Bold used to sound like an ugly adjective to me. I came into the world early–at a mere 3 and ½ lbs. My lungs weren’t ready for the world. I was rushed from one hospital to another and spent my first 21 days in an incubator, connected to tubes. The only way my family could make contact was through tiny holes in the sides. There was no skin-to-skin, no co-sleeping, no decisions to be made about how to feed me. It didn’t matter how attached anyone wanted to be. My reluctant little frame was boldly thrust forth into the world, ready or not.
From day one, bold wouldn’t wait for me to catch up.
Later, bold felt like my bike being held back for a few minutes by a classmate after school. He clutched the handle bars, standing in the way of me and my path home, laughing. He later claimed he did it “as a joke,” but I had never laughed. This boy had been positively described as a “bold personality” by our class teacher.
In fifth grade, bold was a playground bully.
Originally written for SheLoves Magazine. Head on over to read the rest of the post!