When I lived in the most beautiful place in the world, I was scared of thunderstorms. Lightning in Jemez wasn’t like lightning anywhere else. The red face of the mesas would light up like day. Once, I saw a herd of horses crossing the flooded road. They were wild and beautiful, and now I’d like to think they were part of the storm in some way.

I stopped being scared on the day I turned 11. August in New Mexico is hot, and my birthday is usually scorching. This time there was a storm. I think maybe something broke in me that day. There was a barrier I hadn’t pushed past before. I stood through the entire storm out in a yucca patch, thunder following the lighting in less than a second, me in a denim coat and shorts. I started smiling, and then I started laughing, and after that, storms became a part of me.

Whenever a thunderstorm comes through now, I have to be in it. I’m denying a part of myself if I’m not.

I want to be the lightning, striking, and bright, and in the very right circumstances, unforgettable.