I’m Weird

I’ve always been weird.

As a kid, I spoke to the trees, rivers, and rocks. Often, they spoke back and told stories. (Still do).

In high school, I dyed my hair blue, sported a mohawk, and wore secondhand clothes. Sometimes, I wore brooches and makeup (hey! It was the 80s). Some of the kids called me queer — another name for weird.

In my first college, when I critiqued American politics or culture, some of the students called me freak (another name for weird) and told me, “If you don’t like it, leave.” I’m not going to lie, that hurt.

When I worked on Wall Street, they called me “creative” (yet another name for weird) and told me — in so many words — you don’t fit in.

Even when couched in love, being told I did not fit in hurt. Perhaps that is why I showed up as different versions of myself for different people — because I wanted to be normal, just fucking normal for once. It was a poor strategy because I wasn’t normal, no matter how hard I tried.

Somewhere along the line, I started to appreciate that I didn’t fit in. I began to see the gifts of being weird and started to lean into them.

When doctors told me that going into Nature was weird (and wouldn’t work), and therapists told me that plant medicines were weird (and wouldn’t work), I did it anyway. And you know what? I’m…