A plant requires love, sunshine, water, and a fertile soil foundation for growth- unless that plant is artificial. As a child my house was surrounded by artificial plants, not necessarily for aesthetics or practicality but, for safety. As a toddler, soil became a subject of  interest; to satisfy this curiosity I did what other toddlers did; I put the dirt in my mouth. My attraction to ingestible items extended to quarters, glow sticks, bugs, and more. While most kids my age ate boogers, I ate things that tested my immune system. At the young age of two, I had already dodged death more times than I could count (quite literally).  It’s because of this that by the age of five, I had learned that life isn’t necessarily about not dying, sometimes it's just about living.

In pre-k I stuffed a bead so far up my nose during arts and crafts that it threatened to block one of my airways. In elementary school the “boomstick” of a sailboat in Wisconsin blindsided me. In middle school I collided into a police car on my bike during a triathlon and was thrown ten feet onto the pavement. These misadventures physically changed me: I have a bald spot on the back of my head, my shoulders are crooked, and I have scars all over my body. However out of all these deformities, the one that affects me the most is one that no one actually sees.

On the sole of my right foot lies a collection of circular discolored patches. The concentric white blobs stretch awkwardly on the center of my foot and have hardened from the constant pressure of my body weight. At first I thought they were normal, that it was simply a few calluses that had developed from my addiction to running. However my sense of body confidence changed when my younger brother saw “it.” His facial reaction to the malignant clumps of dead skin revealed that my foot was indeed not normal. My parents say it’s a fungus. The stigma of “fungus” has resulted in my banishment from entering my brother’s room.

“No Alex’s allowed!” reads a crayola-made sign on the front of his door.

My foot is an object of judgment within my house; it’s become a labeled parasite that has made me insecure. I have spent many hours attempting to remove my plague. I’ve performed procedures with a pocket knife and nail clipper under the light of my desk lamp. Once a week I will fold my right leg over and begin the long operation of removing as much as possible. Snip, cut, and repeat.

I don’t know when exactly my foot changed. What I do know is that it changed as a result of my habits. The “fungus” is a product of my foots exposure to running with old socks, a sweaty old carpet at karate, a stinky overused golf shoe, public pool showers, and long barefoot walks. The athletic environment that I adopted has marked me permanently. Despite this, I am not afraid. My battle wounds I have are not results of mistakes. My scars, my crooked shoulders, my “fungus,” each reminds me of the moments that have shaped who I am. These unplanned disasters give  me every reason to live a timid life, but I choose otherwise. Rather than fear the unexpected and try to control all of the lurking variables; I simply live in each moment and enjoy the accidents that happen along the way. I still eat whatever I want despite the risk of diarrhea, I still bike in triathlons, I still walk in my brother’s room; I don’t see my environment as a dangerous place. My environment is a place of opportunity for growth and adventure. The surprises and unknowns excite me each and every day. After the things I have been through, I have learned that if I were to live constantly worrying about the “what ifs,” I wouldn't be living the life that I want. I may be a victim of my environment but my identity is the product of my approach towards it.

I only live once. A little germ in the dirt won’t prevent me from tasting everything the world has to offer.