The female ruler of an independent state, especially one who inherits the position by right of birth.

A queen, by definition, I am not.

I do not rule over anything—land or people—nor do I have the desire to. My power comes from within and is constant, even when it seems I am broken.

I do not have a right of birth. Second born, and adopted in, no inheritance awaits. My worth comes from within and is constant, even when it seems I have nothing.

I do not command a room upon entering. In fact, I am the girl who quickly makes her way to the corner, by the bar, and pretends to be on her phone when the other lonely patrons—just as uncomfortable with social gatherings—ask why she is there. My presence comes from within and is constant, even when it seems I am invisible.

I do not draw attention when I speak to a group of my peers. I try to make jokes, and they undoubtedly fall flat, each time. Without a microphone, no one could hear me, and I prefer it that way. My voice comes from within and is constant, even when it seems I have nothing to say.

I do not reside in a palace. My humble apartment is just that—quiet and small, but full of life and a very excitable dog. My body is my temple and is constant, even when I am inconsistent in caring for her.

I do not view others as peasants or minions to do my bidding. I am amazed each day at how much more intelligent my closest friends and family members are than I, and truly am humbled to be in their presence. My mind is my servant and is constant, even when she wanders away.

A queen, by definition, I am not—but I hold the power to change my world. My courage comes from within and is constant, even when it has been a poor showing of a day.

There is always more to see. Here’s to a brighter tomorrow.