Tressa Smith

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My life has always been a deeply crafted narrative.

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As a young girl, it was that of pink-sunlit school projects covered in glitter and the smell of whiskey.

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For the almost woman, it was aliens, moonlight, and my silent bedroom ceiling.

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To the woman standing in front of thirty-five scared faces, the same face she had once been, it was the song of those before her. 

 

Now, I understand that the stories we tell ourselves are not what make us special.

They are what make us human.

Despite sometimes feeling like an open wound, our stories are rarely ours alone.

 

Somewhere, someone else has stood beneath the same moon, stared at the same ceiling, wondered if they were becoming someone they did not recognize.

 

Perhaps that is why we tell them.

To know that we are not alone on this messy, blur of a planet.​

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-Tressa Smith

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