When I was growing up, I felt like frosting without the cake—and not great frosting at that. I knew I was pretty because I saw it in the mirror sometimes. (Although I felt that the image stayed right there every time I walked away.) And I knew I wasn't stupid.
But I also knew that I was different than most of the other kids, and never really fit in. Most of them saw it, too. How could they not when, even as a four year old, I looked pulled together and sophisticated while everyone else looked cute and adorable? And when they knew how to play, while I was more comfortable around adults?
I never told anyone, but I was sure there was something wrong with me. I just didn't know what. So I went to writing, painting, music—all of the arts—to find out, and to make whatever it was better. In the meantime, I tried to wear my insecurities on the inside where, hopefully, no one could see them. And hung onto my privacy like a life raft until some day when, finally, I would emerge fully and perfectly formed.
Seeing that my most heinous act was stealing rhubarb from a neighbor's garden when I was five years old, I've gradually moved away from caring too much about what others think of me. And to moving into who I am.
I'm still moving in. And always will. But now? I'm also taking time to play.