I’ve never lived a normal life, but I wouldn’t ask for it to be any other way. My parents discovered early on that they were having twins, but they didn’t expect my brother and me to be born two months early. I was delivered first, and as they say, the early bird gets the worm, or rather the series of birth complications. My brother was unaffected, if you don’t count his small size of two pounds and the quick-witted (and most times obnoxious) humor he grew into. My three pounds brought with it cerebral palsy, a neurological disorder that can come in various forms, but for me meant muscle tightness, an unnatural gait, and the need for a shunt to drain the fluid from my brain so blood could pass. So needless to say, perseverance is an essential part of my life. Enter my bee necklace, given to me by my dad and mom on my thirteenth birthday. Over the past four years, it has quickly become a staple of my personality and a sweet reminder on tough days.

Its sterling silver chain and handmade charm – a curlicue shaped body with frozen yet determined wings – came encased in a pale green box, delicately laced around a lavender pillow and paired with a card whose words have become imprinted in my mind:

“According to science, bees shouldn’t have the ability to fly. Their bodies are too big for the size of their wings.”

When my dad handed me the box and waited for me to read the card, I burst into tears. I’d heard the cliché “God never gives you anything you can’t handle.” But this small scientific fact spoke to me even more. It gave my struggles substance and meaning and personality. I had something to take my mind off of what I couldn’t do, and keep it on what I am blessed to do. Sure, my one-mile time in gym isn’t the fastest, and I’ll probably never have a career in ballet, but I have power. Power to speak for those who feel alone, to speak out about disabilities, and to speak up against bullies. And the timing of the bee necklace couldn’t have been more perfect.

This necklace is close to my heart because I knew my dad, who ultimately chose it, put a lot of thought into it. Not only did he know I would wear it, but I knew he’d envisioned my reaction to it because that is the man he is. He wanted every detail to be perfect. I was transitioning to middle school, and my insecurities were at an all-time high. My elementary school friends had naturally accepted my unnatural gait, but in middle school, not only would I have to navigate classes, but new people as well. No doubt I would endure curious stares from my classmates.

The bee necklace reminded me that with a little elbow grease, I could be just as capable as these new peers, and I didn’t have to be bothered by their stares. The story of the bees represented me and henceforth became a motto that I try to live by.

I could easily let cerebral palsy handicap me, and people would understand. I’ve been asked multiple times if a wheelchair or an elevator key at school would make life easier. The bee forces me not to choose to do something just because it’s easier. Now that the bee has become a symbol for me, teachers, friends, and parents expect me to be more than a helpless, self-pitying lump.

In conclusion, the bee necklace has changed my outlook on life and expanded my belief in my capabilities. It’s a reminder of the struggles I’ve gone through and how much I have overcome. Instead of defining myself by the frequent hospital visits and physical therapy sessions, over these past four years, life has become an endless possibility.

I have no goals to be a prima ballerina, but I do hope to one day be an author, something that to me seemed unattainable a few years ago. The bee has filled me with dreams and belief in myself. It has become a part of me.