I was born on January 20, 2009, on an inauguration day. Sixteen years later, on another January twentieth, I watched politicians debate people like me as if I were an idea instead of a kid. Overnight, my future became something strangers felt entitled to vote on.
The strange thing is that I never spent much time debating who I was.
I was too busy growing up.
Growing up meant birthday parties, school projects, family road trips, making friends, losing friends, laughing until my stomach hurt, and wondering if I’d ever figure out life like everyone else seemed to. It also meant airports, hospitals, blood tests, endless waiting rooms, and hearing adults say, “Just a little longer.”
A little longer became months. Months became years.
While everyone else seemed to move forward, my body was placed on pause.
I learned that time doesn’t stop just because medicine does.
Every birthday still came. Every mirror still reflected someone changing. Every delay carried a cost.
Eventually, the journey would take me across continents—to Cambodia, Mexico City, Beijing, Bangkok, and operating rooms I had dreamed about for years. But none of those places mattered as much as the quiet promise I made to myself long before I boarded my first flight:
If I had to wait for the world to catch up, I would.
But I would never stop becoming myself.
