“Who do you think you are?”

“You can’t.”

“You’ll never—”

Eyes closed, I clap my hands over my ears, hum to drown the sound of their echoing fear, and search for the quiet cry.

Creativity, inner voice, muse, true self, she answers to many names.

Squashed, derided as child’s play, and nothing more than popsicle sticks, school glue, and glitter, she retreat...