I Am Not Special

by Shya

I Am Not Special

I don’t think I’m special. In fact, I’m sure that I’m not. This story started a long time ago when I wasn’t capable of tying my shoelaces – and maybe even before that. I looked up to the people around me, as did you, and I am certain that I absorbed ideas and ways of being along with the language of my birth. In looking at children two or three years older than myself, they seemed sophisticated, and I strove to be just like them. It’s pretty funny when you think about it that your lifestyle, behaviors and ways of being may have been inspired by the eight or ten-year-old you looked up to.

I remember a time when Ariel and I were in a pizza restaurant on Broadway and 37th street in Manhattan. There was a birthday party going on for a young girl and a group of her friends. They were probably 12 years old and the most remarkable thing happened. One of their older sisters arrived. She was all of 14. And oh, how they melted in their seats in awe of this sophisticated “woman.” Imagine asking a 14-year-old for a life strategy about relationship. Perhaps this is why so many marriages end in divorce and how few relationships make it to marriage in the first place.

I used to hold not being special as a failing, as something to fix. But now I realize that being me is special all on its own. There is only one of me out of billions of people and out of trillions of living beings. Trying to be special would paint me with a brush that would dull my natural radiance.

Shine on my friend, shine on.

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