Entering the room, it was more elegant and less foreboding than I had anticipated. It felt like we were being swallowed whole by a tree, every surface was smooth mahogany, polished to perfection. Most of the benches were already filled, but we found three spots together and settled in. A man in uniform was reading off names, the owners of which would stand and move to the front to stand before the judge. He wasn’t intimidating, the way you may imagine. His face bore a wide smile, contradicting the atmosphere the rest of the building exuded. Today was his favorite type of day, you could just tell by the softness behind his eyes.

When they finally called our names, I could feel the awkwardness in the room. I stood at least two feet taller than most of the people there that day and I knew people were watching us, wondering why we were here. Standing before the podium where the judge sat, one of the few things in the room that rose above my own height, I felt my heart begin to quicken as if it was going to escape my ribcage, spill into the room and reveal itself to the congregation.

The judge spoke his script, and we spoke ours. Freedom of speech may be a right in this country, but in a courtroom, there is a protocol to follow. My voice wavered, not because of uncertainty, but out of relief. For most of my life, this moment was one I had eagerly wished for. It was the moment I would finally be free, the moment that would change everything.

Six months earlier, I had celebrated my eighteenth birthday at my favorite restaurant surrounding by my entire family. After the meal, the cake, and too many presents that were truly necessary, my mom had handed me the final gift of the day. It was a thin manila envelope and I looked at her curiously as she delivered it. I could tell by the look in her eye this was going to be something incredible but had no concept of what it may be. Maybe plane tickets somewhere exotic for the upcoming summer, before I left for college. It could have been some tickets for all of us to go see an amazing play.

My mom had always been a skilled gift-giver, not only because she always knew exactly what we wanted but she had a flair for how she delivered the treat. One Christmas, my sister had been dying for a pair of Ugg boots and, that morning, my mom handed her a single card with a clue written inside - she was being sent on a scavenger hunt around the house. The hunt lasted at least 20 minutes with my sister giggling and running around finding the next clue, and then the next until she found the boots hidden on a stuffed animal and screamed with excitement.

That day, as she passed me the envelope, I knew this gift was going to be something I wanted more than anything and still had no clue what that could be. I opened it carefully, slowly bending the metal prongs and gently removing the papers it contained. Scanning the documents, I only grew more confused. I saw my name and then my parent’s names and then a single word that made everything clear - “Adoption.” After living with my aunt & uncle on and off for years and considering them my parents, I was actually going to be adopted.

When I was around fifteen was the first time I asked them if I could call the “mom” and “dad,” and although they had agreed, they had also explained I couldn’t be adopted, not yet at least. If we had pursued adoption while I was still a minor, my birth mother, who was my aunt’s big sister, could fight us to regain custody of me. The idea of returning to her world devastated me, and the fact that she was still keeping me from what I truly wanted was just another reason to add to the long list of reasons I despised her. But I knew they were right, so I settled for just the titles - “mom” and “dad.” That’s who they were to me and that was all that really mattered.

Eighteenth birthdays are important for so many reasons. Becoming a legal adult, leaving home for new adventures, and, for me, legally becoming a part of the family I adored. Six months later, when we stepped into that courtroom, I towered above most everyone else because, one, I was always tall for a girl at five foot nine inches. And two, most of the others in attendance were younger than ten years old. I envied each of them for joining their families at such a young age. Looking back, I hope they know how lucky they were to have that chance.

When the judge asked us if we condoned this arrangement, we excitedly agreed. Then, per tradition, he invited me to select a stuffed animal from the box of donated toys. Initially, I nearly declined, it seemed silly for me, an adult, to take a toy that was intended for the little ones in the room. But my dad stopped me and said, “Take one, this is our day too and you should have this reminder.” So I looked in the box and chose one that made us both laugh - it was a Garfield the cat stuffed animal with suction cups attached to each of his four paws so he could adhere to a window. And on his rear was a button that read, “Stuck on You,” with little hearts. I stuck it on the window in the backseat of my dad’s car on the way home and stared at it for the whole drive.

I lost my dad five years ago and recently found that Garfield stuffed toy in a an old box and when I looked at it, I could still hear his voice urging me to take a memento that day. He was right, and I still need that reminder in my life. It takes me back to the courtroom that day, squeezing both of their hands as they agreed to call me theirs for the rest of our days. It takes me back to the restaurant on my birthday when I first opened the envelope that changed everything. It takes me back to that day when I was fifteen and asked them for more than they could give me at the time. It takes me back to when I was still living with my birth mother, the day I ran to the payphone in a nearby park and made a phone call that redirected my life. The day I asked if I could live with them, not just while my birth mother was in jail, not just for a visit, but forever. They agreed without question because they were my parents even then, and parents always do what’s best for their children.

When I first met you, it felt like fate. I loved everything about you and couldn’t wait to spend every moment together. Your laugh was infectious and you were so enthusiastic and excited about everything this world has to offer. Everything about you was absolutely sincere and you had the biggest heart of anyone I have ever known.

Then, it seemed as if the world changed without telling you what it had it mind. You kept getting caught off guard by the cruelty of others and, over time, it begin chipping away at you. I always tried to be there, to reassure you that everything would be ok in the end, but could never quite convince you. You still laugh, only more weakly. You still get excited but it always seems like you temper it so you don’t come across as overeager. You have edited yourself to fit among everyone around you and they don’t notice, nor do they care, which only makes you continue to shrink against their presence.

I still love you. I still know you have that big heart that only wants the best for everyone else. When you share your meeker laugh now, I still hear your boisterous giggles. When you hold something that clearly amazes you and simply appreciate it, I still see the wonder exploding in your eyes. I still love you more than anything else in this world - It’s just that now I’m not sure you believe me when I say it.

I know nothing. Truthfully, the majority of the time, I have no idea what I’m talking about. But who really does? Sure, we can memorize facts and historical dates. We can study theories and mathematical equations. We can work so hard to be handed a piece of paper that anticlimactically declares us an expert in a particular field. But at the end of the day, what do we really know about this world we’re living in? About the people around us? About ourselves?

Nothing I can study can tell me why my neighbor hates the kid walking down the street just because of the color of his skin. Nothing can explain why my own mother thought I was less valid when I told her I was attracted to men and women. No one on this earth can justify why some of the best people I have ever met passed away long before their time yet the assholes I encounter every day still go around, healthy as ever.

Our environment and the people within it are constantly changing, always evolving. I can’t step into another person’s mind to understand their perspective. I can rationalize it, sure - my racist neighbor? Oh, he’s just old, things were different when he grew up, he just can’t accept the way things are today. But that’s just my own reasoning to understand on some level. I don’t actually know if that’s the case or if he’s just hateful or fearful for reasons he doesn’t even comprehend.

I barely know myself most days. I know I love horror movies and my favorite color is green. I know that I always try to be kind to those around me and I understand that sometimes I fail at it. I know my family is crazy and complicated but I wouldn’t be who I am without them in my life. I know that my experiences have molded me into the woman I see in the mirror every day. I have no idea who I will become tomorrow or how I may react to an attacker threatening my life or where this life will carry me. If they announce that World War III has started, will I take the time to be sure my neighbors can follow me to safety? Or will I run as fast as I can without looking back? If faced with the choice to sacrifice myself or a stranger, what would I decide? On a less severe note, if I was up for a promotion at work, would I sabotage my competition if they weren’t my friend? If I hadn’t had the experiences I have had, would I still be who I am today?

I have no fucking clue.

As I said, I know nothing. I know that I am here. I know that I am trying my best to do well and to do good. I know that I want to leave this world having improved it in the smallest way, if at all. I know that I love my people and that, most days, I love myself. I know that we can all do better and have hope that we will.

Beyond that? Your guess is as good as mine.

A town isn’t a living thing - not in the traditional sense. It doesn’t breathe, doesn’t eat, doesn’t speak, doesn’t feel. Yet it does exist and it can die. Its heartbeat is the presence of people. Its voice is that of the community they develop. And when the people abandon the town, it will die a slow and lonely death. It’s unclear if this town had ever lived. It seemed to have been born, yet still suspended in that brief second before it takes its first breath. The wooden constructs were rotting away after years of going untouched. The once vibrantly painted signs had faded away from decades of sunlight and no one to retouch them. The windows were no longer transparent but coated in thick blankets of dust. This town existed, there was no denying it. But this town had never lived.

Without any grand gesture, that all changed. It changed with a few clumsy footfalls as a woman stepped onto the road and her eyes fell upon the town for the first time. Her breaths were labored and her skin was dirty with a roadmap of blood streaks across it. Her feet were bare and cracked.

As her knees connected with the ground, the town finally took its first breath.

Breathless has become a constant state of existence. She hit the ground running when she entered the world, ready for whatever was next to come. Ready to learn, to grow, to know. Feeling like she was always on the edge of the next great thing, she continued pushing forward, hopeful to grasp the prize just past the finish line. But like the horse’s carrot, it remained just out of her reach and left her feeling endlessly breathless.

She was born into a happy home, but before she settled into the love, a storm hit that brought the roof down on their heads and the home was beyond repair. Her father was gone, torn away too soon, and although her mother remained she was unreachable - trapped behind an invisible wall where she couldn’t be touched. She was orphaned, only not in the traditional sense, not in a way understood by watching eyes. And so she dreamt of what was next and found hope in possibilities. She moved forward and forged her own strength, albeit unintentionally.

And she began to run. She ran from the chaos of her childhood and towards the independence of adolescence. When she found the independence to be too isolating, she kept running towards companions. But some companions are not worthy of trust and she didn’t see the warning signs until it was too late, and found herself in a lonelier space than she had started. She ran to start over, find new purpose and find a new tribe. She kept running because standing still meant defeat and that was the only unacceptable choice.

When you run with your mind, there are no external signs of the exertion. No sweat building on your brow and no labored breaths. No joint pain or sore muscles. The effort only impacts internally, challenging the strength of your own mental capabilities until the inevitable snap. The unavoidable breaking point that can’t be undone.

In moments that seem safe and spaces that seem welcoming, she allows herself the room to breath, to soak it in, to feel content. But it’s only a rest stop, a temporary pause before she begins down her mental trail once more. Begins running down the road she has to hope will deliver her to where she’s been headed all along - to home.