This is my voice. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

Maybe the best we can hope for is that those we leave behind find comfort in knowing, that we’re born out of love, and not science. That biology explains the how, but love explains the why

I accept that today may be imperfect... I accept that I may be as well. What I don't accept is that imperfection should be the crutch I use to excuse myself from participating in joy.

Don't tell me you're not beautiful. You're the kind of beautiful the blind would see if we could figure out some way to give them three seconds of sight.

Don't let your luggage define your travels, each life unravels differently.

I don't want to turn any of this into poetry / but / you're so beautiful / flowers turn their heads to smell you

That’s what we were told—stand up for yourself. But that’s hard to do if you don’t know who you are.