Leralara

Throughout my life, I’ve been described as the perennial latecomer, the free-spirited prodigal daughter who marches to the beat of a drum no one else can hear.

Born in the late seventies to parents in their thirties, I was the third child in a line of spectacular siblings, each with their own defining descriptions.

My sister, the eldest, was dubbed “logical” and “sensible.” Our great-grandmother confidently proclaimed, “I think she’s going to have plenty of sense.” This was an unequivocal compliment from the hard-working, sensible folk they were.

My brother, born just two years later, was gifted with genius, particularly in mathematics and architecture. The same great-grandmother asserted, “I always knew he was going to be mechanical.” These labels stuck, guiding their paths like preordained scripts.

Six years later, across a chasm of time, I was conceived. My mother gravely informed a friend that she knew I was coming the very night. It was a difficult pregnancy, one that my mother claimed would have been her last had it been her first. Despite our special connection, I seldom made life easier for her.

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead, and when she was good, she was very, very good— but when she was bad, she was horrid,”

I spent much of my life striving for a golden description, one that would define my worth and place. Instead, called Prettybird, a nickname accompanied by a whistle that evoked a mix of pride and a sense of voicelessness. Though it was meant endearingly, it left me feeling as though my true value was elusive.

Only now have I begun to cast off these imposed identities and started to define myself.