I’ll be quiet. I’ll lower my voice. I’ll speak in hushed tones until my words get lost in the crowd.
I’ll be silent. I’ll let you fill the ether with your voice, your thoughts, your pronouncements.
I’ll live small. I won’t expand into the places you want, won’t take up any of your sun, your spotlight, your applause.
I’ll pull my punches and soften my steps. I’ll tread lightly—preventing even the heels of my shoes from asserting themselves.
I’ll muffle my laughter and orphan my tears. I’ll live in the shadows, and defer to my fears.
I’ll paint in black and white, leaving color to those with recognized talents. I’ll walk a straight line, never exploring tangents.
I’ll let you draw boundaries and erect signs that tell me, “You can only go this far.”
I’ll shrink down so you don’t feel small. I’ll prune away my new growth. I’ll live and think inside the most diminutive box.
And perhaps, if I try hard enough, I’ll become so small and unlike myself, that I’ll cease to be anything at all.
Maybe I’ll ask you to be quiet. Maybe I’ll raise my voice and kick you out—you and all your baggage packed full with criticisms and doubts.
Maybe I’ll take up residence inside myself—fully inhabiting every shade and facet of who I was meant to be. Living as big and far and wide as I can reach.
If it’s okay with you, and even if it’s not, maybe I’ll color outside the lines and break the box.
Maybe just may be.