Couple of year ago I found a picture of a 3-year-old child in my mothers collection of old photos. In this photo, the child was being held by her mother in front of a roller-coster ride at an amusement park. The child was dressed very much like a girl but her facial features can pass for a boy. She had a few strands of hair on her head and her facial features were not very well defined. It was obvious that she was not a pretty child but there was something very endearing still in her ugliness. Her mother held her up as she eagerly pointed at this what appeared to be a colossal roller-coaster ride. Her eyes filled with admiration, interest, and joy. She wanted to go on it. As I looked over to her mother in the photo, it was suddenly clear to me, the woman in the photo was my mother twenty-four years ago and the little girl was me.
I was a not a pretty little girl, so homely that my mother had to dress me my in pink or red...or purple, especially in public so people can tell that I was not a boy. I have heard of this story from my family over and over again when I was growing up. They joked about it when I got out of the very ugly phase of my life and joked about it again when I no longer resembled my baby looks. I realize now looking back, I may have grown out of out my ugly looks, but I don't think I have ever grown out of my daredevil nature. I am still that child, easily stroked by amazement and wonder. It cannot be helped, she cannot be stopped.
People have asked me for "life" advice sometimes, not sure why. I'm beginning to think that I should just stop giving them all together.
My hidden message will always be, you either go big or go home.
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