I'm from home-planted tomatoes,

from over-grown rosemary and basil,

from the warm aromas of banana bread and apple cider that float through our home.

I'm from hand-crafted doll clothes,

from plastic beads and coloring books,

from the stuffed bears and pinky swears that I relied on.

I'm from hamishpachah shehlee, my family,

from Shabbat dinners and Passover seders,

from Chanukkah parties and Purim carnivals.

I'm from intricate tallit and kippot,

from “Yashar kochech,” and “Tikkun olam,”

from Kadima, Sababa, and Etz Chaim.

I'm from the songbirds and the musicians,

from old, worn piano keys passed down from generations,

from guitar strings that form calluses on my fingertips.

I'm from the classic rock playing in my dad's car,

from the melodious nusachim in my mom's,

from a band of silly, singing siblings.

I'm from dirty, pink tights and black leotards,

from battered, beaten ballet slippers and scuffed combat boots,

from improbably perfect hair buns.

I'm from sore muscles and injured limbs,

from the battle scars of my trade,

from knowing, “No pain, no gain.”

I'm from masks,

from enclosed emotions and hidden proof,

from spilling desperate pleads into unknown notebooks.

I'm from bruised skin and bruised heart,

from, “Goody-goody,” to, “not good enough,”

from the words that struck as hard as lightning.

I'm from demons,

from crashing and burning,

from climbing up only to fall back down.

I'm from nightmares and betrayal,

from panic attacks and SSRIs,

from vanished hopes and crushed dreams.

I'm from continuing on,

from knowing that there's no place to go but up,

from starting fresh and letting go.

I'm from strength and promise,

from the fighters and the believers,

from the hard workers and the dreamers.