Throughout elementary school, I never felt any different from my peers. But as middle school came and every one of my friends started their growth spurts, I couldn’t help but notice I was falling behind—everyone else was getting taller while I stayed the same height.
People started asking me the same questions: “How old are you?” or “Did you skip a grade?” and each time, I questioned my own identity even more. Was I really that different from everyone else?
In 5th grade, my parents noticed something was wrong and asked my doctor to refer me to a specialist. I sat in the waiting room of the hospital, the smell of alcohol filling my nostrils, eager to finally find out what the problem was. It was the first of a flood of doctors’ appointments that have continued since.
Back then, each doctor I saw gave the same response, to go see yet another specialist in a different field. I was upset that I had to keep going to doctor’s visits while my friends went on playdates. It felt unfair that it was only me that was poked and prodded by people in white coats.
After countless consultations and tests, from blood tests to x-rays, the doctors finally diagnosed me with something I would carry with me for the rest of my life. I felt the shift in energy as soon as the words left the doctor’s mouth: metatropic dysplasia. I had a genetic skeletal disorder, caused by a mutation in the TRPV4 gene, that stunted my growth and caused abnormal bone development.
I had to finally start to accept that I looked different from my peers, when all I wanted was to look “normal.” In 6th grade, after the teacher distributed our class photo, I eagerly searched for myself in the crowd of faces. It didn’t take long to find myself—I looked like I belonged two grades below everyone else. A wave of embarrassment washed over me. I finally understood that this was what I looked like to other people and why they always questioned my age. I now understood the gravity of my condition.
Stuffing my shoes with rolled-up toilet paper became part of my morning routine, an effort to make myself taller by even an inch. From daily stretching, increasing the hours I slept, and even changing my diet, I made every effort to make myself taller. And I started to experience insecurity for the first time.
Before, I was one of the most extroverted people in my class. Always the first person to volunteer to help the teacher and the first person to raise their hand to answer a question. Now, my once-boisterous personality was shrouded by the overwhelming longing to fit in.
It felt like I was stuck in a body that wasn’t mine. I became withdrawn and found comfort in solitude. If I couldn’t fit in physically, invisibility was the next best option. No one could judge you if they didn’t know you existed. I hated being in the spotlight so I stepped off the stage completely.
No one could judge you if they didn’t know you existed. I hated being in the spotlight so I stepped off the stage completely.
As I became more withdrawn, I turned to art. Since I was a child, art has been a safe haven for me. The bright colors communicated stories that words couldn’t. In middle school, art became one of the few outlets where I could express myself. The canvas couldn’t judge me and I could create worlds of my choosing with the stroke of a brush. Art became a temporary fix to fill the hole that insecurity had created inside me. But I was still shrouded by silent pain and struggle.
Stepping Out of Invisibility
When I started high school, I welcomed the change as an opportunity to start a new chapter of my life. I felt tired of hiding who I was and constantly being treated like a child. After years of silence, going to a new school was my chance to build a new identity for myself—one that wouldn’t let my insecurities define me.
Speech and debate seemed like the perfect opportunity to make new friends and start fresh. Getting up and speaking in front of strangers would help me break out of the quiet, insecure personality I’d developed and allow me to rebuild my identity. After seeing the rows of shining trophies in front of the speech and debate club’s table during the club fair, I imagined myself holding a trophy and developed the courage to join. I started going to practices, pushing myself to show up each week even though I didn’t know anyone else there.
At first, I didn’t know how to communicate effectively or how to make small talk. But after each practice, I started to gain more and more confidence. One day as I sat alone at my table during practice, a girl that looked like she was also a freshman approached my table. “Hi, can I sit with you?” she asked. I nodded and asked, “How’s debate going for you?” She eagerly talked about her practice speeches and the conversation quickly evolved into our similar interests in TV shows. As I talked to more people and developed friendship, my words slowly began to feel like mine again.
In my first year on the debate team, all my speeches were filled with stutters and long pauses where I lost my train of thought and struggled to remember what to say next. We only had 30 minutes to prepare our arguments, and the topics always revolved around politics, which I felt inexperienced in.
After my first tournament, I stared at the bright screen of my phone, the rankings of every single competitor displayed in a long list. I traced my eyes to the bottom and found a familiar set of names lined up in order. The few other freshmen on the team also had unsuccessful performances. Soon, laughter filled the air as conversations about our failures began emerging. Our unsuccessful tournaments were how we started to bond.
But I still wanted to improve. I started reading the news more and recording my speeches more frequently. My efforts to place at competitions, however, were still largely unsuccessful, and at the end of the school year, I had to reconsider whether I could still commit myself to this activity. Quitting meant losing a community where I finally didn’t feel left out. A community that supported me, even beyond speech and debate. A community that made me see that my failures were just an opportunity to do better in the future.
Even though I had a long journey ahead, I realized that public speaking was something I had become truly passionate about. I felt control and fulfillment in having a room full of people listening to what I had to say. I wouldn’t let a couple of unsuccessful tournaments dictate my decision to stay or leave.
Although it was often difficult to find the words to share what I had to say, I stopped overthinking and let my words find their own way both in and outside of debate. I learned to let go of my nerves and the old habits that were restraining my voice.
I pushed myself to speak up more in class and learned to not let the opinions of others affect who I was and what I had to say. I joined a variety of clubs, like my school’s journal of biology and physical science journal, where I shared my passion for art and writing with people who were just as enthusiastic as I was.
Turning Effort into Confidence
Summer began and I was committed to improving before the following school year. Being “good” was a way to prove to myself that I was reclaiming my identity. I stood in front of my computer camera, recording the speech that I had carefully prepared. I started my speech over and over again until I could perfectly deliver it from start to finish—from the introduction, to my points, to evidence. Little by little, I started noticing fewer mistakes until I stopped noticing them at all.
As I prepared to give my first speech the following year, I was filled with anxious excitement. After weeks of preparation and dozens of practice speeches, I walked into the room with a confidence I had never felt before and my words flowed out effortlessly. I left the room feeling incredibly accomplished.
At the first tournament of the year, I won my first medal. The adrenaline after hearing my name get called up to receive an award was enough to keep me going. It finally felt like my hard work was paying off. Soon after, I began placing in nearly every competition and I started to see that my words mattered.
After spending years struggling in silence, speech and debate allowed me to see that there were people who cared and wanted to listen to what I had to say. By speaking in a room filled with people with their eyes on me, I found my confidence again. The classrooms I spoke in weren’t just classrooms, they transformed into stages. Being smaller than others physically often made me feel like I was smaller in worth too, and that my words were valued less than others. But as I started winning, I began to see that this couldn’t be further from the truth.
My newfound self-esteem made its way into other areas of my life as well. I was no longer scared that my thoughts and opinions were “wrong” and realized that my perspective mattered just as much as my peers. I regained control of my boisterous personality, allowing myself to express myself in a way that showed my character.
Being different from others is painful, yet I learned to not let my physical differences run my life. Through speech and debate, I learned that my voice mattered just as much as my peers, no matter my height. I learned a lesson that gave me the courage to continue to live every day with purpose—my height does not define me.
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