I try to picture myself like her; a gentle song rolling off of her tongue and a soft glow in her tired eyes. Pulling all the strands of her neglected hair into a bun plopped atop her head. It feels like we are in completely different worlds. I try to fathom the graciousness, the benevolence, how she became so utterly meek. Not once have I felt a pull to become like her, for I have not a docile bone in my body. Yet, here I sit in the room full of women all bearing the same fate. All to sing the same tunes, and rock in the same motion through the once quiet hours of the night. Will these same women look at me the same if I choose a different fate? A fate of different tunes and different motions through the night. Will I be met with the same soft eyes and gentle smiles when I walk back out into this room? I contemplate this as the kindly woman moves her belongings for me to take a seat beside her. She utters words to me about showers and sprinkles, the paint color of her nursery. As I sink in my seat and dissociate from the bland pleasantries, I begin to experience in full the gravity of my situation. The heaviness of the impact my choice feels overbearing, and I suffocate in my grief for just a brief moment. When I hear my name muttered and I rise to walk through the door, I feel all that weight suddenly lifted, knowing I will never choose to dim my flame. For showers, sprinkles, and periwinkle walls were never made for me. My story will not start or cease in the confines of these waiting room walls.