February 19th was a normal day. For most people, that is. It was a relatively average day in 1996.
I was born in a small hospital in a town I get to call home for now and my mama cried.
All of them do, right?
Apparently my head was perfectly round, a feature that was mentioned several times considering my brother had been born three years earlier on a much warmer day with a much less perfectly-shaped head.
I was wrapped in a blanket that wouldn’t make me distinguishable from any other baby born that year–that decade even. I was blonde and reportedly beautiful, and I was born that way.
Don’t call me Lady Gaga just yet, but I was born that way.
As precious as I was in those moments, I was born with a nature that was particularly inclined to sin, to worry specifically.