma knows I remember her powdering my nose, spraying me with her treasured Chanel No. 5 perfume and letting me wear her pink lipstick. Does she know I cry every time I watch Deborah Kerr look up at the Empire State Building where Cary Grant is waiting in “An Affair to Remember,” my favorite love story she introduced me to?

I want her to know I look forward to the cards and letters she sends me in the mail and her offering me every smidgen of food in her house whenever I come home. I want them both to know I’m grateful I could “run away” down the street to their house for cookies when things weren’t going my way at home.

I fear my mom doesn’t know I’m thankful for all she’s done for me and envious of her strength. I admire how easily she fixes things. I want her to know my obnoxiously independent nature comes from a desire to take advantage of opportunities she didn’t have at my age.

I want my dad to know I remember wearing my yellow “fishing hat” in the boat, paying more attention to the water lilies than the walleyes I called “army fish” because they looked camouflaged. I want him to know I treasure the artistic vision I inherited and our talks about The Rolling Stones and Pink Floyd.

I want my parents to know what the love they share has taught me.

I want my oldest brother to know how much his protection has meant and how sorry I am for the times I picked up the other phone extension to eavesdrop when he was 17 and I was 10.

I want Zach, who’s 12, to know I’m proud of the person he’s growing up to be.

I want my 5-year-old brother Mick to know I enjoy teaching him to climb fences and wish I could play more games with him.

I sincerely hope my friends know I love growing older with them, they mean the world to me and I wish I had more time to have fun with them.

I want to take chances and open up to the new guy in my life.

I want to enjoy everything life has to offer, and let everyone important along the way know their significance.

Is that so irresponsible?