I Wasn’t Meant to Be Temporary

I learned resilience young—packed in cardboard boxes, labeled in Sharpie, carried across state lines and time zones.

Every three years, the world reset. New house. New school. New rules. Same question, every time: Who do you want to be here?

I became fluent in first days. In scanning lunchrooms for open seats. In memorizing accents, hallways, and expectations. I learned how to fold myself small or bold, depending on what survival required.

Reinvention wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. I learned how to shed versions of myself without ever fully unpacking them. How to make friends fast and goodbyes faster.

Resilience looked like adaptability. Like smiling through introductions while bracing for endings. Like loving people deeply, knowing the clock was already ticking.

But somewhere along the way, resilience got heavier. Because constantly starting over teaches you how systems work—and who they forget.

That’s when resilience shifted. That’s when it became resistance.

Resistance is refusing to disappear. It’s choosing roots even when you’re used to wings. It’s building community on purpose, not because you’ll be there forever, but because it matters now.

I don’t reinvent myself anymore to survive. I arrive whole. I stay visible. I create spaces where leaving isn’t inevitable.

I was shaped by movement. But I resist the idea that I was meant to be temporary.