Inhale, exhale. Take the bite, you’re supposed to like it. The sour taste of salt filled my mouth, and I gagged, spitting it back onto the plate. I frowned, and my family laughed at my disappointment. But I couldn’t give up– I was going to like pickles. Everyone else did. I’d seen my friend eat them straight from the jar, seen my cousins piling them onto burgers. So I kept trying, bite after bite, determined to make my taste buds adjust.

Inhale, exhale. Don’t cough, you’re supposed to like it. My eyes welled with tears as I choked on the taste of mint-flavored smoke in my throat. I coughed, and my friends laughed, taking the vape out of my hands. But I didn’t give up– the buzzing feeling it left in my body made me curious. The second time, I coughed less, and the third, I barely flinched. 

Inhale, exhale. Relax, you’re supposed to like it. I squeezed my eyes shut as his hands brushed my skin, inching closer and closer to my waistband. My breath caught in my throat, and he laughed softly at my inexperience. But I didn’t tell him to stop- everyone else liked it, surely I would too?

I spent a lot of time trying to make myself like the things I didn’t like, twisting and pulling at my identity, trying to fit myself into the spaces that were “normal.” I could blame it on peer pressure, but the truth is that no one would have cared if I never touched a pickle. My friends never even offered me the vape; I asked to try it. And that boy would not have loved me any less if I had led his hands out of my pants. The truth is, I knew no one would care, but I cared. I wanted to fit.

So I bent, and I stretched, and I twisted. I ate pickles, I vaped, I let him put his hands all over me. And somewhere along the way, bending became breaking. I didn’t know who I was, didn’t know how much of what I liked was truly what I liked. I began looking at childhood pictures of myself, and I felt the inexplicable urge to apologize to that little girl for what we had become.

So the first time I said “no” wasn’t loud or dramatic. I was in the school bathroom, someone offered me a hit, and I shook my head. She shrugged and moved on. That was it, but I felt proud, and more powerful than I’d expected. So I began to relax, pulling myself out of the spaces that I had deemed “normal.” I stopped eating pickles, and I started asking myself what I actually enjoyed.

Inhale, exhale, push, you can do one more. My muscles ache as I finish out my set, sweat dripping off my forehead.

Inhale, exhale, relax, let the music take over. My fingers stumble over the strings, and the sound rings out, imperfect, but beautiful.

Inhale, exhale, don’t rush. The ball lands at my feet, and I wait for the defender to bite before passing it around her for an assist.

I thought that growth would come from swallowing the things that made me flinch, but that’s not right. For me, it comes from having the strength to spit them out. Being a little bit different is okay, and sometimes discomfort isn’t a sign of growth; it’s a signal to stop.

Inhale, exhale. Now, I’m not trying to prove anything. I eat raspberries. I play the guitar and I love to work out. I spend a lot of time alone, but never lonely; I’m turning myself into a person whose company I enjoy. And I really don’t like pickles.