When I was young, 
I had a brightness
that I took with me everywhere I went.
I had a restless body, boundless energy,
and a wandering mind of dreams and schemes.
Everywhere I went, I loved with my head and with my heart,
and with every inch of myself that I could give, really.
And I was unafraid to pour it out to others, 
like sunlight shining through the gaps in my teeth
and resting in the crinkles and twinkles of my eyes.
I was warm and passionate in my joy,
hot as fire in my anger.
Even my sorrow was bigger than myself.

And as I grew up, I found I couldn’t hold them anymore.

Every emotion swelled and swung like an orchestra, 
so powerful that it rattled my teeth.
Shook them so hard I had to grit them together as the years went on.
It pounded on the inside of my chest,
like fists on the hide of a drum.
Skin stretching thinner and thinner, until I longed to be able to pour myself out like I used to.
And slowly, strings of regret 
bound themselves into chords of resolve.
I wanted to be bright again, to shine towards others and fill the room once more.
I raised my hand like a conductor would their wand, 
and retaught myself how to feel.

I undid the drawstring cinching my throat
and instead shaped it like brass.
To produce a low, resounding sound, 
and to better express my raging cacophony in a way that was meaningful.
Like wind, earth, fire and water,
like the sweet hum of a violin, the dance of a piano, the crash of symbols,
I held myself together with ropes intended for stability, rather than constricting binds.

I am still a symphony. 
But now each player is in tune.
They play on the same octave,
they perform together.
And still, on occasion, something will come along and strike a chord within me.
Something that threatens to return the orchestra to the dissonance of before.
But I am the symphony,
and I am the conductor too.

And the show has only just begun.