Some people are born as trunks, strong, steady, and unshakeable. Others are born as branches, not as steady, but sturdy enough to support other things. I was born a twig, light enough to bend, but resilient enough to keep growing. When I was younger, I did not think of twigs that way. To me, a twig was something fragile, something that snapped too easily. And that is exactly what my nickname was to many, “twig”. I was always tall, skinny, and too light for my own good. It sounded harmless and was often said in a joking and frivolous way, but every time someone said it, I felt like that small branch was about to break. Although my younger self despised being called “twig”, my definition of a twig has evolved into one of subtle strength and empowerment as I have gotten older.
Contrary to my opinion, when many people first think of what a twig is, they think of the dictionary definition: “a slender shoot of a tree or other plant” (Dictionary.com). A twig is not the strong, sturdy trunk or even the somewhat thick branch which holds some weight. It is the little offshoot, barely holding onto itself against the wind. Oftentimes, a twig is looked at as the weakest link, or the most vulnerable aspect of a mighty tree. But there is one thing the dictionary leaves out, and that is how twigs are where growth begins. Before there are leaves or flowers blooming, before Mother Nature is completely in action in the spring, the twigs are there. They may look weak and fairly useless, but they are the starting point for everything that follows.
Despite the fact that in my opinion referring to someone as “twig” could compliment one’s resilience, that is not how people intended it when it was used to jab me. I would not consider being called “twig” in grade school getting bullied or anything of that nature as it was common for me and my friends to insult each other in every way possible just like most boys do in their grade school days. I would not roll over and often was found clapping back with my own half-joking insult, but each time I was called “twig” it cut deeper and deeper. Looking back at it, there was some truth to the nickname “twig” as I seemed to get injured quite often throughout my time in grade school. In fourth grade, when playing flag football I jammed my finger twice trying to catch the ball leading to a broken finger. Then in eighth grade, I fractured my ankle at the start of the football season and in my second game back, I broke my elbow which I now have a screw in. In all fairness, I was not getting much help my eighth grade year as I was a quarterback on a bad team and would get pummeled play after play. All everyone else saw is a kid who frequently seemed to be on the sidelines with a new brace or boot, always injured and hobbling around for one reason or the next. Throughout the years I have tried my hardest to be more solid like a trunk, or even not as fragile like a branch. I tested increasing the amount I eat and consuming as much protein as possible to put on weight, but per usual, my metabolism won the race against the food I consumed. As I have gotten older, and now attending high school, I have revised what “twig” truly means to me. It means bending, but never breaking. It means surviving and persevering even when times are tough. Twigs are the ones who grow back after winter. They may be thin, but they’re alive, always pushing forward, and that is what matters most.
So my personal definition of “twig” is not “small and weak”. It’s resilient and always growing. A twig is not the skinny kid always getting injured in grade school, it is the persevering and hard-working high school student who is open and ready for any obstacle that comes his way. To me a twig represents a kind of quiet strength that does not demand attention, but still holds great power. It is a reminder how growth only occasionally looks powerful, but oftentimes it looks uncertain and unsteady. In my opinion, a state of openness is where the real change begins. I believe you are only truly able to grow once you have been in a place of vulnerability and that is exactly what a twig does. I may not be the trunk of the tree, but I’m still growing, still reaching for sunlight, still standing through the wind.
In the end, the dictionary defines a twig as a small branch, but I define it as proof that true strength comes in all different shapes and sizes. The word which once made me feel small, now reminds me I’m still growing, bending, adapting, and alive. Because sometimes the smallest or skinniest components of the world are those who make the most significant impact.
