I wasn’t always talkative.

When I was younger, I was painfully shy.  Handicapped by multiple moves and the unfortunate combination of buck teeth, bad vision and very thick, very curly hair that I had no idea what to do with.  I don’t think my mother did, either.

I have memories of my mother being a mom, but mostly I have memories of her being a strong, working woman wearing beautiful clothing, with perfect makeup and floating on a cloud of perfume.  I wished I looked more like her.  Maybe she did, too.  I wasn’t a very attractive child.

Across the years I’ve grown into both my name and my looks.  But moving from school to school and dealing with the painfulness of trying to fit in with children who already had other friends — I think it’s part of why I’m such a loner.  Part defense mechanism, part survival.  I would spend days lying on my bed, reading book after book and eating crackers with pepperoni and squares of dark chocolate.  Wrapped up in imaginary places, with imaginary friends.

It was sixth grade English — a hot, stuffy afternoon — when I discovered my love for theatre.  I think our teacher — a tall, perpetually pale man with a ginger beard — kept a flask of whisky in his lower desk drawer.  He definitely leaned down there often enough to give all our minds the opportunity to speculate.  I don’t know how it happened that we were acting out scenes from an old, orange grammar book, but we were.  And I reluctantly made my way to the front of the class.

It was probably six lines, read with a girl who emanated energy and happiness from her very being.  But it made me feel alive.  Happy.

Happy at Pine Middle School was a rare thing indeed.

In the end, after pursuing acting all the way through university, the painful shyness came back.  I didn’t go to New York.  Instead, I hid for another year in State College, waiting tables and avoiding the responsibilities of life.  And then I stumbled — possibly accidentally, I don’t really remember — to Philadelphia.  Where I also avoided the stage and instead perpetuated anonymity in restaurants, asking other people what they’d like to drink to start.

I haven’t thought about those choices a lot recently.  Everything brought me to where I am, who I am, to the man I married, to the puppy I get to parent.  But maybe — sometimes — dreams lie dormant until you are ready.

I have a great job.  It has been a God send as I’ve learned to navigate my disease.  It has given me flexibility, and the money to pay my bills, buy a home, live a comfortable life.   I’m inherently proud of the restaurants I run, the company we strive to be, and the people who work tirelessly to make it all happen.

But there are moments when I feel like there’s a whole part of me who is missing.