My family has different heights—some towering over their peers like skyscrapers and others, on the ground gawking up at them. My mom is the skyscraper when she is with other women, looking down at them like she is a giant. When she is next to men, she is not tall. She is like seeing a clown at a circus.

My dad is the same height—possibly shorter. But for a man, he is average—like seeing a deer in Wisconsin on a warm summer night. His height doesn’t scream out. He is average; neither a rabbit or a rhino.

My brother is a monster. He towers over kids like a gargantuan giant. He is only in sixth grade yet he is almost my height. My brother, who is a sixth grader, is as tall as a high school senior. His lofty height makes him walk like an injured deer and hearing a scream of pain is a common sound. His feet must scream at him on a consistent basis from all the pain they have endured.

I am like Kevin Hart—short. When lining up for sports pictures, I would always be last. In basketball, everyone could block my shots like they were a seven footer. Being short is like being an ant next to a car, but it comes with benefits. I feel like a flower and I can move quick like a deer darting across a road.

My family has different heights. We may be close in height, but we all use it differently. We each have our own feelings about our height. We each have our own activities to do with our height. Height isn’t who we are, but how we perceive ourselves—how other see us.