Like a Child

Sometimes I feel like a child when I write—a child just learning to walk. Still needing to hold on. Moving, but unstable and halting. Falling often. Tears are sometimes involved.

Sometimes I feel like a child when I write—too small to do anything big. Given to throwing tantrums. A tiny person trying to use full-size words. Like only my vocabulary has developed or grown—not my ability.

Sometimes I feel like a child when I write—still learning. It’s like brushing my teeth with my non-dominant hand. I’m taken back to those days when tying my shoelaces was a full-concentration job and spreading peanut butter on bread with an actual knife was daring.

Sometimes I feel like a child when I write—not strong enough. I wonder if I should leave it to the professionals—the “real” adults. I’m not ready. I’m trying to race in the Tour de France with a kiddie bike—training wheels, streamers, and white wicker basket decorated with plastic daisies.

But sometimes I feel like a child when I write—uninhibited and unfiltered. Full of imagination and possibility, I am unbridled by insecurity. I feel invincible. I am daring and playful. I am energized. I am free. And I want to tell you a story.

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