When I was five, my older brother taught me how to write my name. I was fascinated by the pencil and how it scrawled and created letters that turned into words that I could READ. I loved to practice writing those lines, curlicues and ovals.

Then I started school, and my well-meaning teacher berated me because I learned to hold a pencil completely wrong. Use your index finger, Cory. She corrected me over and over again. I staunchly refused to cooperate. The end result was the same, after all. Letters formed on the page. I proved more stubborn than she, and she eventually gave up.

Decades later, I still hold a pen in that same jacked up way. As a child, I felt special because I wasn’t like everyone else in this small way.  I think as we get older, people try to take away those things that make you different. Much as I hate to admit it, sometimes I’ve tried to subdue those things in myself that I see as odd so I could fit in.

But I’d so much rather be that little girl – the one who won’t compromise when it comes to what makes her happy. Even if it means she will lack the manual dexterity to manage chopsticks.