I had let the fear of not fitting in blind me from what really mattered. “I hurt you, and I’m sorry. Being in a popular club is not worth losing you,” I told Natasha. She opened the door, and let me in her house. We cried, then laughed, and promised we’d be braver in groups from then on.
Soon, we join the school orchestra; she plays alto saxophone and I play trumpet. We meet three new friends: Teza (flute), Alli (violin), and Jill (trombone). With them, I am relaxed, even funny, totally myself. Around everyone else, I’m nervous and I pretend to be someone I’m not. I steal candy and smokes from the neighborhood store because I want everyone to think I’m cool. But with Alli, Teza, Jill, and Natasha, I am truly brave. I am vulnerable, nerdy, and square. I even read Jane Austen books in front of them. There is no pressure to perform, no expectation to be cool, no need to be perfect.
When I am with these true girlfriends, my inner voice is louder than Fear’s voice. That inner voice says, Write poetry. Return the things you stole. Be there for someone who needs help. Run because you love to run. There is a power here that feels different than when I am motivated by anxiety or praise. It feels bigger, lighter, and freer.
Together, we are more powerful than alone. We make things happen. We run for student council. When we want to do something for the school, we go into the closet at the back of the cafeteria, our office, and plan it out. When a tornado strikes a small town nearby, we break several school rules to launch a giant fundraiser. We don’t put limits on ourselves.
When some friends of ours complain that they are afraid to go into the ravine near the school because of a “violent gang” that hangs out there, we march into the ravine and make friends with the gang. They were not violent. They were just a bunch of boys who looked different and dressed differently. They had been told enough times that they were stupid and didn’t belong, so they started to believe it. They stopped going to school. They hung out in the ravine, smoking cigarettes and acting tough. All we had to do was be brave enough to reach out and let them talk. We listened to their stories. And we kept showing up in the ravine, inviting them to be our friends. Eventually, they agreed. Soon the ravine was a place we’d all go to climb trees, play music, and place branches across the creek to build bridges.
The problem is not that things aren’t going well. The problem is that I have learned somewhere that more is better. I am doing too many things. I am pulled in so many directions that I forget to pause and recover. I’m a straight-A student, second trumpet in the band, and a star on the track team. I have medals and awards hanging on my bedroom wall: fastest 800-meter run, fastest 1500-meter run, best speech, French prize, valedictorian. Plus, I am chosen to be in the high school musical as an 8th grader. I love it all. I don’t want to give up anything. But it’s taking a toll. I’m sick a lot.
Already this year I’ve had bronchitis and now the doctor says I have pneumonia. Why does my body hate me? None of the other kids get sick. I must be weak. I am coughing so much my ribs and shoulders ache. “She should stay home from school for at least a week,” the doctor says. I can’t miss a day. I’ll be so far behind that I’ll never catch up. My mom tucks me into bed. Then she leaves for work. I feel terrible, and I don’t mean the coughing. I feel like I am letting everyone down. Plus, I may lose my spot in the play if I miss a practice. When I can’t take lying there any longer, I sneak out of the house. My mom comes home from work to find me gone. She searches everywhere, and calls Natasha and Jill. Then she comes to the high school auditorium to take me away. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want my mom to be here. This is embarrassing. I make myself as small as I can behind a fake rock on stage. But then I give myself away when I have a coughing fit. She walks on stage and drags me home.
“Why didn’t you stay in bed?” she asks, worried.
“Mr. P doesn’t like the kids who miss rehearsal.”
“I can’t stop you. Pneumonia can’t stop you. What is it going to take to slow you down?” My mom asks.
I don’t even understand the question.
#
I am sixteen. I love poetry and writing. When I write, I know what I think. I understand how I feel. It brings order to my chaotic mind. I fill pages and pages of my black, hardcover journal with my poems. I also have a crush on a boy. We are studying together at the library. I open my journal and decide to leave it open when I get up to go to the bathroom. Maybe he’ll read my poems and fall in love with my words. When I return, he is gone. In the margins of one of my poems, he has written, “If there is an original thought in here somewhere, I can’t find it.” I can’t breathe. It feels like someone dropped a bookcase on my chest. How could I be so stupid? I stop writing. I will never write again. He’s right. It has all been said before. I slide the journal in a box and seal the lid, then bring the box to Dad’s garage. I place all my other journals in cardboard boxes and stack them on top of one another. I will never share my personal writing again.
Then one night I stay awake past one in the morning while my family sleeps. I am working on an essay for history and I keep rewriting the first paragraph. I can’t get it right. I don’t have anything original to say. Even though I have an A in the class, it feels like I’m going to fail. So I sneak into my brother’s room while he is sleeping and open his bottom drawer. I pull out a stack of papers: math tests, science projects, English assignments, and a history essay on the civil rights era. I flip through it to the last page. A teacher has written in bold cursive, “Excellent! A.” I see a way to get the grade I need. You can’t do that! I immediately think. I wouldn’t have to if the teachers weren’t working me so hard, I counter. It’s their fault I’m so tired, I say to justify my actions. It’s their fault I can’t write my own essay. I have no choice.
I read through my brother’s work. It’s really good. My teacher will be impressed. And since my brother goes to a private school across town, my public-school teacher will never know.
I walk back upstairs to my room. I start copying the essay, word for word, onto a fresh sheet of paper. Weeks later, my teacher hands back the essay. He has written in all caps, “ORIGINAL! A+” I am elated. Then I remember it’s not my work at all. My mood caves. I am not an original. How do I tell the truth? I want to roll back the clock, do it over, confess to my teacher. But Fear says, “Then everyone will know the real truth: that you are a fraud.” I burn the essay. No one will know who I really am.
#
I am nineteen. I go to school at an elite college in the Northeast. On the outside, I am effortlessly cool. On the inside, I’m convinced that I don’t deserve to be here. I don’t have what it takes. I believe the college made a mistake, or maybe I got in only because I added geographic diversity. I miss my friends from home: Natasha, Teza, Alli, and Jill. We are scattered across North America at different schools, and my confidence feels scattered too. I learn to read others and assess quickly who they are and what they want. It helps me get into upper level classes and frat parties, but I haven’t learned to read myself. I don’t know who I am; I am too busy trying to impress others.
The voice of Fear says to me constantly, “You’re not enough. Someone else is smarter, faster, prettier, more motivated.” I hear it in class, in the hallway of my dormitory, in the locker room. I try to drown out Fear’s voice with more accomplishments. I get As. I set records on the track.
I lead several clubs.
But I can’t seem to write a ten-page paper for a literature class on a subject I love. It’s three days overdue. My professor calls me to his office and says, “Everyone has turned theirs in, except you. Have you started?”
“How can I start if I don’t know what I’m going to say?”
“Oh, I see. You want it to be perfect even before
