Once, I was called an onion as a compliment.

I think it’s true. An onion has a thick outer skin that protects the rest of the bulb. Each layer is thick, until you get closer to the center, where the heart of the onion flakes apart if you touch it just right. It has visible roots and a crispy, paper-thin layer that can’t possibly hide what is underneath.

Yes, I actually am like an onion, more than I care to admit.

But I am tired of being thick and protective.

The things I aspire to be are actually like an onion, too. Maybe that sounds weird to you. Let me explain.

I want to be fragrant, even if it’s off-putting to people. I’d love to be unapologetic about it. An onion does not care if it offends with its flavor. Why should I?

I want to be soft, like onions sautéed in butter, until all the sugars they contain start to brown. I want to be cooked down to my essential elements, shedding the weight of all the things that are not me, like an onion sheds it’s water in the skillet.

I want to be constant. Onions can hang around forever until they start to rot. If you leave one long enough it’ll grow using nothing but the air around it and the sunshine that silently shines through the kitchen window. Yes, I’d love to have the power within me to grow tall and strong.

So, an onion I am. And an onion I’ll strive to be. Complex. Strong. Not for everyone. I’m okay with that.