I want to be nothing more than a spot on the wall. No thirteen-year-old wants every eye in the room—or hallway—on them, and I am no exception. As I make my way through the tiled halls of Truman Middle School, I weave around classmates while the once-empty hallway explodes with students. I take one step down the stairs toward my classroom. My black Converse high-top loses its grip on the step. I tumble down two flights of stairs, my nose graciously breaking my fall. I slide to a stop … fifty pairs of shiny middle-school eyes lock onto me. So much for going unnoticed… Unfortunately, that fall was hardly an isolated incident. I was born to be awkward. Growing six inches in a single year left me with the coordination of a baby giraffe. As I ran up and down the basketball court, I regularly tripped over my own feet and fell at least five times per game. Needless to say, activities requiring hand-eye (or foot-eye) coordination were not exactly my strength. By eighth grade, I was six feet tall and towered over every boy in my grade. One year later, I finally stopped growing at six feet two inches, leaving me a head taller than nearly every girl at my school. Standing out was unavoidable, so I eventually learned to have fun with it. As if being unusually tall and uncoordinated were not awkward enough, I chose to play the tuba. Yes, the enormous instrument often associated with plump, pimpled teenage boys—that was for me! I initially chose it because the idea made me giggle. The first song I learned was the Jaws theme, and I became enamored with both the tuba and the experience of being part of a band. The trumpet may be the star, but I loved that the tuba could almost go unnoticed. It seldom carried the melody, yet it formed the foundation beneath the ensemble. Without its deep sound, the music felt shallow. My "teensy" tuba may have been enormous, but it taught me that something does not have to be flashy to be important. In seventh and eighth grade, I earned first chair in the St. Louis All-Suburban Band, making me one of the strongest young tuba players in the metropolitan area. By my freshman year of high school, I joined the Spirit of St. Louis Marching Band. My serpentine sousaphone wrapped around my body, its bell towering over me. Apparently, being 6’2" wasn’t tall enough—I added 26 inches to my height and 50 pounds of brass to my body. Through marching band, I traveled across the country, performing with my sousaphone and contributing to something larger and more beautiful than myself. After years of practice, I became one of the top tuba players in Missouri. Over eight years of playing, I was teased plenty. To many of my classmates, I was the weird band kid carrying a ridiculous instrument. Teenagers can be cruel, and playing the tuba sometimes felt like an open invitation to ridicule. Still, I would not trade those years for anything. The qualities that made me awkward became essential to my identity. The tuba taught me to embrace standing out, find joy in being unconventional, and appreciate providing a strong foundation for others. Although I no longer tote a sousaphone, the beat of the tuba still lives within me. It thrums beneath my journey through nursing school and marches alongside me as I interview for pediatric nursing positions. It remains the steady metronome of my life—a reminder that being different is not something to hide, but something to celebrate.