The Price of Belonging

learned to perform so well that I forgot who I was. I made friends. I wore dresses that didn’t feel like me. I starved my body and my soul, shrinking myself into a shape that would be accepted.

I was praised for it. I was wanted.

But I was also gone.

I remember the day I sat in a dorm room, trying to write a paper and instead planning how I’d die. Not out of rage, not out of drama—just a soft longing to disappear.

I was so good at hiding, even from myself.

The only thing that kept me was a whisper I didn’t recognize yet: You are not done becoming.