I wrote a spoken word poem once about childhood idealism, the way I used to think I could do anything. In it, I list the things that I wanted to do, the ways I wanted to spend my life. The first of 16 hopes was to climb, fervently chasing my curiosity to discover more, to climb higher and higher, and look up and up.
Somewhere along the way, along snowballing insecurities and piling responsibilities, this undying eagerness for everything above me withered and I found myself looking down instead. Still, not on the people below me, no.
I look down at my shoes.
Here’s what I see.