Over the course of a year, I have told my therapist, my best friends, my teammates, some close friends, some classmates, and my favorite dance teacher. I had made great progress, but my parents didn’t make the list; I had yet to find a time and way to break the news. Part of me knew that I couldn’t tell them yet, I had struggled with maintaining a decent relationship before, how would I go about it after they knew. My mom, I’m almost certain, would ask a thousand questions, but the real issue lied in the hands of my dad. We were never close, but I feared the news, that I had yet to share, would drive us further apart; I couldn’t afford to lose another relationship. I thought up many ways that I would tell them: over text the easy way, a letter more personal, In person wow... I am so far from ready for them to know. Nothing seemed like the right thing to say. I knew I sought their approval and acceptance, but they didn’t.

When I was six, I knew who I was. I was the kid who had moved from Tennessee to Michigan because her parents’ jobs transferred them. I was the kid who made friends easily and the kid who was always talking. I made good friends with all the older kids, they were always better than people my own age. It was the ordinary life a six-year-old. It was not confusing; it just was.

At eight, my life was simple. I was in third grade with most of the people who were in my second or first-grade class. I was the kid who thought a lot about what she was going to do or say before she did or said it. I was the kid who talked to the teacher every day. That teacher became one of my best friends and encouragers. I found comfort in knowing she cared when many others had failed to.

At thirteen, I was insecure. I was the girl who hung out with people who didn’t even like her. I didn’t know it at the time, but I wanted desperately to be accepted by them. I was the girl who would do anything to have their attention. I started doing things, that twelve-year-old me would be appalled by--ignoring my friends, lying to my parents, losing focus in school, being disrespectful in class-- and my friends noticed. They told me I had changed; I never listened. They told me I didn’t talk to them anymore, and I wouldn’t respond. They told me they missed me, and I said I didn’t. A few months later, I would pass the same girls, that I had called my friends, pretending that we had never met each other before. I realized they weren’t my friends.

At fifteen, I was confused. I was now the person who felt lost. The friends I had previously had didn’t talk to me anymore, for good reason. And without friends I was left a lot of time to myself, I began to think about my life, a lot more than anyone should think about their life. I had high expectations because I knew who I used to be. I thought I would always know who I was and who I wanted to be, I was only ever told that it was normal for a teenager. After all, I appeared as if I were an ordinary teenager, who had an ordinary high school experience and an ordinary strained relationship with my parents. But I put myself above ordinary, I told myself that I was different than most teenagers. I did not know it at the time, but what I struggled with lied beyond those of what most people could understand.

At sixteen, I was quiet. I was the girl who didn’t talk. I preferred to listen, it was easier and there was always more to learn. I was the person who started to understand who I was. Everything began to make sense, and It was the beginning of a long life of learning to be okay with who I am. I spent many hours journaling and many late hours staring at my ceiling because I was too worked up to go to bed. I spent so much time wanting nothing more than to be able to change who I was, and it consumed me. I had grown up so sure of myself and anything otherwise was overwhelming. I wanted to be like everyone else, to be normal. But I wasn’t. I had pondered this idea of who I was for years, going back and forth: yes, no, yes, no...yes, no, and finally I ended with a yes. The end of the hardest part of my journey that I would face was there.

I soon realized that it was only the end of the beginning. Just because I was okay with it did not guarantee that other people would feel the same. I understood that I was unable to change that part of me, but I also understood that it was always a part of me even when I did not know it. I knew I was still the same person, the problem was that everyone else does not. I spent many nights fretting over their supposed reactions. Will they treat me differently? How will they react? Will they think of me differently? I had more worries than I wanted to admit to. As time passed, I went against everything I felt and told my best friend. One friend turned into another, and another, until it became many friends. In sharing this, I became more comfortable. But as comfortable as I was telling others, the thought of telling my parents made me sick.

A year has passed and I am still the scared person that I was a year ago. I am still reserved, and I am still different. My parents have yet to find out, and I find myself seeking acceptance from others. Sometimes I wish I was the carefree six-year-old, who played with her friends outside every day. And yet I still prefer to listen and observe those around me. I am still trying to find a middle ground with six-year-old me and current me. A version of me where the world and my parents know who I am, and when people ask, I won’t be afraid of their reaction, even if I know it won’t be encouraging. Where I will spend less time listening, and a little more talking. I am not quite there yet, but someday I will be. When I get there I will still have days that I need to seek reassurance from my friend and family, but for the most part, I will have learned to live life for me and that I am better because of who I am. Even if I could change who I am, I wouldn’t.