The Moth Radio Hour: Acceptance

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This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm your host, Jodi Powell.

There's a line from a Robert Burns poem that says, the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

In this hour, we're hearing all about the ways we learn to accept what is laid out in front of us, despite our best efforts.

For me, one of my biggest moments is leaving sunny Jamaica and finding myself on my first day of college in the Adirondack Mountains during a blizzard.

I had no idea what I was getting into.

And when I got off the Greyhound bus, my well-meaning mother said, look this is where you are it was sand for a long time now embrace snow the snow was almost up to my knees and i was wearing sneakers

in this hour stories of acceptance of sticking it out and looking maybe really hard for the bright side and yes being okay even when you find yourself up to your knees in snow wearing sneakers

Her first story comes from Rob Carr, who by the way still lives in the snowy Adirondacks.

Rob told this at a Burlington Grand Slam where we partner with Vermont Public Radio.

Here's Rob live at the Flynn Center for the Performing Arts.

So it was a few days before my first semester of my junior year in college and about an hour before the final deadline when I declared my major in theater with an emphasis in performance.

And I realize that isn't very noteworthy, but at the time I had never taken one theater class at the college.

I had never participated in one play at the college.

In fact, I'd never even seen a play at the college.

The last time that I participated in any type of theatrical performance was in seventh grade when I was the artful Dodger in my middle school's performance of Oliver.

And it was right around that time that

as much as I love acting, I found something that was just way more interesting, and that was being cool.

And I used all my acting skills just to try to fit in.

I played the right sports, I did the right activities, I talked to the right people, went to the right parties, all with a desire and purpose to fit in.

And that continued through my first couple years at college.

I went to a small liberal arts college called Susquehanna University.

I joined the soccer fraternity.

I was surrounded by a bunch of other people who excelled at fitting in.

And I lived in this big room, the front of the house that overlooked the soccer field with my roommate, Chad, who was captain of the baseball team and I was awesome.

And there was just something about the urgency of having to declare my major that brought me back to like the last thing that I was truly passionate about in an academic sense.

But at the same time I was like programmed to feel like being involved in theater was just socially not okay or acceptable or cool.

So I did it in secret.

That first day of class when it came, I snuck snuck over to the theater department, which was on the other side of campus from all the academic buildings where all my friends and all my fraternity brothers were going to attend my first acting class.

The teacher was Dr.

Pam Shabora, and she insisted that we call her Pammy.

And suddenly I was surrounded by 30 people I have never seen before, feeling just terrifyingly unprepared for what I'd gotten myself into.

And that first homework assignment definitely confirmed that fear.

Pammy wanted us to come to class that next day having spent the entire day taking a risk.

Doing something, changing your appearance or your behavior or routine in a way that makes you feel completely vulnerable, which I had spent my adolescence avoiding at all costs.

So we came to class that next day and we stood in a circle ready to share our risks.

And you could look around the room and you could see, you know, some people, what their risks were.

Was it like changing their hair or wearing a funny hat?

But I'll never forget the student right next to me.

His name's Christopher.

He had on the most embarrassingly awful pants I'd ever seen in my life.

And I was just like, well, kudos to this dude.

Like, that is a big risk.

So we went around the circle, and it came to Christopher, and he looked at the group with, you know, with intent and with tears in his eyes, and goes,

I have known this for a long time.

I've struggled with it, but I finally have the courage to come out and tell the world that I'm gay.

And it was just this beautiful and wonderful and touching moment.

And the entire class is crying, and Christopher is crying, and I am absolutely horrified for two reasons.

One, he had those pants on just because that's what he decided to wear that day.

And two, I was up next, and my risk was that I spent the entire day wearing boxer briefs instead of regular boxers.

And it was that moment that, like for the first time in a long time, that I felt like I didn't fit in because I was surrounded by these people who didn't care whether they fit in or not.

And I totally stood out.

And the majority of my junior year went like that.

I would sneak away to the theater department and go through the motions, but never was able to fully commit to all of these ridiculous and silly activities and skits and characters that I had to do to be a performance major.

And Pammy would constantly from across the room yell, Rob, jump through the window.

Jump through the window, Rob.

Which is her way of saying like, commit, go all the way.

And I just couldn't, because I could just threaten this ridiculous facade of coolness I had.

And my fellow classmates picked up on it as well.

And they just took it as me not taking something that they found so important serious enough.

So I was sort of shunned and like treated like this outcast in class.

Until this one beautiful spring day towards the end of my junior year when Pammy decided that if I wasn't going to jump through the window that she was going to throw me through it.

And she stands in front of the class and looks directly at me and says, it's really nice outside.

Let's go have class on the soccer field.

And I just turned ghost white and I was like begging and pleading, please, please don't make me go out there.

And this is amongst all the excitement and cheers of all the other students who are excited to have class outside.

And Pam just walks up to me and says, Rob, you're going.

And a few minutes later, I'm on the soccer field.

She has us partner up.

Pammy insisted that I partner with her.

And she made us all become butterflies

and engage in an interpretive dance with your partner.

And I'm fluttering, I'm fluttering, and I'm praying that no one comes out of my fraternity house.

And I look up and I see the front door of my room open.

And there comes

my roommate, Chad.

And he just rubs his eyes in disbelief and then disappears back into the house.

And I'm fluttering and I'm fluttering.

And within seconds, there's 30 of my fraternity brothers outside just heckling and cheering and going, Car, yeah, you flutter.

You be that butterfly.

And

at that moment, in that mentality, it was the most embarrassing moment of my life.

And after class, I was just terrified and distraught that I had to go back to these people and face them.

They didn't know this about me.

But I did the only thing that I could do at that point.

I walked back to the house and I walked into the great room where everyone was hanging out

and looked at everyone with tears in my eyes.

And I said,

I've known this for a long time.

I've struggled with it,

but I finally have the courage to come out and tell the world that I'm a thespian.

And you know what?

My world didn't crumble.

You know,

they tried to understand.

Yeah, they played Dancing Queen by ABB every time I walked in the room for the rest of the semester, but they accepted me.

And then I had helped me start to accept myself.

And even my classmates began to warm up to me.

The last day of my junior year, my fraternity does this brotherhood auction event, which is for charity.

It's this ridiculous thing where brothers get auctioned off on a date to the highest bidder.

And when I stood up on stage to get auctioned off, looking out into this crowded room, mainly of sorority girls bidding, I look in the back of the room,

and his first time ever stepping foot in the Theta Theda Chi fraternity, I say Christopher

and he bought me for $13

and he took me on a date to a theater party and I'll never forget that night because it was one of the most memorable and enjoyable nights of my four years in college.

I just felt completely at ease and comfortable with who I really was for the first time in a really long time.

And when I came back from my senior year, I was different because of this experience.

I just felt comfortable embracing what I was truly passionate about.

I came back ready to really be engaged in this wonderful new community of people and to

introduce them to my community.

I came back truly ready to flutter like no one was watching.

Thank you.

That was Rob Carr.

Rob's work as a professional actor after college brought him to the Adirondacks in upstate New York, where he now lives with his wife Stephanie and son, Tennessee.

He's moved on from acting professionally, but the experience has had a huge impact on his life now as an exhibit designer and educator.

He is the founder and executive director of Play ADK, a not-for-profit organization working to create the first children's museum in the Adirondacks.

You can learn more about this project at themoth.org.

If you would like to see a picture of Rob during his time as a thespian in college, please visit themoth.org and go to extras.

Our next story comes from Beth Ireland.

Beth told this at our annual education showcase.

Here's Beth live in New York City at Symphony Space.

It's the mid-90s, and I am a teenager standing in line on a Friday night with my best friend.

We are waiting for the doors to open at the Skate Away, Shillington, Pennsylvania's premier roller rink.

Inside is everything that feeds our teenage souls.

Loud music, low lights, cute boys, and red slushies.

We are skaters.

We love to skate.

I love to skate.

I blink, and it's 25 years later, and I am

40 42 years old and I'm a full-blown grown-up, and I'm standing in the same line on a Friday night outside the same skate away except for this time I'm with my husband who's my guaranteed slow skate tonight and our six-year-old daughter Beatrice.

We are here for her elementary school skate night and it is her first time skating.

My stomach is fluttering with excitement.

I last skated when in my early 20s, but I have confidently proclaimed to anyone who asks,

yeah, I'm going to skate tonight, because I know that it's just like riding a bike, right?

Like, it'll take me a minute, but I will be gliding around that rink,

hair flowing in the air-conditioned breeze in no time.

I can see it all.

My husband, he's going to grab my hand when he hears the first notes of I Will Always Love You.

And we will hold hands.

and skate around the dim rink.

And my daughter, she is going to love skating just as much as I do.

And we're going to buy mommy-daughter matching skates, and they'll have pink laces.

And I think maybe I will make us t-shirts.

It's been a while, but mama's back, and I have a grand vision.

So the doors finally open, and I am met with the heavenly smell of my youth.

It is worn leather and sweaty teenagers and popcorn.

And I stop at the rental desk and I find a seat, and I'm putting on my skates.

And I stop because I realize that the butterflies of excitement have morphed into crashing waves of uncertainty.

You guys, 20 years is a really long time to have not done something.

And eight wheels is a lot of wheels

for my two feet.

But the vision is strong with the hair and the blowing.

And so when the lights go down and the sweet sounds of Taylor Swift go up,

I make my way to the rink and there's kids everywhere in glowy, glittery helmets.

And I step a foot out onto the floor and then the next foot out onto the floor and my limbs are all going separate directions.

And

I don't know where my feet are, and I look like a baby giraffe.

But I won't be defeated.

So

I keep going, and I am rounding the far corner of the rink, about to close my first lap in two decades.

And my shins are screaming, and my feet are cramping.

And there's an exit about 10 feet in front of me.

And And so I think I'm just going to pop off right there, and just quick break.

But before I make it,

my skates betray me, and I am suddenly slow motion, flying backwards, my arms cartwheeling through the air.

And I'm positive that everybody in the rink has

stopped what they were doing to enjoy this unexpected entertainment for the evening.

And my head bounces off the concrete floor and my tailbone makes impact and I am laying spread eagle, paralyzed in the middle of the floor.

And all I can see is the dancing disco lights on the ceiling.

I'm praying that one of these tiny maniacs on wheels will come put me out of my misery.

But instead, the sweetest little boy rolls up next to me and he says, Oh my gosh, I saw you fall, ma'am.

Are you okay?

Do you need help?

I, instead of commending his impeccable manners, I turned my head eye level with his skate and I said, No, I do not need your help.

And adrenaline compelled me onto all fours, and I crawled at least a mile to the exit.

And my daughter, who has, of course, already learned how to skate,

she stops to see how I am.

And I just say,

could you find your daddy for me?

And he glides over,

hair blowing in the breeze.

And he helps me up and out of the rink.

And I sit and it hurts.

And I stand, and it hurts more.

And the tears spill, and I'm positive that I am dying.

And I am so embarrassed.

I'm so embarrassed that I thought that this was just going to go off without a hitch.

Like failure never occurred.

Everything, literally everything hurt, but nothing quite as badly as my very bruised ego.

I know.

Turns out skating is not like riding a bike.

My center of gravity had shifted somewhat over the past two decades, and now so did my visions of mommy-daughter matching skates.

I was not reliving my youth.

I was facing my age.

The truth is, I used to be a skater, but I'm not anymore.

My daughter, however, loves skating just like I knew she would, so we continue taking her to skate nights.

And my husband laces up once in a while, but I don't put skates on again.

I wanted to.

I wanted to be skating with them so badly, but

I just couldn't, like, my grand vision was blinded by grand fear.

So a couple months after that I'm wandering around the rink while she is skating and a flyer catches my eye and I go to read it and there's a big banner across the top and it says learn to skate great

and I think that's a pretty great headline so I keep reading and it says Wednesday nights 5 until 6 p.m.

All ages welcome.

And I think for a quick moment, maybe it's not that I can't skate again.

Maybe it's that I need to learn how how to skate again.

And I sat on that for a couple weeks and I'm back and forth.

And then finally, one Wednesday night, I was so sick of myself going back and forth that I looked at my daughter.

And before I could change my mind, I said, get in the car.

We're going skating.

So I had had to substantially alter my vision to get to this point.

Gone was the confidence and the assumption of sure-footedness and the blowing hair.

And in this new vision, I was 100% terrified, profusely sweating, and absolutely embarrassing myself.

But I was also facing my fear: my fear of hurting myself, my fear of not getting to skate with my daughter, and my fear of being too old to skate, and maybe worst of all, of ever being called ma'am again.

When we arrived at the rink, the seating area was empty, and the arcade games were dark, and there was no Taylor Swift, and there was no rollerbladers, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the lack of audience.

The woman behind the desk asks me to sign us in, and I grab the pen and I look down to see who else has signed in.

It's, you know, competition.

And

so I see that Henry has signed in already and he's six years old.

And

Alex has signed in and he is eight years old.

And little Rachel, she's just four.

And my internal dialogue just erupts into laughter in my head.

And how ridiculous.

And

the woman

she mistakes my hesitation for embarrassment.

And she says, oh, honey, you just write down adult.

So I looked down at my fearless daughter.

And I looked back at that woman and I said, oh no, my name is Beth.

I am 42 years old and I am going to skate great.

Thank you.

That was Beth Ireland.

After a 15-year career in the design and marketing industry, Beth has spent the last eight years teaching graphic design at a career and technical high school just outside of Reading, Pennsylvania.

Beth says her students keep her young, and so do her husband and a daughter.

They are the ones who encouraged her to tell her story on stage in New York City.

Speaking of acceptance, Beth graciously agreed to share her story with us on stage, fully aware that New York City felt like a big, intimidating place for her.

But with a mix of hesitation and courage, she took a chance and explored the city a bit.

And just like that, the magic of New York City worked its wonders, because one of the first things she said was, when can we do again?

In a moment, we go behind the scenes with a reporter and hear from someone who's looking for a place to belong when home is neither here nor there.

That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Jodi Powell.

In this hour, we are hearing stories about acceptance, moments of rolling with the punches, and/or taking it in stride.

Our next storyteller, Jesse Rills, told this at a store islam in Chicago where we partner with public radio station WBEZ.

Here's Jesse, live at the Moth.

I'm pretty short.

Keeps talking about how short they are.

Although I am a giant among Mexicans, so.

That's what my family tells me.

Nidia qui nidiaya.

That means not from here, not from there in Spanish.

You see, I have been coming in and out of this country since I was five years old.

And at first, it started out as two weeks here, vacation, then it was summers, then it was a semester here and there, then it was entire school years, until one year my mother broke the news to me that we were permanently moving here.

And then nidi aki, nidi aya, became very real to me because aki became a ya and a ya became a key and it was just a lot for a young kid to take in.

You know, but I came and before we embarked on that plane ride, the aya, aki

My mother sat me down and she explained to me how things were going to be different, how schools were going to be different,

how the food was going to be different, and man wasn't.

How the people were going to be different, and they sure were.

And how the culture was going to be different.

And at the beginning, it was really hard for me because I missed home.

You know, I miss quesadillas in the corner.

I miss, you know, Sunday dinners with my visabuela.

I missed September the 15th, which is Mexican Independence Day, Nasinco de Mayo.

You know, how it's, and it's just a name, September the 15th, September is the entire month where Mexicans just blow it up.

But eventually I did adapt.

You know, I went to school,

I joined clubs, I played sports, I made friends, I was adapting.

But the one thing that my mother didn't explain to me when we made that trip right over here and we overstayed our tourist visa was that we were becoming undocumented immigrants.

And at first I didn't know what that really meant until I hit those high school years.

You see, I worked really hard.

I did very well in school.

I took all honors and AP classes.

I took AP tests.

I aced those.

You know, my teachers were writing me recommendation letters to go to college, but All of that was fine and dandy, but that wasn't going to be a reality for me.

Because maybe I could have gone to to college, you know, by some miracle of scholarships because I couldn't apply for financial aid.

But even if I did graduate, no one was going to be able to hire me because you need a social security number to be hired by a company.

And so as I graduated high school and I had to go to a junior college, And I had to find a job, a job that would hire me, that wouldn't check my papers, was really when that reality of being an undocumented immigrant set in for me.

Was really when that

other side of what it means to be not welcome in this country became my reality.

When ethnic slurs were being hurled at me at work because somebody didn't like their shake.

Or

when

your management team, you know, threatens to cut your hours or call immigration on your entire family.

It is living in constant fear if a cop gets too close to you because you think you're going to get pulled over and they're going to call immigration and you're going to get deported.

It's constantly living in the shadows, not being able to speak up or say anything about the injustices that you live through every day.

Because the one thing that your parents do teach you as an undocumented immigrant is not to make any noise.

Just to sit still.

Try not to make a fuss.

Try to blend in as much as possible.

Become as invisible as you can be.

And so that was my reality for many years.

And as the years went by, I became angrier and angrier and angrier because I thought that's not fair.

I worked really hard in school

for me to be somebody.

And this has been my home for so many years.

And yet at the end of the day,

no soy daquí.

I'm not from here.

But eventually I was able to

get a residency.

become a citizen,

drive without fear, vote.

My first election was when Trump got elected.

That was real fun.

But I think what became more clear to me after living through all those years of being undocumented was

it didn't really make a difference.

Sierra de aquí, o si soy de ayá,

si bengo de ayllá, y estoy aquí.

If I'm from here, if I'm from there,

I was just still a human being in a world that wasn't really accepting me.

And to this day, I think a lot of us are still trying to find that way for us to be in the light.

Thank you.

That was Jesse Rails, a multifaceted artist based based in Chicago.

Jessie draws artistic inspiration from her rich Mexican heritage.

Her work is deeply rooted in community building, dismantling oppressive systems, and amplifying underrepresented voices.

Currently, Jessie is the co-artistic producer at Tutillas Productions.

She is the resident artist at the renowned Latina Urban Theatre Company for 2025.

Our next story comes from Dinesh Ramde.

Dinesh told this at our Berkeley, California store slum, where we partner with public radio station KALW.

Here's Dinesh live at the moth.

So when I became a reporter, I knew I would face some intimidating assignments, but as it turns out, there was only one that actually left me physically scared.

It happened early in my career.

I was working in Milwaukee, working the late shift, and

we got word that a Wisconsin soldier had died in Iraq.

And the task of writing his obituary fell to me.

Now, to write an obituary, a good obituary means you talk to the people who knew the person best.

And unfortunately, that means you have to call the family during the most horrific moment of their lives and I so did not want to do that but it was my job and I had to

so the soldier I'll call him Joe

we had a little bit of information about him I looked up the the family's phone number and called And I was so nervous about what I was about to put this family through that I remember my palms being so sweaty that when I reached for the phone, it was actually hard to grip the phone.

But I called, and the person who answered was a guy who sounded about college age.

And when I introduced myself, he used an expletive to tell me what I could do to myself, and he hung up.

Now, I wasn't offended.

I sort of expected that, and I probably would have done the same thing myself.

But as a reporter, you're trained to be persistent.

So as much as I didn't want to, I hit redial.

Same guy answered, and this time before I even got out half my introduction, he used a whole string of expletives, hung up again.

Now, at this point, I totally sympathized with him, and I didn't want to call him back again.

But I looked at the information that I had about Joe, and it was not enough to tell a good obituary about a U.S.

serviceman who had fallen overseas.

So the only thing I could do was to call him back again.

And he was ready for me.

Before I could even say a word, he was yelling at me.

me and he said, you call me back again and I will call the cops.

Do you understand me?

Now the fact that he asked a question was actually a good thing because that gave me just the slightest moment to answer him.

And I seized that opportunity.

I said, look, look, look, I will make you a promise.

You give me 20 seconds to explain why I'm calling.

At the end of those 20 seconds, if you don't want to talk to me, I promise you I will hang up and never call back again.

And he said, you have 20 seconds.

Go.

And I said, look, the fact that Joe died was an absolute tragedy.

But what would be even more tragic is him dying in anonymity halfway around the world.

Joe made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.

And there are five million Wisconsinites who need to know his story.

They need to know his name.

They need to see his picture.

They need to understand what sort of void has been left without him.

I've never met Joe and I feel like I owe that to him.

And I'm just hoping that you can help me tell his story.

Silence.

So I said, okay, well, look, how about if you at least confirm that I'm spelling his name right?

So I spelled his name and he said, yeah, that's right.

And I said, so just to confirm, did he go by Joe or Joey or Joseph?

And he said, well, most people call him Joe, but, you know, I called him Buck.

And I said, oh, why is that?

And he said, well, if you ever saw him play center field, he covered ground like a young buck.

So I said, oh, okay.

And I started asking some questions about his little league experience and his athletic exploits and then some of his other activities.

And the longer we talked, I could hear in the brother's voice, I could hear the anger and the defiance was slowly starting to melt away.

And at some point during the conversation, his mom had picked up the other line and she was chiming in with some anecdotes too.

The one I remember was she said she took Joe Christmas shopping and he refused to walk into the mall until he dashed across the street to bring back a steamy cup of hot chocolate for the guy who was standing out front in the Santa suit ringing the Salvation Army bell on a freezing Wisconsin morning.

So the conversation went like this for about 30 minutes.

And at the end, as we wrapped up, I apologized profusely for intruding on their moment of grief.

And they said,

we should be the ones thanking you.

The mom thanked me not only for making sure that her son would not be forgotten, but also for helping her smile through her tears as she was recounting these positive memories.

And the brother thanked me.

for being courageous enough to call back that third time.

Now, I was still early in my career, so at the time I was driven by breaking news and accolades and seeing my name in print.

And that experience really changed how I saw my job because I realized this is what it's really about.

It's about these human connections, it's about telling the stories that really matter.

And after that, yeah, I did tell plenty of stories that involved tragedies and that were intimidating, but never again did I have to deal with sweaty palms.

And I think it's because I learned through that experience that if you

respect those human connections and you just treat people with genuine compassion and kindness, that even in a moment of tragedy, I or even any of us could play some small part in helping someone smile, even if it's only for a little while.

Dinesh Ramde ended up meeting the family a few days after that phone call when he covered Joe's funeral.

Dinesh told us, Joe's mother gave me a long, tearful hug.

She said the obituary made her smile through her tears again, and she was grateful to know that there was now a permanent tribute to her son that she could reread whenever she needed a lift.

For the next few years, they exchanged messages on the anniversary of Joe's death.

Dinesh spent nine years as an associated press reporter in what he calls the greatest job in the world.

After the break, our storyteller has a mirror-mirror-on-the-wall moment.

That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Jodi Powell.

Our final story comes from Devorah Ajami.

Devorah told at a New York City story slum where WNYC is a media partner of the month.

No notes, no notes.

No notes, no notes.

You got this?

Yeah!

Hi.

I'm Devorah and I didn't know that there were no notes, so I'm pretty nervous.

During my third trimester of pregnancy, I woke up completely transformed.

I woke up in the morning and my right eye was twitching.

I didn't think much of it until I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and I felt water dripping out of the right side of my mouth.

I had a condition known as Bell's palsy.

and the entire right side of my face became temporarily paralyzed.

For 80% of the people afflicted with Bell's palsy, the condition goes away in two to four weeks.

I was part of the 20%,

and it's more than a year later, and I still have not completely healed.

It took me a long time to start healing.

It was very slow.

And it was as if overnight the entire chemistry of who I was and what I looked like changed.

I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl

about four weeks later and very, very, very gradual improvements began.

At about six months,

I started seeing the biggest improvements.

Until then, I had to tape my eyes shut at night because I couldn't so much as blink.

I couldn't eat or drink without food falling out the side of my mouth.

And my vision became so blurry since I couldn't close my eye that I couldn't work as a dentist at the time.

When

six-month mark hit, I

started being able to eat and drink in public.

I was able to sleep without an eye patch, which was a very big improvement.

But I was still pretty sad

and battling with postpartum depression along with Bell's palsy.

When I was about 90% healed at like, I'd say, eight months,

the thing that lingered and that still lingers is my asymmetrical smile.

I became pretty depressed and I would be searching for changes every day in the mirror.

At a certain point, my husband, trying to lift me out of my state of depression, sitting over there somewhere,

asked me to stop searching for changes.

He told me he thought I was beautiful the way that I was.

And he asked me to try to look in the mirror and look at myself and tell myself I was beautiful in that moment the way that I was.

This may sound simple, but it was very difficult.

And

in order to try to accomplish this, I decided I would focus on all of the asymmetrical things in my life that made me happy because I realized that the thing that was so silly and so small, my mouth going up on one side and down on the other, the reason it was making me so sad is because I was asymmetrical in a world that expects perfect symmetry.

In our social media, obsessed world, we need the perfectly curated page, everything wrinkle-free, shiny,

no signs of imperfections.

So I started looking around the room that I was in,

which was a hodgepodge of furniture.

One thing being a gray couch, a gray small couch in the corner

that had a small stain on the side that I bought at a discount because of the stain when I first got it, that traveled with me from my first solo living space to my first apartment as a married person

to our first house in the suburbs.

But I could not bear to part with it because it's my puppy's favorite seat in the house.

Which made me think of the bookcase that was sitting in front of me that's all chewed up on the bottom shelf.

And I looked at those two things and I thought about how far we've come and how much joy.

They've brought me.

And then I thought of going to pick up my daughter from daycare.

Her little palm tree ponytail coming out on all sides, shirt half in, half out, one sock on, one sock lost to the daycare gods.

And I just thought how she could not look any more perfect to me in that moment if she tried.

And looking at my daughter, yogurt and berry stained is just about the only thing that could make me completely forget about the way I look when I smile.

And

now that I have a daughter, I would really like to be able to embrace my asymmetry

because I want to model not perfection, but I want to model acceptance.

I want my daughter to be able to enjoy all those

asymmetrical,

imperfect, potholed, spasmatic moments that life has in store because life is not steady, life is certainly unsteady.

And I think that a world that is full of asymmetry is much more beautiful than one where we try to cover it up.

Thank you.

That was Devorah Adjani.

I followed up with Devorah to check in on how she's been doing since telling her story.

When I talk about your story introduction, I talk about a mirror, mirror on the wall type of moment.

You know, curious where you are with it, with that now.

So I really, really worked hard at it.

And I think that that, it's not always easy, but that really changed my life for the better because also as a mom, like I was still still learning my, I'm still learning my way as a mom.

I still feel like I have no idea what I'm doing, but I do, I do want my daughter to kind of, this world demands so much perfection out of us, especially women.

And I just want her to accept whatever quirks and weirdness come along with life because I don't know, I'm able to laugh at even stupid things.

Like sometimes, if the water still falls out of my mouth, or I could kind of laugh it off instead of letting it drag me down.

And that for me is just life-changing.

Oh, thank you so much.

Is there anything that you want to add?

The one thing I felt funny going on stage about in general to speak about my story is something I struggled with from the beginning of Belle's Palsy was

I felt guilty that I was so dragged down by it.

I felt guilty that I became so depressed because I've been through other things in life and I've been close to people who have been through other things in life.

And there are quote unquote much harder trials in life.

And I think being able to kind of talk about our small struggles helps you empathize with people who are going through all different things.

For example, when I walked off the stage at the mall,

And I was walking out with my husband, the security guard stopped me.

He was listening and he said he wanted to talk to me about his own experience with Bell's palsy.

And then I, we stopped and we talked with him for a while and he showed me like his physical symptoms that he still had and he asked me some questions and we spoke about it.

And I think it was cathartic for both of us.

And

you just never know who is going to be helped.

by sharing your story.

And I feel that it's important that everyone know that nobody's story is too small or too insignificant and everybody struggle, everyone's struggling with something.

So I think it's helpful to share.

Devorah Ajame is an endodontist from New Jersey, where she lives with her husband, daughter, and puppy.

In her spare time, she writes, working towards her dream of becoming an author and bringing her stories to life.

To see some photos of Devorah and family, please visit themoth.org.

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour.

Thank you to our storytellers and all of the Moth staff and crew, and to you for listening.

I hope you'll join us next time.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Jodi Powell, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.

Additional Grand Slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson and Michelle Jolowski, and instructors Tim Lopez and Shana Creene.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin Janess, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluche, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, Johnson, and Patricia Urania.

Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by The Drift.

Other music in this hour from Del Von Lamar Organ Trio, Hermanos Guterez, The Westerlies, and Ronan Osnodek.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Rhys-Dennis.

For more about our podcast, for information on Pitching Us Your Own Story, and to learn more about the moth, go to our website themoth.org.