I had always considered myself small. Not regarding my stature, but my weight and the “womanly” parts of my body. At the beginning of my freshman year of high school, I was 5’7 feet tall, lanky, with a chest and a rear of a seven-year-old child. The “overly developed” assets of my friends in contrast to my jutted hipbones, wiry arms, and gaunt legs, seemed to exaggerate their punctual curves and edges, leaving my frail, undeveloped body unnoticed.

I was quiet and shy until I was familiar with someone and even then I kept to myself. I never spoke out in class, I never sang loudly with my friends on car rides home; I couldn’t even order a pizza. I felt like everyone was watching every single move I made, waiting for me embarrass myself. I was encased in a fear of myself.

Freshmen year passed in a blur of awkward moments, half-hearted laughs, long weekdays and short weekends. Before I knew it, summer had arrived and the promises of late night swimming and snowballs on a hot afternoon followed by more swimming flushed my thoughts. On a clear night after a walk around the neighborhood, my friends and I decided to rest on the golf course behind my house. While they talked, I kept silent and watched the stars. They seemed a little brighter that night, but the full moon was especially luminous and beautiful. I couldn’t stop staring and in those hushed moments, I’d never felt so small. Not regarding my stature, my weight, or my quiet identity, but in respect to everything around me: the sky, the ground, and everything between. I was humbled, and I realized the small moment of life I had on this Earth was not meant for me to beat myself up about something I couldn’t control. I knew I needed to stop worrying about what others thought of me, and that night I swore I would never look at the way I had wrongly thought everyone else did for so long. And a small smile spread across my face.