I am...
from a quiet, peaceful suburban neighborhood in Illinois,
moving from place to place,
feeling my stomach ache of nerves on the first day of school.

I am…
from a house as clean as a five star hotel,
outside on summer days playing frisbee and sweating with my dog,
in the snow, on a mountain ready to ride the slopes on my brand new sled.

I am…
from calloused and sore fingers bleeding from strumming my guitar,
looking up at my uncle on stage, playing “We Built This City” in front of the thousands,
looking down at the crowd, playing flawlessly while sweat dripped from my brow.

I am...
from sore legs that can’t stop running, because I wouldn’t be, “bad a** tough,”
throwing myself into the Pike Lake after running 60 minutes to the peak of the mountain,
sprinting to beat my time, while my eyes rolled, and I want to faint.
I am…
from friendships a decade long,
laughing, running, and high-fiving after winning the meet,
because of my experiences and those close to me, I am who I am.