one day, she will not be waiting to pick up the phone

when i call randomly at 3 p.m. on a saturday.

and then,

i will be glad to have her inflections

woven indistinguishably into my speech,

her gestures so naturally incorporated into my own.

i will be relieved to have the comfort of looking into

a mirror and seeing her staring back at me.

i will say something the same way she would,

and i will think,

thank god.

thank god.

you are studying yourself in the mirror. every inch falls victim to your critiques. you pinch your thighs and mutter bitterly, “too squishy.” poking at your stomach next, you add, “too big.”

on and on this goes until you have called every part of you ugly or fat or wrong, from the hair on your head to the calloused heels of your feet. and at one point, maybe this would have made you feel better in some twisted way. maybe it would have motivated you to make some kind of change. but change that is rooted in self-hatred is rarely the kind that sticks or satisfies. how many times have you found yourself back here, still unhappy after months of cutting carbs or doing sit-ups.

once, you thought it would be enough to have a body like the ones you see in magazines. but you are realizing now, finally, painfully, that it is better to believe that your body is enough as it is, even if you want to make it stronger or healthier; that giving your body a goal to meet before you love it means you will always, always be waiting, loveless and empty, as you keep pushing the goalposts again and again.

you whisper to yourself, ashamed, “i don’t know why i am so cruel to you.”

your reflection simply stares back. it doesn’t know either.

the emperor

don’t be afraid

to dream big.

reach for the stars.

if you do not have

a leader in whose footsteps

you can follow,

forge your own path.

become that leader

for anyone else

who may need one.

i got my love of fantasy from my father. my nostalgic affinity for classic rock. my taste for fancy ice cream sundaes, turnip greens, and cucumbers and onions. he handed me my first toy sword and my first action figure. he helped me learn how to ride a bike, and over a decade later he taught me how to drive a car. he would come carry me home when i’d fall and skin my knees. when i started taking piano lessons, he would sit at the bench and help me practice. he was the first one of my parents to cry when i won my first voice competition. when i come home now, he still comes into my room to kiss my forehead before he goes to bed. every so often, he sends me a photo of one of our cats. we talk about the weather, not in a small-talk, we-have-nothing-else-to-talk-about way, but in an i-raised-you-to-care-about-the-weather-and-now-it’s-something-that-bonds-us way. i call him when my toilet breaks or the check engine light comes on in my car. he is trying to teach me how to do taxes. i am trying to get him to read brandon sanderson. i got my love for it from him.