I am me.

In my twenties I was told I was pretty. For months I wandered the streets of Latin America on my big grand adventure abroad, feeling young, and adventurous, and pretty. I thrived off of the catcalls and whispers I would get from men of all ages. I felt bold. I felt like I could command attention. I felt like wherever I went, people would watch. I was important.

When I came home to the US my confidence and self-esteem plummeted. I couldn’t figure it out…but then I did: I wasn’t getting the constant affirmation of my beauty from men that had become such a huge part of my self-worth. I needed that justification. In the process of figuring out who I was, I needed to know that I mattered, that I was important. I needed to know that people noticed me.

Now I’m in my thirties. I still want people to notice me, but not for the same reasons. I don’t get catcalls anymore, and when I do, they disgust me. More than that—they make me irate. I’ve spent the last decade figuring out who I am, and I’ve come to one conclusion: I am more than just pretty.

I am strong. Not bulging with muscles, but determined, powerful, self-sufficient, and independent.

I am smart. Not for organizing my kitchen, but for solving real-world complex problems with well-thought out creative solutions.

I am friendly. Not flirty, but welcoming, warm, and approachable.

I am happy. Not bubbly, but joyful and cheery. The kind of happy that really comes from the heart.

I am empathetic. Not emotional or sensitive, but truly able to care about other people and relate to their life experiences.

I am capable. Intelligent. Talented. Worldly. Understanding. Witty. Funny.

But most of all, I am me. Not my gender. Not my body.