Glancing around the ballet class, I looked down the line of pointed toes, pink tights, and slicked back buns. Their calm faces and graceful movements felt like an awkward reminder of my own brows furrowed in frustration. I tried to force my thoughts to come slower, to pay attention only to the movement of my arms and not the ticking of the clock, the uncomfortable seam in my tights, and the way the air conditioner blowed directly on my bare back. Looking around at the unburdened ballerinas, it was the first time I remember felling, well, different. 

And as I got older, the sense of otherness grew. Those teenage years where I hid away in the library during lunch rather than face the profound loneliness of an empty lunch table. I wasn’t just different, I was too much. Too loud, too opinionated, too awkward. I’ve always felt like the person who’s personality wasn’t the calm, babbling brook of her peers. It was a raging, roaring rapid that I frantically tried to barricade with the right things to say. In the high school years of hormones and homecoming dances, each day felt like racing the clock: beat back the rushing wave of swirling emotions, too-fast thoughts, and otherness before it spilled over. I couldn’t bear the thought of the people who passed me in the hallways knowing that it took everything in me to contain this unstoppable storm that no one else seemed to be aware of. 

That stretching season of profound loneliness was one that lasted longer than I care to admit, but was also foundational in how God has used me as an adult. By God’s grace, I was no longer the girl who talked to loud, I became the woman who used her words to build up others. I was no longer the girl who felt a sense of dread staring at an empty table, I became the woman who pulled up extra chairs.  The overflow of thoughts, and emotions, and ideas, and opinions overflowed into books and podcasts and speaking events. I didn’t need to hide it away from the world, I needed to hone it into something bigger than myself for the glory of God and the good of others. 

So, this is for the girl who’ve ever felt like simultaneously too much and not enough. The teenager who felt like she needed to hide away parts of herself so she can find a seat at the table. And finally, for the woman who decided to build her own table where everyone is invited. So if you’re reading this today, pull up a chair, because you’re welcome here.