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My story

began under the street lamp in my childhood cul-de-sac, riding my bike beneath the trees and feeling the warm night wind fluttering through my hair; watching the cracks of pavement pass beneath my tires—though instead I was imagining I was riding Falcor from the Never Ending Story.


It began in my bedroom, with the hundreds of sheets of paper scattered around me, scrawled with ink: drawings and stories of people and places I was desperate to escape to. It began in the willow tree I would climb in my backyard; the fences I would hop to the creek at the back of the neighborhood. The nights I would never sleep as a child because I was too awake, dreaming.

It began when I knew I wanted to be anyone else but myself. A writer, an artist; a liar, a skin-changer.

And now here I am, in my late twenties and nothing has changed. Except now I have mastered the art of being someone elsemany other people, in fact, while finding passion in my own life, as who I was born to be: Stephanie.

It has taken me a long time to finally figure out who ‘Stephanie’ is. And the truth is, that besides all the spells I have cast as a sorceress, the armies I have led into battle, the skyscrapers I have scaled, and the victims I have drained blood from as a vampire—I am just another mom dressed in yoga pants in the check-out line of Target, wrestling with a toddler. 

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