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I am the cell of my mother in her mother’s womb.
I am the baby born in a winter storm.
I am the young child who grew up in a house that was the third in the neighborhood, who rode bikes in the street, and played in empty lots.
I am the quiet, glasses-wearing, brace-face middle school girl caught reading a book during class.
I am the Catholic schoolgirl, praying to God, afraid of doing something bad.
I am the dancer on a stage.
I am the suicidal, angry, can’t tell me sh*t teenager.
I am the cashier ringing out your groceries and your clothes.
I am the server bringing your food and your drinks.
I am the girl who has more guy friends, who thinks girls are “too much drama.”
I am the 21-year-old artist who ran away to the windy city not knowing a soul.
I am the photographer taking pictures to tell a story.
I am the drunk who stayed ’til bar close, priding myself on drinking more than others, who felt I needed alcohol to be “outgoing,” to numb my feelings, and to be comfortable during sex.
I am the 23-year-old woman who searched for love and worth in between the sheets of men.
I am the independent woman who only asks for help if it’s my last resort, and will struggle to trust you.
I am the overachieving, hardworking, never take a break woman, and I am the one who sits in front of the TV for hours.
I am the 27-year-old leaving the country for the first time, walking barefoot, seeing a new way of being, living out of a suitcase.
I am a yoga teacher.
I am an entrepreneur.
I am the woman sitting in circles with other women and seeing myself in them.
I am their advocate.
I am the one watching my thoughts.
I am the 30-year-old woman speaking my truth who is singing, dancing, creating, and breathing.
I am the one who can make you laugh ’til you cry, and also make you mad as hell.
I am a daughter, sister, cousin, lover, and friend.
I am the woman learning how to be more embodied and alive.
There are layers and facets to me.
I may change my mind tomorrow.
I am not one thing, but all things.

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