Rhapsody: Butterfly in A Box (Volume One) Chapter 2/15 By Tara Nicole Miller Copyright © 2025 Tara Nicole Miller All Rights Reserved. Word Count 5,000

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Show Yourself. I'm Dying To Meet You.

“Show yourself.
Step into the power.
Grow yourself into something new.”
— Idina Menzel, “Show Yourself” (Frozen 2)

Next thing I knew, I could smell coffee and that means it’s morning. Mom was bustling around and dad was on his phone as usual, probably looking at sports things. Well, he does own a rather large construction company, so I guess it could be business. Whatever, he always seemed to be looking at his phone. “C’mon sweetie, up and at ‘em!” Mom enthused. “We’re going to Sedona today!”

“What’s Sedona?” I asked, as you do when you are six.

Mom sat next to me on the bed and grabbed my hand. Her voice was soothing and soft and trance-like. “Well, honey, Sedona is… it’s more than just a place, really, it's a feeling—a vibrant, pulsating energy that thrums beneath your feet. There are ancient red rocks, carved by time and whispers of the wind, and they’re believed to be home to powerful vortexes, swirling centers of spiritual energy that amplify healing, meditation, and self-discovery. This is why artists and healers, seekers and mystics, are drawn there from all over the world. They come to connect with the land, to feel the sacred power of the canyons, and to tap into the very essence of the earth itself, a place where the veil between worlds feels thin and the spirit can truly soar.”

“Oh, snap!” Was all I could say.

Dad said more, however. “Holy hell, where did that come from? You sound like a… Like a…”
“Like what, Michael?”

“I don’t know. What’s the term for ‘woo-woo?’” He tried and wiggled his fingers and I giggled, making like a train whistle (whoo-whoo!).

“Michael, you knew I was a New Ager when you married me. You act surprised. Are you going conservative on me? Because, if you are…”

“No, no! Certainly not! I just never heard you speak about it so… eloquently or passionately before. I was just taken aback. No. Carry on.” Dad sputtered, still looking mystified.

Mom looked at me. “So, anyway, that’s where we’re going. Maybe we’ll even get Mr. ‘Scientific Materialism’ in to see a psychic.”

“Fat chance!” Dad yelled from the bathroom.

Three hours later we were sitting down in front of a woman named Brooke, who is apparently a psychic soul guide and shamanic healer, whatever that is. Turns out mom had booked her months ago as she is in great demand.

Dad was in rare form. The first thing he says is, “The sign says she does virtual sessions. We didn’t even have to leave our house for god’s sake. Look at this place. It looks like the entire Left Bank and half of Bohemia blew in here!”

“You loved the Left Bank, don’t deny it.” Mom says.

“God, you were so romantic when we went to Paris. What’s happened to you? Anyway, the reason we’re here is simple. I knew we we coming here, I knew about Brooke, and I know the energy here amplifies abilities and effects, so hush!”

Dad’s countenance fell. “I guess life has been getting in the way and I’ve been letting the business get to me.”

Mom perked up. “Brooke can help with that, I’m sure of it. It also wouldn’t hurt for you to delegate more of the responsibilities at work.”

“Come to work for me.” Dad said and mom gave him a look. “I mean with; with me!” He corrected.

She laughed. “No frickin’ way bucko! The business world and I do not vibe well.”

“Vibe?” Dad smirked.

“Oh shut up!” Mom slapped dad on the arm.
Just then, a raven-haired beauty walked, no, glided, into the room. She was old person pretty, way older than mom, with wrinkles and stuff. “Hi, Steph! Welcome to Desert Star Center for Spiritual Growth. Nice to finally meet you in person.”
Mom turned to dad. “We face-timed a few months ago.” Dad nodded and said ah!

“Hi Brooke!” Mom gave her a hug. “So nice to meet you too. I’ve done all your online courses. They were really great. I couldn’t get Michael to do them, but maybe you could help with that, too.” Mom winked and Brooke smiled.

“I’ll do my best,” She promised with an enigmatic smile.

“Daddy is Mr. ‘Scientific Materialist!’” I parroted what I’d heard that morning, not even knowing what it meant, really.

“Is he now?” Brooke grinned, looking at me. She then squatted and grabbed my hand. “You’re Sage.” She stated emphatically and I nodded. “You are a very pretty girl. I bet all the boys are after you!”

“Nooo!” I squealed, turning red and looking up at daddy, who was also turning red.

“Sage is a boy! Some psychic you are!” He blurted.
“Michael! Really!” Mom admonished.

“Well, right off the bat she is fundamentally, objectively wrong, isn’t she?”

Mom looked at Brooke. “Oh, let him have it, sister!” They grinned at each other.

“Come. Sit. Let me explain reality to you.” She led us into a room with subdued lighting and offered us some kind of herbal tea. It was actually really good! Who knew? It tasted pretty, like flowers!

When we were comfy dad smirked. “Okay, oh wise one, explain the universe to me. But use small words so this Neanderthal can understand.”

“Michael! Don’t be such a, such a… man!” Mom seethed.

Dad’s eyes squinched. He shook his head and looked toward Brooke. “Sorry for being such a man, Brooke. Do go on.” He didn’t sound at all like he meant any of it.

“Well, actually, there is something to what Stephanie said. Don’t get angry at what I’m about to say. Just take it in and perhaps think about it later. Okay?” Dad nodded, then mom said she was recording it, so Brooke resumed. “While we are in so-called ‘material’ form - nothing is material, by the way. It’s all Conscious energy. Matter is the name we have given to those vibrations which our very limited human senses can detect. Anyway, while we are in these constrained vibrational patterns known as human beings, both masculine and feminine are necessary for our growth over a vast number of lifetimes. Dark and Light, Yin and Yang, Good and Evil.”

“So, you’re saying men are evil?” Dad practically growled.

“So you are paying attention. No, not necessarily.” She went on to explain about toxic masculinity (including the nefarious effects of testosterone), the statistics on violence, and the soul’s growth and how we are aspects of the one god or goddess seeking experience in order to know itself. To create itself, really, in the process. I didn’t really understand that bit until a few years ago. Thank the goddess mom had recorded the session on her iPhone or all this would have been lost to the mists of time. Well, at least the personal bits, which were yet to come.

Brooke resumed. “So, Michael, I see you are a moderately evolved man with a highly evolved wife, and a supremely evolved child.” Mom and dad looked at me with wide eyes. “She is an ascended master, come back to help the world through this difficult time.”

“She.” Dad muttered, but said nothing else, surprisingly enough.

“Yes, she. She is the most divinely expressed feminine I have ever come across, and I am deeply honored to have her here in front of me.”

Dad mutter-coughed “Bullshit,” under his breath, but we could still hear it. Dad didn’t swear very often, but when he did it was usually for a very good reason. A bad call by a referee, for example.

“So, why was she born in the body of a boy?” It was mom who asked this one. I thought dad would have done that.

“Had she been born in a female body, she would have taken her femininity for granted, perhaps never given it a second thought. As it is, she will cherish it and nurture it, even have fun with it! But, being a transgirl, she will be subject to the ignorance of the less evolved. Her life could be threatened. She will need your guidance and protection.” She looked to dad. “As a man, you will need to obey one of the prime directives of manhood - to protect your women. I also hope you learn to cherish them. You needen’t venerate women, unless you want to of course (she grinned), but treat them with respect. Instead of second class citizens, see them as highly evolved beings. Mind you, many women are no more evolved than men, and some men are evolved beyond women, but these are exceptions to the rule.”
“So, why couldn’t he just be a highly evolved man?” Dad asked.

“So she can experience the worst prejudices of this world. She will be tested. Sorely. She is an empath, an indigo, but there are two paths open to her. She can either be overwhelmed and shrink into the shadows, perhaps even end this life prematurely, though that would be a tragedy and karmically damaging. You must protect her from descending to these possible depths. The other path is to be a warrior. A social justice warrior, a liberator, an enlightener. Just sharing her loving, divine, feminine nature will be a boost to this world. But if she could be guided to use her gifts directly and more broadly for the greater good, she would be fulfilling the purpose of this lifetime.”

Dad interjected. “If he, she, is such an enlightened being, what difference does it make what clothes she wears? Couldn’t she just wear boy clothes? She has a boy’s body after all. Lots of girls wear boy clothes.”
“Let me turn that question around. Why does it matter to you?” Brooke asked.

Dad responded, “Well, that’s just the way society is, at least in this country. We’re not all as evolved as you or Steph or Sage. We need boys to be boys and girls to be girls.”

“That is changing, somewhat. But, yes, it is right that male and female are distinguishable from each other and it is natural that they are so. But, people like Sage, transgender girls I mean, are girls and they will probably want to wear obviously girl clothes, since that is one of the things our culture promotes to enhance gender differences. Right now we are in the midst of a social counter-revolution, a reactionary moment, that is how human history evolves. We will all suffer in the meantime, but will come out the other end at a higher vibration. Martin Luther King spoke truth when he paraphrased Theodore Parker, saying, ‘The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.’ What is justice, but Diversity, Equity, Inclusion. Sound familiar? And what bends this arc is love and compassion. The end goal is radical compassion and unconditional love.

It is doubtful that any of us alive now will live to see it expressed throughout society. But we can embrace it and live it to the best of our abilities. You have a unique opportunity. Your daughter will be an exemplar, I have no doubt of that, whichever path she treads. Embrace her, learn from her, and protect her, for pure goodness is still very vulnerable in this world. Remember when Barabas was chosen over Christ? We are not far removed from that, especially today. We are at an inflection point, and you can help determine mankind’s future. Sounds daunting, I know. But it’s really quite simple. Let your daughter be a child and let her express her true nature. Don’t expect her to be a saint. She is in human form, subject to human vibrations. But, nurture love and compassion in yourselves and your relationships. It’s really simple, but can be quite difficult. We have a lot to overcome in our social and personal subconscious constructs and our epigenetic legacies. Just remain aware. Know your purpose and bring your awareness to center when it strays.”

Brooke talked for over two hours and covered a lot of personal stuff as well. I had no clue at the time what she was talking about, but the years have allowed things to crystallize in my mind. But, as it was, I just sat and enjoyed the changing faces of these three people in front of me, and my flowery tea! This was so cool; we’ve entered the wardrobe and met the witch, so, now where’s that wonderful lion? Aslan! Giggle.

Brooke's reading wasn't just about my parents' careers and their love for me. The really personal stuff was a lot like that last puzzle piece you find under the couch that makes everything else suddenly click into place. At the time, I didn’t understand, but Mom and Dad’s faces showed me just how much she had said.

I was only six, so a lot of what Brooke said just sounded like weird words to me. But she wasn't talking about the past. She was talking about me, my future, and my heart. I knew that much.

My mom sent me the recording of the Sedona reading last night. A tiny file on my iPhone, a little piece of history in a world full of big ones. I’m sitting on my four-poster bed now, the one with the fluffy white duvet and a dozen pillows that are mostly for show. It’s your typical sixteen-year-old girl's room, a beautiful, messy collage of posters of my favorite K-pop idols, photos of my friends at the beach, and my first tiny pink ballet shoes I wore for my first recital. The satin winks at me, subtly reminding me of the little girl I’d always been. I still am.

I hit play.

The tinny, crackly voice of Brooke fills my room. It sounds like a ghost, a voice from a faraway time. I hear my own little-girl giggle, my dad's deep voice, and my mom's quiet questions. It's all there, all the magic that felt so big then and feels so small and yet so immense now.

I close my eyes and I can see it. Brooke's face is a map of wrinkles and wisdom. My dad's bewildered expression, like someone just told him the sky wasn't blue. My mom's face, a portrait of awe.

And then, Brooke’s voice cuts through the static.

"Your greatest masterpiece won't be a building, but a life." I open my eyes and look at the posters on my wall. My idols, with their perfectly coiffed hair and their flawless dance moves. They have a kind of mastery, a kind of art. But my dad's masterpiece... it was me. It was the life he built for me, the one where I could be a girl in a pink ski suit and a princess who wore work gloves.

"The most important book you will ever own won't be on the shelves of your bookstore; it will be the unwritten story of your daughter's life." I look at my desk, at the laptop open to the first page of this memoir. My mom’s story is in every word, in every chapter title, in every sentence that finds a way to make the world a little more beautiful. She gave me the words, the love of stories, and the courage to write my own.

"Your spirit is a butterfly that would one day emerge and fly." I look at the closet door, at the full-length mirror, and I see a girl with a smile on her face. A girl with purple fingernails and a funny, knowing look in her eyes. I don't feel like a boy in a dress anymore. I feel like myself. I am a butterfly. And I have a story to tell.

The recording ends. I lie back on my pillows and look at the ceiling, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I'm trying to find a place in the world. I feel like I am the place.

For Dad, the builder, the architect, she said his greatest masterpiece wouldn't be a building, but a life. She told him that his blueprints, the ones he'd been using since he was a boy, were meant for a different kind of house, and that he would have to re-engineer his whole foundation to build the home his spirit was meant to build. She said he would one day be a warrior, but he would have to learn to use a new kind of armor and a new kind of strength, not the kind that was made of steel and grit, but the kind that was made of love and trust.

For Mom, the storyteller, she said the most important book she would ever own wouldn't be on the shelves of her bookstore; it would be the unwritten story of her daughter's life. Brooke told her that she had a spirit as old as the mountains, a spirit that had been waiting for a home just like hers, and that she would be the one to help me find my true name and my true form.
And for me, the little ersatz boy in the armchair, she said that I was a beautiful girl with a warrior's heart and a princess's soul. She said that my body was a kind of a chrysalis, a temporary home, and that my spirit was a butterfly that would one day emerge and fly. She told me that I was a kind of magic, a truth that the world didn't understand yet, but would have to learn. At the time, I just giggled and asked if she had any more of that yummy flowery tea. I didn’t know it then, but she had just given my parents all the words they would ever need to understand me.

I am suddenly back in the car/truck thingy, bouncing back to our hotel in Glendale

The reading was over, but the silence in the car was louder than any of the rock-and-roll we’d been listening to on the way up. The red rocks of Sedona blurred past my window, and I kept my eyes on my parents in the rearview mirror, trying to read their faces like I was reading a book.

Mom looked like she was in a trance. She was pale, and a single tear was making a slow, careful path down her cheek, but her face wasn't sad. It was a face that was seeing something bigger than the two hours we'd just spent with a woman named Brooke. She looked like she was memorizing every word, every gesture, every feeling. For her, I think, it wasn’t a preposterous prediction. It was the sacred truth.
Daddy, the architect, the builder of big things, looked like someone had just told him a building he’d designed was going to collapse under its own weight. His stubbly face was a mixture of confusion and profound bewilderment. He kept looking at Mom, and then at me in the back seat, as if trying to find the structural flaw in all of this. He didn't believe in magic or spirits or any of that. His world was built on blueprints and numbers and things he could see and touch. And yet, this woman, this psychic, had just talked about our little family, our dreams and our fears, as if she'd been living in our house. He was a man of certainty, and for the first time in his life, he didn't have a solid foundation to stand on.
The silence stretched on, and I, the little girl in the middle of it all, knew that something had shifted. Something had cracked. Brooke's words were like a wrecking ball that had just hit the walls of the world my parents had built. And I knew, in that moment, we weren't in Kansas anymore. We were well and truly in Narnia, and the adventure had just begun.

A few miles later, as we were just finally settling back into the hum and flow of the ‘Monster Truck,’ dad asked, “So, are we really going to take all this spiritual mumbojumbo seriously? It’s insane. Are we seriously going to allow Sage to be all girly? Well, girlier than he is. I mean, are we going to encourage this, all based on a psychic reading? Seems preposterous! The world doesn’t work that way!”

“Really, Michael. Were you not listening at all? That’s exactly how the world works…”

“Not my world!” Dad blurted.

Mom, very calmly said, “Just let things happen, okay? We’re not encouraging, we’re allowing. Setting aside our prejudices and allowing. You know Sage has never been very good at doing boy. Very poor marks, indeed. What if? What if this is all true and real? Can we really afford to fight against it?” She sighed. “Maybe we just see how she gets on, hmm? Let her instincts, her nature, guide us in how to guide and protect her.”

“You’re right about him not being very boy. And I have heard of transgender, you know. It’s just… It’s more than me wanting a son; actually, it’s not that at all. Not really.” He shook his head. “I’m just terrified for her. The world is cruel.”

“Well, then you’ll need to be there for her, won’t you?”

Dad looked at mom real quick, then hung his head. It stayed down, for like a whole minute. It's like we were all holding our breath, then he simply looked up and nodded once, emphatically. “You got it!” He turned to me, looking way too serious. “Will you promise me just one thing young lady?” Gosh, that sounded so good and it thrilled me to my core. “Will you be a ‘Daddy’s Girl’ for me? Please?”

I crawled off of mom and onto Daddy’s lap and gave him a big hug and a peck on the lips. “Yes, Daddy! Cross my heart and hope to die!” I then giggled until he handed me back over to mom.

“Sorry, but Daddy has to drive.” He smiled and put the car into gear. A whole world had changed in just one little, gigantic, minute.

Football Princess

“I can be happy, I can be mad,
I can be good, I can be bad.
I can be anything I want to be.”

— Miley Cyrus, “I Can Be” (Hannah Montana)

Sunday morning smelled of sizzling sausages and gasoline, a pre-game perfume that clung to the air. The whole purpose of the trip, at least for Daddy, was this game. I trotted beside him, my hand a small anchor in his large, warm one, and we made our way to the Colorado contingent of tailgaters. There was a folding table covered in jerseys and hats, and I saw it. A Peyton Manning jersey, but not just any jersey. This one was pretty, sparkly, and pink! My breath hitched. What girl could resist that?

“Daddy, look!” The words squealed out of me, a confetti cannon of pure delight. “Can I get it? Please? Please?”

He stopped, his hand tightening around mine just a little. I watched him. He looked around at the other tailgaters, at the burly men in orange jerseys and the women with painted faces. No one was paying us any mind. He glanced at Mom, who stood silent, a quiet challenge in her eyes. It was like a football play unfolding, but I didn't know the rules. After what felt like an eternity, he swallowed hard, and a shaky smile broke across his face. "Um, yes. Sure. Of course, sweetie." His voice was a little quiet, a little hesitant, but he bought me the jersey. I wasn’t a touchdown, or even a field goal, not yet, but I was definitely a first down. And that was totally cool with me at that moment.

Mom said we should get inside before I roasted, so Dad downed the rest of his beer, gave his new buddies a couple of chest bumps and forearm shivers, and led us toward the stadium. He led us to some special entrance, a glass doorway that opened into a cool, dark tunnel. And then we were out, and the world exploded.

I'd been to games before, but this was different. State Farm Stadium was a gigantic, glittering spaceship! The roof was a patchwork quilt of metal, some of it open to the blue Arizona sky, and the light streamed down in beams, catching the dust motes and making them dance. The seats were a sea of red, and the people were tiny, ant-sized figures, but their noise was a roar that filled my whole chest. The jumbotron thing was a sparkling city, at least a hundred televisions put together, dad says, showing a giant picture of the field. Even the air smelled different—like hot dogs and freshly cut grass and excitement. I was surprised they had real grass indoors. Weird. It was all so big, so beautiful, I just wanted to stand there and look at it forever.

But, we soon found our seats on the fifty-yard line, right where Dad always insisted on being, if not in a plush VIP suite. A little girl, about my age, was already there, wearing a Cardinals jersey. Her eyes found mine, and she immediately sprang to her feet, a tiny, menacing warrior. “Booo! Broncos suck!” The words were a sharp jab, and they shattered the magic of the moment. My sparkly jersey suddenly felt heavy. My face crumpled, and I turned, burying myself into my daddy, hot tears stinging my eyes.

He didn't hesitate. He scooped me up, pulling me into the safety of his chest. "It’s okay, sweetie. She didn’t mean anything bad; it's just what silly fans do when they get excited. It’s nothing to do with you.” His voice was a quiet rumble against my ear, a perfect comfort.

“Really?” I hiccupped.

“Really. Now, you show her there are no hard feelings. Go say hi.”

I did. I let him put me down, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and walked over to her. She looked a little embarrassed, and she said her name was Rachel. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. "I just got excited."
“It’s okay,” I said. We got on like a house on fire. We spent the whole game mimicking the cheerleaders' moves, a flurry of hands and giggles and can-can kicks. She even gave me a Cardinals sticker for my cheek. It was a beautiful, shiny red bird. Rachel’s mom, a kind lady with a warm smile, even gave me a pair of Cardinals earrings. I was so embarrassed that my ears weren’t pierced yet, but Mom said we could do it when we got home. Dad made a fuss, but I didn’t care about my divided loyalties, not when I had a new friend and a sparkly bird on my cheek.

As the game wound down, Rachel’s mom said to mine, “They’re just so sweet together. They remind me that a little friendship is more important than a big game.” Michael's face softened, and he smiled at Rachel’s dad. He wasn't talking about football anymore; he was just a dad with another dad, both of them watching their little girls play. We said our goodbyes and left, the roar of the crowd feeling different now—not really a threat, but like a song.

The day had started about a game and a jersey. It ended with a pretty sticker on my cheek and a feeling of peace through my whole body. My father hadn't gotten a touchdown, he said. He’d gotten something far more important: a first step, a first down perhaps (three yards and a cloud of dust, he said), toward understanding me, not as a boy, not any longer, but as his child. Perhaps he’d made progress toward even accepting me as a daughter, a girl. I hoped so. And I get to have my ears pierced next week! Yay! Oh, the Broncos won by the way. BTW!

"You ready to get some sleep, sweet pea?" Mom asked, her voice a soft hum in the quiet of the airplane headed back to Denver in the dark of night.

I was still wearing my sparkly pink jersey and the Cardinals sticker on my cheek. I nodded, but didn't move from the window seat. I was staring at the city lights twinkling below, just thinking.

"What's on your mind?" Mom asked, leaning over and wrapping an arm around me.

"The girl, Rachel," I said, tracing the pattern of the sticker on my cheek. "She was really nice."

"She was," Mom agreed. "And you were so brave. I was so proud of you for going to talk to her."

"I was scared," I admitted. "When she said 'Broncos suck,' I thought she meant me. It felt like she meant me."

Mom tensed, like her heart ached a little. "Oh, honey. She didn't. She was just excited about her team. She wasn't thinking about you at all."

I frowned at that. "But Daddy," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. "He looked worried. When he was talking to her daddy, he looked... different. Like he wasn't happy."

Mom smiled, a sad, knowing smile. "That's because he was protecting you. Your dad is a warrior, too, just like you. He saw someone hurt your feelings, and he wanted to make it better. He was just trying to be a good daddy."

I was quiet for a moment, my eyes still on the lights below. "He gave me a hug," I said, my voice filled with a quiet wonder. "And he looked at me like I was a real girl. Like it was okay."

Mom squeezed me, holding me tight. "It is okay. It's more than okay. He's learning, honey. We all are. It was a good day, wasn't it?"

I finally turned from the window, a genuine smile on my face. "It was," I said, and then I touched the sticker on my cheek. "It was a really, really good day." Then I yawned.

Continued next Friday, 5pm MST - Chapter 3/15

 

Rhapsody: Butterfly in A Box (Volume One) Chapter 3/15 By Tara Nicole Miller Copyright © 2025 Tara Nicole Miller All Rights Reserved. Word Count 5,000

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Previously in Rhapsody: A Butterfly in a Box

Sage’s story begins with the "opening of the wardrobe" during a family trip to the Grand Canyon and Sedona, where a profound psychic reading acts as a wrecking ball to the traditional blueprints of her father’s world. Guided by the "shamanic wisdom" of Brooke and the fierce, alchemical love of her mother, Stephanie, six-year-old Sage begins the transition from a "stuck caterpillar" into the girl she has always been on the inside. We witnessed her first courageous steps into the world as herself: the monumental victory of wearing a pink Manning jersey at a Broncos game, and, through a fortuitous mishap, a new friend's pretty romper.

And now...

True Colors

But I see your true colors
shining through.
I see your true colors,
and that's why I love you.
~ Cyndi Lauper, True Colors

Mom has always been a storyteller. She and Dad have their own love story—two kids from very different upbringings who met at CU, she with her MFA in literature and he with his master’s in architecture. They weren’t old money, but they were smart money. Dad’s parents sold off a thousand acres of Kansas farmland, turning a legacy of dirt and hard work into a fortune, a new kind of foundation for him to build a construction empire upon. He’s 6'2", with brown hair and designer stubble, a handsome man who builds buildings. Mom is a pretty blonde, 5'7", who owns a bookstore and builds stories. Her parents couldn’t be more different from Daddy’s, being Hollywood producers, promoting a long line of liberal causes.

I was maybe four when I started telling them what I needed. But before that, my feelings were just big, wild things, and my parents had to guess what they meant. One of my first “Sage Stories” was from preschool. The one where I had to be a boy.

The preschool was a happy-looking place with brightly colored walls and finger paintings hanging everywhere, but I remember it as the place where I first learned what it felt like to be a question mark. My teacher, Mrs. Gable, was very sweet, with a big smile and a name tag shaped like a teddy bear. One day, she divided the class. "All the boys go to the block corner," she said, her voice a little too cheerful. "And all the girls go to the kitchen."

I froze. The boys were already on the floor, their hands making a frantic, clattering noise as they started to build a fort. The girls were giggling, putting tiny plastic plates on a tiny plastic table. My body felt like it was betraying me. I wasn’t a fort. I wasn’t a kitchen. I was just me. Standing alone, with my little brown stuffed bunny.

Mrs. Gable came over to me. "What's wrong, Sage?" she asked, her voice soft but a little insistent. "Go play with the other boys."
I just shook my head. "I can't," I whispered.

"Honey, of course you can," she said. She tried to gently nudge me toward the boys, but I just sat down right there in the middle of the floor, a tiny island in a sea of linoleum. I didn’t cry. I didn't make a fuss. I just sat there, a little stone. I couldn't be a boy. And it seemed I couldn't be a girl. I was just... stuck.

Mom got to the preschool to pick me up and found me still in the same spot, a little boy in the corner, with a face full of tears. She didn't scold me. She just knelt down, her blonde hair falling around her face like a curtain. Her hands, soft from handling books all day, went to my cheeks, and she looked right into my eyes.

"What can't you do, honey?" she whispered, and her voice was a lifeline.

I swallowed hard. The words felt too big to say out loud, but they were even bigger to keep inside. "I can't be a boy," I said.

And Mom, my beautiful, smart-as-a-whip-and-crazy-as-a-fox mom, didn't even blink. She just took me into her arms and hugged me so tight I thought I might turn into a pancake.

"Then you don't have to," she said. "You don't have to."

I guess that was my first lesson in wisdom. It came not from a book, but from a hug. And that was all I needed to learn to bend the rules of the world a little, to find a way to make it right for me.

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The Deep End - Back to School

“I'm off the deep end,
watch as I dive in,
I'll never meet the ground.”

~Lady Gaga, Shallow

The previous day had been a whirlwind of meetings. The Monday after we got back from Phoenix. Mom, armed with a letter from a gender-affirming therapist—a wonderful woman named Dr. Evans, who had agreed to fit us in after hours—had met with the principal and My teacher, Mrs. Davies. The conversation wasn't easy apparently, but the school, guided by policies and a seemingly genuine desire to do the right thing, had agreed to support my transition, such as it was. Like I said, I wasn’t all that much of a boy to begin with. I’m not sure anyone really noticed me anyway. Anyway, today, the plan was in action.

Mom walked me to the classroom door. I wore a simple, beautiful floral dress (which we bought last night after our meeting with Dr. Evans) and shiny black Mary Janes. My hair was pulled into two neat pigtails, a style that felt more "me" than anything before. I had looked at myself in the mirror a long time that morning. I smiled a lot, too. Now, standing at the classroom door, I was super nervous, my hand clammy in my mom's. I felt like Matilda entering Crunchem Hall for gosh sakes! Except for the superpower bit, of course.

"Remember what we talked about, sweet pea?" Mom whispered. "You are Sage. And you are a girl. They're going to treat you like a girl, and they're going to use 'she' and 'her.' Okay?"

I nodded, taking a deep breath. I didn't want to look back as I went in, but I did, quickly, and saw mom smile. I relaxed just the smallest amount. The morning was a blur of introductions and lessons. Mrs. Davies was a master of subtle inclusion. When she lined us up to go outside, she simply said, "Girls, line up on the right. Boys, on the left." I hesitated this time. I usually just went for the girl line before being shooed over to the boys, but this time felt different. Then I saw Mrs. Davies's encouraging smile. I took my place on the right, my heart pounding. Why was today so different? No one said a word. When it was time for a restroom break, Mrs. Davies pointed to the girls’ restroom door. I used it without issue, a small but monumental victory. BTW, I like the girls’ restroom way better than the boys! Better people, too, giggle.

The true test came at lunchtime. I sat at a table, one of those small cartons of 2% milk in front of me. I was carefully unwrapping my sandwich when a girl named Olivia, with bouncy red curls, slid into the seat across from me. I held my breath.
"I like your dress." Olivia chirped.

Somewhat surprised, I looked up. "Oh. Thanks! My mom helped me pick it out!" I said with a smile and not a little pride.
"I'm Olivia.” She said, unnecessarily. “Do you like my shoes? They have glitter on them, see?" Olivia held up her foot, her sparkly shoes a vibrant contrast to my simple ones. But I liked them both. A lot. I need to ask Mommy for more shoes!

"They're really pretty. I'm Sage." I gave her a little girly wave.

A few other girls, drawn by the conversation, drifted over. One girl, named Chloe, pointed to my pigtails.

Chloe asked, "Why do you have two ponytails?"

"My mom calls them pigtails." I informed her.

Chloe leaned in and sotto voce said, "You used to be a boy, right? Pretty sure I saw you on the first day of school. You even wore a tie, I think." She giggled.

The air at the table went still. I felt an unfamiliar panic. I looked down at my milk carton, then my sparkly pink nails that usually make me so happy. But I was suddenly unable to meet Chloe's gaze. God, my mom made me wear that stupid tie first day! What a nightmare.
Olivia scoffed, "So? She's a girl now. The teacher said so. Mrs. Davies said sometimes people are born a little mixed up and they just have to find their way to being the real them."

Chloe just said, "Oh," and shrugged, a simple, childlike acceptance of the new information. "Do you want to trade your chips for my cookies?" She wasn’t one to long dwell on the unimportant apparently. I giggled and finally released the tension that had been building to a crescendo.
The rest of lunch was about exchanging snacks, comparing lunchboxes (mine was Elsa from Frozen)[9], and planning who would get on the swings at recess. The boys at their own table across the way seemed totally oblivious, lost in a discussion about superheroes and video games or some such. They didn't seem to notice or care about my new appearance; I was just one more kid in the sea of children to them. One more stupid girl. Fine by me. Silly boys!

As I walked out to the playground, a chocolate chip cookie in my hand, I knew it wouldn't always be this easy. I really did. I somehow knew I was in for some rough weather ahead. But today, the world hadn’t ended. The ground hadn’t opened up. The sky hadn’t fallen. I was just a girl, on a playground, on a beautiful Tuesday afternoon. And that was all I needed.

---

A Madeleine for Caleb

"Me want cookie! Me want cookie! Me...want...cookie!"
~ Cookie Monster

It was recess, and the playground was a chaotic symphony of shouting and running and the squeak of swings. The afternoon sun was warm, but a crisp September wind made the air feel new and clean. I had a cookie in my hand, a small, round thing with a chocolate chip smile, a leftover from the batch my mom and I had made. It felt like a little piece of sunshine.
I wasn't playing. I was standing by the chain-link fence, watching everyone else. I was still feeling that invisible barrier, and I felt a million miles away from the kids playing kickball and hopscotch.

And then I saw Caleb.

I knew who he was, of course. And he knew me, you know, before I was me. He was a bully. And he was the boy who had looked at my pretty floral dress, and my shiny mary janes, this very morning, my first girl morning, and said, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Look, it’s a boy in a dress!” My heart, which had been so full of hope, had shrunk a little at that moment. But now, he was sitting on a swing all by himself, his head down, drawing with a stick in the dirt. He didn't seem to have any friends at all.

I felt a sudden, powerful need to talk to him. I grabbed tightly onto the chain-link fence and tried mightily to talk myself out of it, but I couldn’t seem to do it. So, I sighed and lifted my head high. I walked over to the swing set, putting a little extra swish into my skirt. My feet made soft crunching sounds on the gravel, then I stopped in front of him and just held out the cookie.

He looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. He didn't seem to recognize me at first. "What's that?" he asked, his voice a soft little whisper.
"It's a cookie, silly," I said. "My mom and I made it. We have tons."

He didn't take it. He just looked at me, a little confused. The memory of his cold words hung in the air between us. His face, which was a mess of warm brown threads and a smudge of dirt, was suddenly all a-squish with a kind of suspicion. He just stared at me, his one eyebrow raised.
I didn't say anything. I just kept holding the cookie out. He finally looked down at the cookie, then back up at me. He didn't say thank you. He didn’t say anything. He just snatched it from my hand, shoved it into his pocket, and went back to drawing in the dirt. He didn't take a bite. He didn't even look at it. He just put it away, as if it were a secret he didn't want anyone to know about.

I walked back to the fence, and in that moment, I realized that I wasn't lonely anymore. I glanced back at the swings, and I saw him. Caleb had taken the cookie out of his pocket, and he was taking a bite, his back to me, his body hunched over, as if it were the most important secret in the world. A small, quiet smile came to my face.

It was so cool. I had given him a cookie, and he didn't say thank you, and he didn't even look at it, but he ate it anyway. He was like a little bird that you give a piece of bread to, and it just snatches it and flies away, and you don't even know if it's going to eat it. But it does.
I didn't need him to thank me. I didn't need him to be my friend, not really, although one can never have too many friends, can one? No, I just needed to know that my cookie, my little piece of sunshine, had found its own way.

---

Butterflies are Free

"I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.”

~ Charles Dickens, Bleak House

My first sleepover felt like a monumental event. It was just a couple weeks later. Olivia and I were quickly becoming fast friends. Mom was stood by the car, watching over me from a distance. I stood on the front step of Olivia’s house and clutched my pink backpack, which contained not only my pajamas and toothbrush and my harp seal plushie, but also a small, worn Denver Broncos lanyard—a relic from my so-called "boy" life. Dad was always buying me boy stuff and it usually ended up in the back of the closet. I fished it out of the depths and brought it with me for some strange reason. I had tucked it deep into a side pocket, a tiny secret I wasn't sure what to do with.

Olivia's house was a whirlwind of energy and her room was a jungle of stuffed animals, fairy lights, and colorful blankets. It was lovely, just the way I always wished my room could be. My room was never very boy, but it was most certainly not as girly as I would have liked. I had to fight for any little thing that was the least girly. Anyway, Olivia, Chloe, Lily, and I spread our sleeping bags out on the floor. We played the board games Gnomes at Night and Team Digger (both super fun!); we told ghost stories in the dark with a flashlight (Olivia’s was really really scary - I almost peed my pants!), and then, inevitably, someone suggested "truth or dare." We were just little, but everything seemed so grown up all of a sudden.

The first few rounds were silly. "Dare Sage to eat a spoonful of hot sauce!" (I refused to do it, and everyone booed and giggled.) "Truth: What’s the grossest thing you've ever eaten?" (Lily confessed to eating a bug.) Then, it was Chloe’s turn. She looked straight at me, her face serious in the dim light.

"Truth," Chloe said. "Is it true you used to be a boy?"

The room went silent. The flashlight beam, held by Olivia, wavered. I felt a now-familiar wave of panic, hot and cold at the same time. The air seemed to thicken like mom’s pea soup. I thought they already knew? I guess I could lie, or I could change the subject. But I looked at Olivia's steady gaze, and then at Chloe, who just seemed genuinely curious. Maybe she hadn’t believed it the first day when the truth came out. Or maybe…

"Yeah," I said, my voice small but clear. "I was. Kinda, I guess. Only on the outside, though. Inside, I’ve always been a girl. It's like... imagine if you were a beautiful butterfly, but for a long time, you had to be a caterpillar."

Chloe was quiet for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. "So you were just a girl who was stuck?"

"Yeah," I said, feeling a surge of relief. "Exactly."

Lily piped up from her sleeping bag. "Did it hurt? To get unstuck?"

"Sometimes," I admitted. "But it feels so good now." I found myself pulling the Broncos lanyard out of my pocket and holding it up. "This was from when I was a caterpillar. I keep it so I don't forget where I came from."

Olivia reached out and gently touched the lanyard. "It's cool," she said. "You're like a superhero with a secret identity. Supergirl!"
My heart soared. Olivia and Chloe nodded in agreement, their curiosity replaced with a simple, childlike understanding. The moment passed, and we moved on to the next dare, but something fundamental had shifted. I wasn't just a girl to them; I was a girl with a story, and I was no longer alone in carrying it. The secret, such as it was, it turned out, wasn't a burden to be hidden, but a truth that could maybe set me free.

The next morning, after a yummy breakfast, mom came to pick me up. "You ready to go, sweet pea?" Mom asked, zipping up my bag.

"Yeah," I said, full of chocolate chip pancakes and a little sleepy but feeling light all over. Once we were outside, I spoke, "Mom?"

"Yes, honey?" she said, her hands still on my backpack.

"I told them. About me."

Mom froze. She looked at me, her eyes wide, waiting. "Oh. Okay. What... what did you say?"

"I told them I used to be kind of a boy on the outside, but I was always a girl inside," I explained, feeling a little braver now that it was out in the open. "Like a butterfly who was stuck being a caterpillar."

A slow smile spread across Mom's face, and her eyes got all shiny. "And what did they say?"

I shrugged, trying to sound like it was no big deal. "Olivia said I was like a superhero with a secret identity." I paused, then my voice got quiet. "Chloe didn't make fun of me. And Lily just wanted to know if it hurt. I told her ‘sometimes,’ but that it feels good now."

Mom knelt down and pulled me into a fierce hug. I could feel her shaking a little. "Oh, honey. That's... that's the bravest thing you've ever done. I am so, so proud of you."

"Why?" I asked, pulling back just enough to look at her face.

"Because you were honest. And you let them see the real you," she said, her voice a little shaky. "That's what being a warrior is all about.”

“A warrior-princess?” I asked.

"Of course, a warrior princess. You didn't just stand up for yourself; you helped them understand. You changed their world, just a little."

I smiled, a huge, genuine smile that made my face feel all warm. I reached down and touched the Broncos lanyard in my pocket, no longer an embarrassing secret, but more of a trophy, signifying what I’d overcome. "You know, it wasn't so scary after all." Well, it really was at the time, duh!

Mom wrote about this following scene in her journal. Apparently it happened the evening after my very first sleepover. Here’s how I imagine it going:

"Hey," Stephanie said, her voice soft as she came into the living room and saw Michael staring out the window, a beer untouched on the coffee table. The TV was on, a sports talk show muttering in the background, but he wasn't watching. "You're a million miles away."
Michael sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Just... thinking about everything. Sage. The sleepover. The way she just told them."
Stephanie sat on the couch, her hand resting on his knee. "She was so brave."

"I know," he said, turning from the window. "And that's... that's the part that's killing me." He looked at her, his eyes raw. "I had a plan, Steph. A whole blueprint for her life. Football games. The Boy Scouts. Learning to change the oil in the car." He gave a hollow laugh. "All the things my dad taught me. And now... it all feels so stupid."

"It's not stupid, Michael. It's just... a different path."

"No, it's more than that," he insisted, his voice cracking a little. "It's like I'm standing on a cliff, and the ground I've been walking on my whole life is just... gone. The rules don't apply anymore. I don't know the playbook for this." He gestured vaguely at the TV. "I've always been the guy with the facts, the data. And now my own kid is telling me that her deepest truth is something I can't measure or prove. It's a feeling. It's... metaphysical."

Stephanie nodded slowly. "And that's okay, Michael. She's teaching you. She's teaching both of us that there's more to the world than what we can see."

He shook his head, looking down at his hands. "I'm not built for this, Steph. I'm scared. I'm scared I'll say the wrong thing. I'm scared she'll get hurt out there in the world because of me. My own friends, my own father... what am I supposed to say to them?"
Stephanie moved closer, pulling him into her arms. "You say you love your daughter. That's all you have to say. The rest... the rest we'll figure out. You're not the man of facts anymore. You're not the architect. You're the warrior. You're her protector. And that's a whole new kind of courage."

He rested his head on her shoulder, the tension slowly draining from his body. "I don't know if I'm ready for that."

"You don't have to be ready," she whispered, her voice a comforting balm. "You just have to be willing."

---

My Atticus

"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions... but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself."

~ Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

I thank the Goddess that my mom keeps a journal. Well, we all do since our first session with my gender therapist. My mom also loves to tell stories, especially the "Sage Stories," as she calls them. They're all about my journey - our journey - and the funny, beautiful, and sometimes sad things that happened. But this one, she reminded me of just recently, as we were discussing my memoir assignment. I’m now old enough to understand that some of the hardest parts for me were also the hardest for my parents. Here’s how it went:

"Mom," I asked her one afternoon not long after the sleepover, "what did you and Dad talk about that night after the sleepover? He was on the phone, and he just seemed so sad."

She looked at me, a soft smile on her face. "That was the night your dad called your grandpa."

"He did?" I asked, a knot forming in my stomach. I knew how my grandpa felt about a lot of things. He was a man who lived by rules. And strict rules, at that.

"He did," she said, her voice dropping. "I was in the living room, and your dad was in the kitchen. I couldn't hear everything, but I could hear his voice. He was so brave, honey. He told your grandpa that you were a girl, that you'd always been a girl, and that we were going to support you."

I watched her face, searching for a clue as to how it went. "What did Grandpa say?"

"Well," she said, her smile fading a little. "He didn't take it very well. He said it was 'unnatural' and that your dad should 'set you straight.'" Well, that was brutally honest!

A chill ran down my spine. The words felt like a punch then and they still do, even hearing them years later.
"And then?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"And then your dad did the bravest thing I've ever seen him do. He told your grandpa, 'My job is to protect her, not to force her to be something she isn't.' He hung up the phone. Just like that."

I was quiet for a moment, thinking about my dad. The man who taught me to love the Broncos, but who was now fighting for me. He was a warrior after all, just like Brooke said. Not with a sword, but with his voice and his heart.

"So, he wasn't sad because of me," I said, a new understanding dawning on me. "He was sad because he was protecting me? From his own dad?"

"Exactly," she said, her eyes shining. "He chose you. He chose us. He chose love over everything else. And honey," she said, pulling me into a hug. "That's a story you never forget."

So, one night when he was driving me to ballet class, I prodded my dad to tell me his version, and I’ve heard him tell it a few more times since then. My dad never tells this story without getting a little choked up. He says it's one of the most important moments of his life, but he can't remember the words. "It was like a movie, sweet pea," he always says. He doesn't have to remember all the words. I think he’s covered them all over all the versions I’ve heard. I've also heard it from my mom's journal, and from his quiet gestures, and from the love he shows me every day. But if I were to write it down, if I were to be that camera in the corner of the kitchen, it would go something like this (I’m calling dad Michael, otherwise it would get really confusing):

The phone rang just as Michael was putting the last of the dinner dishes into the dishwasher. It was his father, a man who believed a man’s problems should be kept to himself, unless they could be solved with a firm handshake and a good-quality tool.

“Hey, Dad,” Michael said, trying to keep his voice light.

“Michael. Just checking in. Heard from your mother you all had a good trip to Arizona.” His father's voice was a low rumble, the kind that reminded Michael of the engine of an old pickup truck.

“We did. Yeah. Good game.” Michael’s hand tightened around the phone. He knew he had to say it. He had been planning it all day. "Dad, listen. I… I wanted to talk to you about Sage.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, the kind that stretched and crackled with unspoken tension. “What about him?” his father asked. The word “him” was a small, sharp knife.

Michael took a deep breath. “Her. Her name is Sage, and she’s a girl, Dad. She’s... she’s always been a girl.”

Another silence. Michael could almost hear his father's mind working, processing the words, trying to make them fit into a box they were never meant for.

“What in the blazes are you talking about, son? He’s my grandson. I should know whether he’s a boy or a girl. What is this, he going through some kind of weird phase?” The low rumble of his father’s voice had turned into a hard, metallic edge, like an engine fixing to throw a rod.

“No, Dad. It’s not a phase. This is who she is. And… and we’re going to support her. We went to a therapist. We talked to her school. She’s going to be recognized as a girl, and she’s going to live her life as a girl. We… we’re going to be with her every step of the way.” Michael’s voice shook, but he held firm.

His father let out a long, slow exhale, a sound of profound disappointment. “This is… this is unnatural, Michael, and you know it! You can’t just… you can’t just let a child decide these things. You’re the father. You’re supposed to set him straight.”

Michael closed his eyes. This was the moment. The "false self" he had so carefully built, the one that had always sought his father’s approval, was being tested. “No, Dad. My job is to protect her. Not to force her to be something she isn’t. You taught me to be strong and do what is right. Well, this is me being strong. I’m doing what’s right for my daughter.”

The line went dead. Michael stared at the phone, a small, black object in his hand, reflecting his sad face. He hadn’t convinced his father. He hadn’t gotten the validation he had craved his whole life. But as he hung up, a strange and quiet peace settled over him. He was a man without a plan, a warrior without a playbook. And for the first time, that felt exactly right somehow.

To be continued...

---

If you love Sage's journey, you’ll love her soundtrack. Tara is also a songwriter and producer of high-energy, anthemic pop for trans women and anyone who embraces their own 'X-Factor.'

Her latest lyric video, Extra (The X-Factor), is a shimmering, feel-good celebration of transgender joy.

Warning: This song contains traces of glitter and high-octane earworms.

Check out the video here: Extra (The X-Factor). Don't forget to "Like" it, even if you only love it!

Explore the rest of the garden on her YouTube channel: Tara Nicole Miller on YouTube

If this song or Sage’s journey touched your heart today, please consider heading over to YouTube and giving the video a 'Like.' It’s a small click for you, but it’s a huge signal to the 'machine' that our voices matter and our stories deserve to be heard.

 

Rhapsody: Butterfly in A Box (Volume One) Chapter 3/15 By Tara Nicole Miller Copyright © 2025 Tara Nicole Miller All Rights Reserved. Word Count 5,000

---

 

First Position

"A dancer's art is not just a performance, but a kind of magic, a way to make the impossible possible."
Noel Streatfeild, Ballet Shoes.

So, back to me. It’s all about me, after all! Giggle. Anyways, school has been astonishingly uneventful, thank goodness. That’s not to say I haven’t been having fun with my friends and enjoying learning new things. I have, very much so. Just, it’s all so normal. Except now I get to wear pigtails and earrings and nail polish and dresses and tights and pretty shoes and…! Brooke was right. I’ll never tire of the delights of being a girl. Ooh! And lipgloss!

It didn’t take long for mom to get me into a ballet class. And you won’t believe this, Olivia is in it, too! I know, right? The studio is just a couple miles away, so it’s not too much of a strain on mom and dad. Since I’m at school for several hours a day and out of mom’s hair, she’s gone back to work at the huge bookstore she owns. It’s in an old Victorian-like house and all three storeys have books! Old books, new books, rare books, but all about Metaphysics and the Occult. New Age, I guess you’d say. You wouldn’t think there’d be so many, but there must be miles of shelving in that house! I love going there and exploring!

Anyway, since she owns the store, she can take off whenever she wants and can be at my beck and call. Just kidding! I only do ballet so far, so I’m not too much of a liability just yet. I joined just in time to get in on the practice for The Nutcracker, to be performed around Christmastime, of course. Since I’m just a newbie, I’ll probably be like a tree or a fire hydrant or something. A ‘dancing ability is optional’ sort of thing. But I am learning all the pretty moves all while learning about muscles I never knew existed on my body.

The teacher (Madame Garnier - Pronounced Garn-yay!) keeps it fun, though. We are only little after all, from about five to eight years of age I would guess. There’s two boys in the class out of fifteen aspirants. One seems like he’s been doing this for a little while, but the other - I shouldn’t like to say!

The studio is a room made of glass and wood. It smells like grandma’s house on cleaning day, all shiny and new and old at the same time. My mom had just dropped me off, her hand on my shoulder for an extra second before she let me go. "Go get 'em, sweet pea," she'd whispered, and for a second I felt like a football player about to run out on the field. Nah!

I was wearing a borrowed black leotard that felt tight and funny, and my new shiny black Mary Janes. I felt like a little beetle. I couldn’t wait to get my new outfit with proper ballet shoes! I saw Olivia smiling at me from the line of other girls. She was wearing a pink leotard, jealous!, and her hair was in a perfect, neat bun. I felt a little out of sorts, but then Madame Garnier (Garn-yay!) clapped her hands.

"First position, children!" she said. Her voice was like a musical instrument, and she moved like a floating swan. "Heels together, toes out. Feel the floor."

I did what she said. I put my heels together and pointed my toes out, and it felt so strange. I felt a stretch in muscles I didn't even know I had. But when I looked at myself in the big mirror, I saw something new. I wasn't just Sage anymore. I was a dancer.

Madame Garnier put on some music, a slow, gentle tune that felt like a whispered secret. She told us to do a plié—a word that felt as soft and round as the move itself. We bent our knees and went down, down, down, and then up, up, up. My body felt like a puppet on a string, but a happy one.

Next to me was a boy named Leo. He was a new boy, too, but not like me. He didn’t have to wear a dancer’s belt to hide his boy bits. He was wearing a shirt and shorts, and he was all angles and elbows. When he tried to plié, his knees went in different directions, and he wobbled like a spinning top that was about to fall over. He looked so mad at the music, like it was its fault he couldn't do what it wanted.

I looked at my own reflection. My arms went up like they knew what to do, and my knees moved together like they were best friends. It felt like I was humming inside, a happy little secret that only I could feel. I wasn't just doing what Madame Garnier said; I was listening to the music, and the music was listening to me. It wasn't about being strong or fast. It was about being... graceful. Graceful - moi? Giggle.

I looked over to the side and saw dad! When did he come in? He was watching from the corner. He had a look on his face I’d never seen before. It wasn’t the intense, "Broncos are winning!" look. It was a soft, quiet look. It was the look of a person seeing a beautiful, unfolding truth. And for the first time in my life, I wasn't scared of what he saw. I felt like for the very first time, he was seeing me. I couldn’t help but smile.
Dad’s POV, gleaned from his journal and stories:

I arrived only a few minutes after Stephanie had dropped Sage off for her first Ballet class. Problem at one of the job sites - what else is new? I immediately saw her across the room - a black swan, entranced, floating. I sat down to watch what I thought would be a stumbling embarrassment for her. But, I knew I’d be proud anyway.

The music swelled, a delicate waltz that filled the studio along with the scent of pine and polished wood. Sage, a small figure in borrowed tights and a leotard, now stood poised at the barre. She’d been hesitant at first, her hands gripping the smooth wood as if it were a lifeline. But then the teacher, a woman with a kind face and impossibly straight posture, had called out, “First position, children. Feel the floor.”

And Sage had felt it. I know she did, even I could feel it like there was an invisible thread connecting our two hearts. She, we, felt not just the floor, but the hum of the music, the subtle pull of her own muscles. My muscles twitched in unison. As she moved through the pliés and the tendus, it wasn't a performance; it was a discovery. I could feel her body, which had always felt like a foreign country she told me, a place she was just visiting, now felt like home. She watched her reflection in the vast mirror, a reflection that was no longer a boy trying to be a boy or a girl, but something more fluid and graceful. It was no longer trying, just being.

Across the room, a boy stumbled. His arms flailed like a windmill in a storm, his face a mask of frustration. He seemed like a good kid, earnest and trying his best, but the music seemed to defy him. He was all angles and effort, while Sage, it felt like she was a curve, a whisper. I watched in awe the ease with which Sage moved, the way she seemed to intuit the rhythm, and I’m quite sure my face held a fathomless expression. I’d come expecting to feel awkward and out of place, the father of an ersatz boy, in a room full of girls in tutus. But what I saw was my child, lit from within, a joy so pure it brought a lump to my throat. For the first time, I didn't see a future filled with fear; I saw a present filled with a beautiful, unfolding truth. At that moment, I saw the most beautiful girl in the world.

Isn’t Daddy just the greatest? He actually wrote most of that, verbatim, in bed that night. I didn’t know he had those kind of feelings or words. I guess we were all evolving together.

By the next Ballet class, I had my new outfit. Of course I had to have my first dance dress be pink! What else?

Madame Garnier said my skirt was too big, but I thought it was just right!

---

Gosh, that was a happy moment for me! I was so excited. I thought I looked like a princess. I felt like a princess and the world was my oyster, or at least a clam. Oh, that card in my hand? That was the notice of the recital for the Nutcracker. I was about to give it to my Daddy, as soon as he put his phone down!

Across the room, I noticed Leo. He still hadn’t gotten control of his arms and elbows and his face was again a mask of frustration. He seemed so confused by the music, like it was a fill-in-the-blanks test instead of multiple choice. I remember watching him and feeling a little ache in my chest. He looked so alone.

And then I had this thought, a little thought, but it was so big it filled up my whole head. I know what that feels like. To be a riddle. To be a blank, or a question mark. To feel like you’re not in the right place, like you can’t get your body to do what you want it to. My own frustration from the car ride with Daddy, from the teasing at the game, from a whole lifetime of feeling a little off-center—it all came rushing back. I can help him. I know I can. Because I know what he's feeling.

I couldn't just stand there. My body seemed to move on its own. I went over to him, my feet moving in a plié I'd just learned, and I stood beside him. I didn't say anything. I just gently lifted his arm and showed him how to hold it. He looked at me, his eyes wide and surprised. He didn't say anything either. He just let me, and together, in the silence, we did another plié. It wasn't perfect, not for him, but this time, it was a little less wobbly.

After class, Leo finally spoke and said my dress was really pretty. Or did he say I was pretty? Well, they meant the same thing to me anyhow. I thanked him and smiled. “You’re getting it Leo, you just need to feel the music.” I did a pirouette and giggled my way into my dad’s arms.

---

A Tremendous Thing Dies

"You have been my friend," replied Charlotte. "That in itself is a tremendous thing."
~E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web

I was doing a plié in the kitchen, still humming the ballet music, when the phone rang. It was Chloe, and her voice sounded tight and different, like a balloon losing its air. My heart did a little flip in my chest. Something was wrong.

"Hey, Sage," she said, so quietly I almost couldn't hear her.

"Hey! Are you ready for our sleepover?" My excitement was a bright, happy thing, and it bounced off of her quietness. "I'm going to bring my new pajamas with the butterflies on them!"

There was a long pause, and then a shaky little breath. "Sage, I... I can't," Chloe said. "My mom says you can't come over."
My smile slid right off my face. "Why? Did I do something wrong?"

"No! It's not you," Chloe said, her voice a rush of words. "I told my parents about you. I told them you used to be a caterpillar but now you're a butterfly. And... they said they don't believe in that. They said it's... it's a phase. And that my dad says you're a boy and you're sick. He said you're a 'confused little boy'."

The words hit me like a bag of rocks. "Confused little boy." The phrase, so familiar, so old, was like a ghost I thought I had buried. I felt my skin get cold and my stomach turn over. I wanted to tell her she was wrong, that her parents were wrong, but all the words got stuck in my throat.
"I'm sorry," Chloe whispered. "I'm really, really sorry. They said I'm not allowed to be friends with you anymore." And then, there was a click, and the line went dead.

I stood there for a long time, the silence stretching and humming in my ears. The kitchen felt cold and big, and the feeling that had just started to feel right—the feeling of being a butterfly—was gone. I was a caterpillar again, and I was all alone. A single tear fell, but it held all the pain in the universe.

I don't remember much of the few hours after that. But, when mom got home, I was just put together enough to tell her what Chloe said. My voice was small as a pinprick. Well, caterpillar voices are, aren’t they? My mom's face went from soft to hard in an instant, and she put her arms around me. She didn't say anything, but I could feel her shaking with a quiet rage. Not just that, I could hear her howling inside from the pain we both shared.

The next day at school, the silence around me was louder than the boys at recess. Chloe wouldn't look at me. When I tried to say hello, she just stared at her shoes and walked away. I felt a stinging in my eyes, but I didn't cry. My mom had taught me that warrior princesses don't cry; they take the pain and transmute it into positive action. I didn’t know what that action could possibly be at the moment, though. I really, really just wanted to cry. I’m a girl for real now, aren’t I allowed to cry?

At lunch, Olivia and Lily saw me sitting alone. Olivia's face was a mirror of my sadness. She came over and slid into the seat next to me.
"Chloe's mom is a jerk," she said, not as a question but as a fact.

"Her dad says my parents are making me sick," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "He says I'm a confused little boy."
Olivia's eyes, so kind and steady, filled with fire. "No, you're not," she said fiercely. "You're Sage. You're a butterfly. And my mom says you're the bravest person she's ever met."

Lily, who had been listening, pulled her chair closer. "My mom said the same thing," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "And she said that if Chloe's mom wants to be mean, we'll just have our sleepovers at my house. And you'll come to every single one, and twice on Sunday!" We couldn’t help but giggle at that.

A little piece of my heart that had been broken came back to me. They didn't just tell me it was okay; they chose me. They chose the butterfly with the broken wing - the fallen warrior princess. And in that moment, in the middle of a noisy cafeteria, I realized that, although I knew my path was fraught and that I would probably get hurt way too often, I didn't have to fight my battles alone. I also decided that I would allow myself to cry. Mother Earth likes a bit of rain. It’s actually nourishing, isn’t it? So, if it’s good enough for her…

“Mommy? I decided it’s okay to cry.” I said at dinner.

“Oh, did you?” She replied with a little grin, lifting a fork of spaghetti to her mouth.

“Yes!” I nodded emphatically. “I mean, come on, I’m just a little girl!” Mom and dad laughed so hard I thought noodles would start coming out of their noses.

---

The Princess in the Costume Box

"I am a princess. All girls are. Even if they live in tiny old attics. Even if they dress in rags, even if they aren't pretty, or smart, or young. They're still princesses."

~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess

That incident with Chloe reminded me of a time when I wasn’t even five yet. My mother, Stephanie, is a California girl through and through, the epitome of the pretty, bouncy blonde with a spiritual side. Her parents, my Hollywood grandparents, are producers who promote a long line of liberal causes, a whole different world from my father's Kansas farming family. She could find the sacred in a sunset and the story in a paperback. And it was my mother who had the idea for the costume box.

It was a big, heavy trunk in the middle of our playroom, filled with the castoffs from my mother's various productions: a satin cape from a Shakespeare play, a floppy hat from some old musical, a pair of cowboy boots that clomped and squeaked when I wore them. I loved that box. It was a place where I could be anyone I wanted to be. A princess, a pirate, a lady astronaut. I could be a whole new person with just a piece of fabric.

One day, I pulled out a long, velvet dress, a beautiful thing the color of a winter sky. It had little pearls stitched around the neck. I pulled it over my head, and it felt right. My body, which had always felt like a question mark, was suddenly an exclamation point, or at least an asterisk. I twirled around in front of the full-length mirror, the velvet swishing around my knees, and I felt as beautiful as a princess.
My kinda friend Max, who was over for a playdate, walked in. "Hey," he said, and then his smile slid right off his face. "Why are you wearing a dress?"

His voice wasn't mean. It was just... confused. It was the same tone my father's parents used when they called me "him." The same tone the teacher used when she told me to go play with the boys. It was the sound of a question I couldn’t answer because the answer felt so obvious.
"Because," I said, a little defensively. "I like it."

Max just shrugged. "Boys don't wear dresses."

The words hit me like a splash of cold water. It wasn't confusion in me. It was confusion in the world. I knew who I was. Why didn't they? I wasn’t a boy playing a girl; I was a girl playing a girl. Being a girl. I looked at my reflection in the mirror again, and the beautiful princess was gone. In her place was a tiny boy in a dress, and it felt all wrong. I wanted to tell him that people can be more than one thing at once, that a person can be a boy and a girl, a pirate and a princess, but I didn't have the words yet. I just felt the world trying to put me in a box that didn't fit.

Later, my mom found me sitting in the corner with the velvet dress crumpled in my hands. She didn't say anything. She just sat down beside me, and she took my hand. And in that quiet moment, I knew that my own body was a book, and that the world was still learning how to read it. I knew that I was like Jo March, a girl who didn't fit in the box the world made for her, but a girl who was all the more powerful for it. I was just a little girl, but my life, I knew then, was going to be a story, and I was going to be the one to tell it.

---

The Secret Garden

To those who love it, a secret garden can be the beginning of all sorts of things.

~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

A couple days later, mom picked me up from school so we could go see Dr. Evans. Dad couldn’t come this time for some reason, so it was just us girls singing to Unstoppable on the radio. That song is so cool! It’s funny how songs have all taken on a different meaning for me lately. Hmmm. As we were coming up to Chloe’s house, I stopped singing. “What?” Mom asked.

“That’s Chloe’s house.” I said, my voice flat and sad.

“It’s not very nice, is it? Could do with a makeover. I think I’m glad you weren’t able to stay there.” She said, sounding like an angry cat.
“Why? I’m not.” I pouted.

“Well, sweetie, it’s a mess! Look! It might not be safe, and the condition of a home is often indicative of the condition of the people living there.” She stated.

“That’s silly! Chloe’s perfectly fine. Lovely, in fact. I’ve never met her parents, but… Hey. Mommy? Do you think Daddy would help me fix their yard? I bet that would make Chloe’s parents happy. Maybe they’re mean because their house is icky and that makes them sad?” I tried to rationalize with my little girl logic.

“Or maybe they’re just mean, ignorant, ornery people!” Mom spat.

“Don’t get mad, Mommy. I mean it. I’m gonna do it whether dad helps me or not.” Mom just looked at me with a puzzled look on her face. I lost my edge for a moment and in a tiny voice I asked, “Um, can you show me where the garden tools are and maybe what they look like?” She just laughed and shook her head as we pulled into Dr. Evans’ driveway. “Now her yard is pretty, isn’t it mommy?”

“It sure is. Wow, it’s like an English garden!” She said with awe. And there, the seeds of a plan were germinated. Oh no, I guess they would have to be planted first. Okay, the seeds of a plan were waiting on a store shelf at Home Depot!

The day we went to Home Depot was like going to a magical armory. Daddy, with his big toolbelt and an even bigger smile, was my knight in shining denim and leather. I’d asked him, in my most solemn voice, if he would help me with a secret mission. He looked at me with those serious, thoughtful eyes of his, the ones that could read a spreadsheet or delve into my heart. "A mission?" he'd said. "What kind of mission?"
"A sort of, I don’t know, a mission of beauty," I'd whispered. "For Chloe, and her parents. Maybe brighten their day? Make them happy? Maybe?" I looked from under my lashes.

He didn't hesitate. He now showed me the difference between a rake and a hoe, the perfect gloves for a little girl's hands, and the right kind of seeds to make a patch of dirt happy again. He even bought me a whole set of small pink and black garden tools! (Ooh! Blackpink! Yeah, so I love K-pop. Shut up!) He never once laughed at my little girl logic, even when I explained that if we made Chloe’s parents' house pretty, they would maybe stop being so mean.

The day of the mission was a Saturday. Daddy wore his old work clothes, and I had my new gardening gloves and a pretty new sun hat. We drove to Chloe’s house, and I felt my stomach flip-flop like an Aspen leaf in a brisk wind. What if Chloe saw me? What if her parents came out? What if they were still mad?

The house looked even sadder up close. The lawn was a patchy, yellow disaster, and the flower beds were full of weeds that looked like angry chickens. Daddy got to work right away, pulling weeds with a quiet intensity. He taught me how to use the proper tool and put my whole body into it, how to feel the weed let go of the dirt, making sure the root came out whole.

Then he handed me a packet of seeds and let me go to work in a quiet corner. I poked my finger into the freshly tilled soil and could practically feel the earth talking to me. And in that quiet moment, with the seeds and the soil, I knew exactly what Mary Lennox meant when she said the magic was in the garden. This may not be Misselthwaite Manor, but it’ll do. I glanced over at Daddy. I bet he can feel it too. We didn't talk much. We didn’t have to. We were just two dirt-smudged ninjas on a mission, a father and his daughter, working side-by-side.

Then, Chloe’s mom came to the door. I froze. She was a tall, thin woman with a hard face. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice as sharp as a thorn.

My heart pounded against my ribs. I looked at Daddy. He straightened up, wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, and looked her right in the eye. "My daughter," he said, his voice quiet but firm, "had an idea that your yard could use some help. So we're helping. I hope you don’t mind?"

Chloe's mom just stared at him. “You’re not looking for money, are you? Cos I haven’t got it!”

“No ma’am, free of charge, I promise. Courtesy of the Pink Hats Garden Club.” Dad replied, looking at me with a smile. I giggled, hard.
Then her eyes went to me, and for the first time, her face wasn't hard. It was confused. A little flicker of something I hadn't seen before—maybe it was shame peeking through the remnants of anger, maybe it was something else—but it flickered across her face. She didn't say anything else. She just shook her head, went back inside and closed the door. At least she didn’t know who we were. That’s something to be grateful for. I would have been so embarrassed!

Daddy went back to weeding, but I couldn't stop looking at the house. Gosh, she was like the Tyger in that neat poem (We read Blake’s collection, Songs of Innocence and of Experience in your class, Mrs. Collins - thanks for that!) "Did he who made the Lamb make thee?" I couldn’t help but wonder, in different terms back then, how people could be so different, some mean and some nice.

I had expected a big fight, a shouting match, but instead, there was just this quietness. I looked at Daddy, and he smiled. (He had stared down the tyger, just when I thought it was going to devour this little lamb!) It wasn't his usual big, goofy smile. It was a small, knowing smile. A ninja smile maybe? I’m pretty sure there was more to that smile than the vision of one of his company trucks rounding the corner and hauling sod up to the curb.

That was quite the surprise for me. Also, dad had noticed the Chloe family didn’t have a sprinkler system, so he and his guys installed one as quiet and sneaky as they could. Then he programmed it. “We have one hour (it sounded like Ow-ah) Sage-kan, then we must make good our escape.” He said, his lips moving out of sync with his words. I giggled and got to rolling the sod into place. Gosh, I could barely move those huge rolls, but, nothing rolls like a roll, so I was able to get on with it. That was actually pretty fun, feeling the dirt and the cool grass under my fingertips. I Marveled at how it could keep growing even though most of its roots had been shaved off. We were all at it before long and finished way before the sprinklers went off. Wow, a whole yard in less than an hour! It was just beautiful. I wanted to just run and tumble through it. Gaah!

We didn’t just plant seeds, no, we also planted actual live greenery, what dad called annuals and perennials and the seeds I planted would come up at a different time of the year. It was all very scientific and botanical-like. And gorgeous, I might add. It wasn’t Dr. Evans’ English Garden gorgeous. Not yet. I’m hoping to watch the plants grow over time and see how the landscape changes and matures and hopefully blooms. It’s so exciting!

I doubt we made so much as a ripple in the ocean of distress that must consume Chloe's parents. But, dad said we did something just as important. We showed them that even in the face of unkindness, we would still choose to be kind. I thought that was cool. I hadn’t even thought about being kind, really, I just thought it would be nice. I kinda felt compelled to do it, like it needed to be done and I was the person to do it. I know that sounds pretty weird, but, what can I say? I’m a weird little girl.

To be continued...

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Check out Tara's newest songs and lyric videos! Links below.

In the world of Rhapsody, where the lines between art, memory, and political gravity blur, these two pieces stand as pivotal pillars. They represent the artful reclamation of a voice that refuses to be silenced by the cold white rooms of the past or the walls of ice in the present.

Here is a glimpse into the sound and soul of the journey:

Wrong (But I Was Right) A cinematic reclamation of truth. This track dives into the sterile, high-stakes atmosphere of the "cold white room," where identity is contested and sovereignty is won through the sheer power of the creative fire. It is a soaring, orchestral anthem for anyone who has ever had their reality questioned—and dared to be right.

Because I Dared (#Minneapolis) A gritty, high-octane homage to the streets of Minneapolis. Blending dark-chamber noir with the defiant, syncopated pulse of a drumline, this track is a march for the "sleeveless hearts." It captures the irony of a still-life tragedy and the explosive triumph of choosing to live and be free in the face of the storm. Don't forget to "Like" it, even if you only love it!

Explore the rest of the garden on her YouTube channel: Tara Nicole Miller on YouTube

If this song or Sage’s journey touched your heart today, please consider heading over to YouTube and giving the video a 'Like.' It’s a small click for you, but it’s a huge signal to the 'machine' that our voices matter and our stories deserve to be heard.