The room will adjust.
The room always adjusts.
And if it doesn't?
Choose another damn room.
Or a stage.
Or a stadium.
Or an amphitheatre.
I have never once apologised for the amount of space I occupy.
I am forty gallons.
I am aware of this.
I am entirely at peace with both of these facts.
I do not require you to be forty gallons.
I require you to be *full.*
Full.
Whole.
Undiluted. Unedited. Undiminished.
Undimmed. Intact. Uncompromised.
Whatever your label for it —
whatever the word that fits the shape of you — be that.
Completely.
The star of the show is not whole
without the scenery painted by quiet gifted hands.
The music written at 2am with a lone piano.
The lyric scribbled on a receipt in the middle of a parking lot because the moment would not wait.
The chorus forms the shadows.
The orchestra the texture.
None of it is small.
None of it is less.
It is all the complete amount of what it is.
If you are the star — you will know.
The ache in your chest knows.
The wish that won't quiet down knows.
The dream you've been sensibly setting aside knows.
That is not restlessness, darling.
That is your size, knocking on the inside of whatever smaller container you've been living in.
Do not stay comfortable at the cost of being incomplete.
If small is your size and that is whole for you —
small is magnificent and I mean that without a syllable of condescension.
But if there is an ache.
A wish.
A dream you can almost hold —
chase it until you can hold it aloft as the thing you were born to be.
Now.
Straighten your tiara, darling.
Throw back your shoulders.
Walk tall.
Be exactly the size you truly are.
*Even if that's larger than life.*
*Especially* if that's larger than life.
*A copy of this document is held in the correct drawer.*
*It has no label. None was needed.*