It was the warmest day of January I'd seen in years today. Sixty-some degrees, Fahrenheit.

I went outside today, and I went to swing on the swing set. It was still the same from my childhood. The only thing that was different was the kid entering it.

When I was on the swings as a kid, I used to dream that the swing would take me to space—to the moon and stars. Even now that I know the truth, to be honest, to be going higher in the sky, feeling the wind on your face and your arms as you go?

It's peaceful.

I think the kid who was previously on the swing would be proud of me. I haven't got much taller, and I've gone through a lot, and I swear.

But I think she would know and not care.

There's a second little kid that came out here once too.

She was sad. It was December and all they wanted to do was play. He wasn't enjoying it. Just wanted to go outside, to get some air.

She wasn't sure she'd make it past a lot of things. She wasn't convinced she'd make it to my age.

She'd be proud, too. Confused as to why I'm still here, when she is so sad and so brittle and so close to giving up.

One day she'd ask me.

"Did you ever get better?"

The other little girl, holding her long ponytail, would also look at me. She'd want to know, too.

"School got hard," I would have said, "but I'm tough as nails. Life's pretty good."

"It gets less lonely?"

"Way less lonely."

And that was what the other little girl had also wanted to hear. She was a happy kid, but she was lonely, too.

I may be older now—3 years older than the girl with the sadness. 7 years older than the girl with the ponytail. But in the end—I'm still the same. And in the end, I'm still growing.

You realize a lot when you're flying, free like a bird.