Starting in kindergarten, I was always at the end of the height line. At that age, though, no one was tall so two inches didn’t matter. In fourth and fifth grade when other kids were getting growth spurts and I was growing inches at a time, I was disappointed, peering up at people was getting old. Still not bothered, though, I would get tall later. Middle school came and I was going to grow...hopefully. I exhausted all my options of helping myself grow, I ate veggies, drank milk, I hung from the monkey bars on the playground to stretch myself. None of these were effective. By the end of eighth grade I had accepted the fact that I was going to be short my whole life.

I once read that playing sports stretches muscles and causes you to grow. I played sports my whole life which meant one of two things: 1. the article was lying, or 2) I had a disease that prevented growth. The second seemed more logical considering my history.

By my freshman year I was used to being short. During a field hockey drill me and another small friend were on the same team. Since we were both short, “The Littles” were born. The name was catchy, easy to remember and fun to say. Since then, all my sports teams have called me “Little” or “Litt.” Little did I know—no pun intended—that I didn’t need to try so hard to grow, I just needed to be patient. Being short got me a nickname that I like and that I’m known for.