I was born naked. With good reason—after all, babies do not pop out of the womb fully clothed and prepped. I was slimy and screaming and covered in mucous, bare-bottomed yet warm. That was the first time I breathed the world's air into my fragile lungs and the first time I was presented vulnerable to other human beings crowding around me. That was the last time I was bare. One does not realize the amount of time a baby—a newborn, at that—goes on with its day clothed, with those pink and blue onesies, tightened diapers, cotton mittens and socks, button-up shirts. The longer one's hair and the greater the size of her shoe, clothes become a necessity—sweaters, frilled skirts, jeans that are the latest trend. Soon follow bras and bralettes. Winter parkas switch out with swimming suits as seasons change, and flip-sequin cupcake jerseys turn to Hollister crop tops. I hated crop tops. I hated shorts and open-toed sandals, spaghetti straps and v-neck t-shirts. The period in which humans undergo the transition from egocentric toddlers to functioning pieces of society is always so harsh, and elementary school is a prime time. Children are unfiltered. They do not mean harm—or perhaps they do—when they spit out bitter truths; I'm afraid I learned this the hard way. Tourettes is an oddly unusual disability to experience at such a young age—it was rare enough that no one in my school shared my predicaments, but not a one-in-a-million condition that I was given special treatment. The time that my world was reduced to a single home had not prepared me for the harshness of reality; my grunts and yells, snorts and whistles, facial distortions, tapping, clicking, and my entire range of movements were nothing out of the ordinary. My mother laughed with me; we continued life while incorporating it into our routine, and I thought nothing of it. On my first day of kindergarten, I wore a dress. Blue with floral patterns, spaghetti straps, laces—soft and cool to the touch. I did not know where I was going or who I was meeting, but I was excited—thrilled, even. As I found my seat and looked around at the curious young faces surrounding me, I saw them distort to confusion, then undisguised humor—giggles arose, and it was the first time I realized the difference between laughing with and laughing at. That day, I heard the words that tore my ballooned heart into shreds. Ew, why are you making that noise? * That was the last day I wore that dress. All that excitement that had roused me from my sleep now transformed into something entirely different, keeping me awake with a different purpose. The moment replayed through my mind through the night; it was those eyes, filled with giggles and oddness, that stripped me down bare and robbed me of my item of security—they took me back to my first breath of air, the vulnerability of my naked body on the operating table. I was unclothed. With stares and giggles and pointed fingers, my clothes melted like candlewax from my body, and I was on display for the whole world to see. I wore pants the next day. I had protested against going back to that dreaded place, but the choice was not up for me to make. All I saw were eyes, and the moment I entered the classroom, my shirt and pants melted to the ground. * I do not recall wearing skirts or dresses in middle school. No tank tops, no crops, no spaghetti straps. The layers continued to pack on, for the more skin I covered, the more I could hide from the blistering flames that burned my clothes of wax. I was hot. I was suffocating. Yet what was I to do? I did not want to get seared. Only at home was I free from the fire; my limbs met the cool air; my feet, my thighs, my abdomen; skin met skin and my clothes were not wax anymore—they were fabric. Silly, simple sheets of fabric that did not melt nor weigh me down. They did not hide me. The beauty of my skin was not suffocated by layers of candle melt, and I could truly breathe. When I sit in my tub of warm water in the winters, I simmer in the tactile heat and look down at the nature of my unadorned body. Here, I find various curiosities: moles that I have never noticed lining my stomach, a slight scar from an old memory, smooth and rough patches, places embellished with hair and others bare. I simmer in the warmth of my own skin, unclothed, and I am back on the operating table, the air slightly cool but my body warm, surrounded by relief and joy and my vibrant voice ringing the air. My waxed clothes were nothing but weights that sizzled and burned my skin; the fire around me was not fire, but merely the rays of the sun that licked my skin. * I still do not like crop tops. But when I raise my arms up to cheer for my friends at a race or event, the wind flutters under my shirt, and my stomach is exposed, but what is there to do? Let the sunlight toast my skin. The heat will not hurt me; after all, my clothes are not made of wax.