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“I’m boring. I don’t have anything to say. I’m not interesting anymore,” I kept repeating. “You’re anything but boring,” my dad would often respond adamantly. It broke my father’s heart to hear me say such things. He told me a few years later, in that same backyard and under those same strings of lights, that he would cry himself to sleep thinking of those words. But no one, not even my father, could convince me otherwise. I was dull, no doubt about it. And being boring was perhaps the toughest adjustment to my new life.
