When I was little, “underoos” were a thing. Underwear that suddenly turned you into a superhero. One Christmas my grandma thought it was a cute idea to buy all of the grandkids a pair. We stood in front of the Christmas tree adorned with colorful lights, all in a row, the five oldest cousins in our underoos. I remember thinking how strange it was to be standing next to my older cousins in my underwear. But then again, every superhero needs a Christmas card.
I think about six-year-old me a lot. Sun-kissed, freckle-faced, bright blue eyes, white-blonde bangs cut by my auntie anytime we visited. I wonder who that little girl was and what she believed. With her skinned knees and bitten nails, I’m not sure she had any idea just how strong she was.
Not too long ago, my best friend, I mean my therapist, asked me to recall moments in my life when I was strong. Immediately I thought back to before. Before everything went wrong. Before things were taken away. Before innocence was penetrated.
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