I am a person.

I have hands, feet, fingers, toes.

I have teeth, claws, muscle, bone.

I have a soul.

And my soul is mine.

You can reach in and touch it, feel it, affect it, make it grow.

But you cannot take it.

In your hands, my soul will wither, wilt, and die.

I have seen what you have done to souls in your hands.

You change them.

You do not make them grow, you keep them stunted. You do not protect them, you conceal them. You do not show them the path, you take them by the hand and make them walk behind you.

I have seen what you have done to her, and she is my fear.

She, who has never made a decision on her own.

She, who just took what came to her and accepted.

She, who was passive; she who allowed.

I will not be her.

I am a storm, a force to be reckoned with.

I am the maker of plans, the wielder of my own world.

I stand up tall and I say what I will.

I hold my soul out before me and keep it within my own grasp, because my soul is mine.

And maybe I will fail, but you know what?

I want to fail.

I want to skin my knees.

I want to fall down flat on my face, because only by doing so will I find out if I have the strength to pick myself back up.

I need to fail. I need to be scared. I need to cry and suffer and second-guess, because all of that comes with making your own decisions—with doing the thing that isn’t easy.

And I don’t want my life to be easy.

I want it to be mine.

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Author: Ciara Hall
Image: Naud/Flickr
Editor: Nicole Cameron
Copy Editor: Catherine Monkman
Social Editor: Khara-Jade Warren