Wrong is the name I give myself when I haven’t adhered to the rules of convention. It’s the song that plays on repeat, words in my head of ridicule and condemning. It’s the slow creep of shame from my feet to my face, like mercury rising in a thermometer. It’s the sudden lurch in my stomach, the archers arrow pulled back ready for launch. Launching a thousand words of anger, directed at me. Wrong is a word that hurts and shames. It stifles creativity and truth. Rather than wrong, I’m choosing to be brave and awkward instead.