It’s a calmer day than most at the daycare, giving Megan and myself a chance to clean up the classroom early. The kids are entertaining themselves while we clean. One builds the tallest tower in the world out of legos, hesitating only to sit back and admire his creation. Another cares for her own baby, feeding and changing him, something we had done for her only moments before. One or two toddlers pull out books and carefully flip through the pages, somehow managing to read the entire book upside down. Another child peers at objects through a magnifying glass, pausing only to create small sounds of wonder as he explores the new realm found under the plastic. The rest of the children are splayed across the crafts table, creating their own Picasso’s out of washable markers and paper, designing more tattoos than take-home-art.

Gabriel stands by the door, silently watching the floor. Megan and I watch him warily, waiting for him to do something. He’s been high-strung all day, something as simple as a toilet flush having the ability to set him off.
Nursery rhymes float across the room, a constant and soothing sound in the midst of unintelligible chatter and shrieks. Some children hum along, others pause their activities to sing along. Gabriel doesn’t seem to hear it. He turns around and faces the door, his nose only inches away from the object blocking him from his mother. I know he wants his mom, but she won’t be here for another hour.
        

“Do you want to read a story?” I ask him, my voice as pacifying as I can manage. He turns around to face me, but doesn’t respond. We are locked in a staring contest, neither one breaking away. He’s stubborn though and easily wins. He turns back around to face the door, a clear sign I have lost. I look at Megan and roll my eyes. He’s being difficult.
        

“Hey Gabe, come color a picture with me.” I say with a false cheery tone in my voice. This time he doesn’t even bother to turn around. The door slowly opens and he looks up. It’s not for him. It’s just another employee asking to borrow our mop. After getting what she needs, she closes the door behind her, shutting Gabriel inside once again. He turns around, his small body shaking and we know what’s about to happen. His mouth slowly opens, no sound emerging but his face turning an impressive shade of red. He’s building this tantrum up longer than most. This one is going to be powerful. Megan and I look at each other, preparing ourselves for his hysterics.

                                     * * *
Breathing. In and out. My breath needs to be  precise, my posture correct. Singing isn’t a silly activity. Not for me at least. My choir performs next week and I’m not ready. I still can’t breathe the way I need to. I need to have correct posture, or I won’t be able to get enough air into my lungs. If the breath is forced out of my airway, the sound won’t be right. The volume won’t be loud enough. The sound of the vowel my mouth is producing will be wrong. Everything will be wrong.

I can’t be wrong.
I’ve memorized the words and the note values. I’ve taken my book home every day, practicing during my free time. I can do this.
Yes, you can do everything but the breath, the most important part my mind counters.
Stop it. I reply. I’m fine. No one knows the mistakes I’m making, I’m singing too softly for them to hear.
They know. My mind responds without hesitation. Trust me, they know.
In this moment, I am my worst enemy. I am self conscious with no real reason to be, and my stress levels are steadily increasing.

Everyone is working on something here I say, reassuring myself.

I need to work on my body alignment, and I’ll already be halfway done fixing my breath problem.  My posture has always been poor, and this is just one of the consequences I face for sitting slouched over for most of my life.
I’m tall. I’m five feet, eleven inches. It’s not a ridiculous height, but almost no one I know is taller than 5, 8. It wasn’t necessarily my height that bothered me though, it was more of the side effects that came with it. The way my elbows and knees jutted out from my body, like gnarled branches on a tree that didn’t look like they belonged. The way that my neck looked like a giraffe’s whenever I wore my hair up. It was the comments from distant relatives about how tall I was getting, intended to make my height seem like a good thing.

Instead of learning how to accept my height though, I subconsciously began to fight it. My body began to slouch and my neck began to lower when I was with other people, so I wouldn’t tower over them as much. My limbs would contract toward my body as soon as I sat down in a chair, purposely taking up as little room as possible.
The worst part of it was that I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I was creating a habit with consequences that I still haven’t discovered yet.

If bad posture is a habit that someone has formed, there are solutions to fixing the problem. One solution is to see a physical therapist, or someone else with professional training who can give the best advice. Another way to fix bad posture is to constantly practice good posture. There are exercises such as sitting in a chair with good posture, and holding this position for at least ten seconds while relaxing the muscles in order to feel less tense. You can also stand against the wall with good posture, while flattening the muscles in the abdomen. After holding this position for ten seconds, releasing and then repeating. The muscles that are used in order to maintain good posture are the abdominal, hip, and leg muscles. The most important muscles are the ones that support the spine. These muscles run from the neck down to the pelvis, with the purpose of holding the spine upright and balancing the back. These muscles are forced to work harder than most others because they are constantly counteracting the force of gravity, creating a constant pull which helps to strengthen them. Strong muscles result in good posture, which results in the ability to breathe deeper. If these muscles are strengthened at a younger age, these habits will last longer.

Breath is one of the most important components of singing, and yet I can’t manage it. It takes a lot of effort to make something look effortless. My choir teacher says it’s supposed to feel right, having my body aligned with correct posture and breathing techniques but it doesn’t. It’s hard. I’m straining my body to sing, attempting if only to hide from the teacher how uncomfortable this really is for me. I don’t want to get called out in front of the whole class because I don’t know how to fix the problem. We are working on breathing exercises and I just hold my breath and mouth the vocal exercises because I can’t make the whole five measures without breathing. The teacher looks at me and I think he knows. I freeze, moving only my mouth to make my act of deceit look more believable. He looks away and I can breathe again.

Maybe it’s hard because I don’t know how to apply these principles to my own body correctly. I don’t know how to hold myself the right way. I spent so long making myself small, I now can’t stand right. And it affects my singing.

                                   * * *
Gabriel explodes. His screams are a tsunami, slowly gaining more power though even the thought itself seems impossible. He’s so loud. The sound is deafening but the other kids don’t seem to mind as they continue with their activities. After all, he does this everyday. I should be used to it by now too but I hate not being able to help. All we can do is wait it out.

He gains more power, the sound of his screams increasing with each breath. His face is red and splotchy, his eyes squeezing shut as though the effort of crying is painful.  The edge of his sleeves are soaked from rubbing his face, now covered with tears. His tiny chest heaves up and down, jarring and sporadic.

I slowly move toward him, not wanting to upset him more. He looks up at me and I freeze. He stops crying. He looks down as if he is nervous and slowly begins shuffling towards me, careful to avoid eye contact. He makes it all the way to my legs before he finally looks up, the tears still streaming down his face but no sound coming out. He looks down and begins whimpering, looking up at me and then back down at his feet, but making no other movement. I hold my hands out, not quite sure what he wants. He immediately responds by raising his arms, a clear sign he wants to be held. I bend down and pick him up. He rests his head on my chest, still whimpering but the volume level slowly diminishing. I begin rocking back and forth, my arms embracing him as he falls asleep. My shirt is getting wet from his tears, but it’s better than the screaming. I walk around as he falls asleep in my arms, the tension in the classroom slowly fading away.

                                    * * *
I feel my chest move up and down, but there isn’t any pressure. I’m not making any effort, the sound is just happening on its own. Every few seconds I feel a slight burst of breath, a hiccup in my now almost effortless breath. It’s like driving a stick shift for the first time. I’m making mistakes, but gradually growing more smooth with my transitions.

                                    * * *

As I grow older, my outlook starts to change. Instead of lanky limbs, I’m beginning to see slender arms and legs. Instead of an awkwardly long neck, I see elegance. I begin to pay more attention to those who are tall, and realize that the way they used their height was different. They seemed to fill up the space that their bodies gave them no control over. While I had been attempting to stunt my growth, they were accepting and improving it. When people looked at them, they didn’t shrink away. They grew taller.

I grew taller too. I felt more confident and I joined clubs. I realized that the more confident I felt, the more it affected the rest of my life. It changed the way people looked at me, and the way that I viewed myself. It affected the level of comfort at joining school clubs. It increased the number of chances that I took, that began to pay off.
When I look in the mirror now, I don’t see an imposter. I see myself.