I’ve always been a bit of an “odd bird.”

I grew up on a family farm in a small, rural Tennessee town. From the day I was born, I was destined to be “different.” For example, my father was a big fan of palindromes, so instead of naming me Ellie as my name is pronounced, I was given Elle, so that as my dad would proudly say, “forwards or backwards, they’ll always get it right!”

Growing up and even as a young adult, my difference always showed up. My creativity was vast, and I understood the world through complex logical maps. My interests were unique, and I accumulated internal libraries of knowledge on these hyper-specific topics.

These factors of difference made me stand out from my peers—but not always in the most fun ways. I was often teased, bullied, and ostracized by both my peers and older adults. I was lucky to have a few close friends and family over time, but my safest space was always alone, by myself. It was comforting and lonely.

Seeking to find my place in adulthood, a message continued to echo in my mind. It was the voice of my mama, who, every time we would run into a peculiar person in my childhood, would say, “well, they’re just an odd bird!” She never said it with distaste or negative intent. In fact, she only said it with warmth and love—a gentle reminder that odd birds were beautiful, valuable, and integral parts of the broader community.

What if being an “odd bird” simply means that you were never meant to fly exactly like everyone else?