Sometimes life lets us set the record straight. It happens in big and small ways and reminds us to stay true to who we are, to believe in our talents, pursue our interests and develop our skill sets. The world is filled with people who will tell you "no," and it feels like we are hearing "no" more frequently these days. Legislation, academic priorities and corporate policies are clawing back so much of the progress we've made in this country. Even still, I remain optimistic that our resilience will eventually see us through. Because when faced with people who tell us "no," I refuse to comply in advance by not even trying. It is our resilience that makes vindication possible.

The first time I ever felt vindicated was through simple validation. It is a story that took years to play out.

At the end of eighth grade I auditioned to be in the high school choir. I'm an alto. I have a deeper voice. But when I stepped up in front of the piano for the music teacher, he played scales in the soprano range. He went higher and higher with scales he wanted me to sing. I could not do it. If I were being generous, I'd say that he did so because he had soprano spots to fill in the choir.

Thirteen-year-old me was not so generous. Teenage me saw a middle-aged man who assumed the person in front of him would sing "like a girl" and that meant having a high soprano voice.

Teenage me was also not confident enough to advocate for myself by requesting he start lower on the keyboard to get the full benefit of my range. I stepped off the stage feeling defeated and inadequate. I saw it as proof that I didn't fit in or meet some female standard. My love for music found a home playing the xylophone in the high school marching band instead. These were my people; the band became my school family.

Later as an upperclassman, I enrolled in the AP music theory class. The same choir director was my teacher. One of our assignments was to sing the national anthem in solfege, meaning we were to sing the song using do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do instead of the lyrics. There were only six of us in the class, all of us band kids.

When it was my turn, I stood at the front of the class. This time, my teacher did not assume my range. He was patient and kind and worked to find the right key for my voice. I sang strong and confident, "so-me-do-mi-so-do..."

When I finished, he looked at me with genuine surprise, "You have a great voice, why didn't you try out for choir?"

"I did," I said, "I didn't make it."

I don't remember what he said next, if anything. It didn't matter. I had been vindicated. I knew I could sing and now he knew it, too. Maybe I was just a kid who needed an adult's validation. I'd like to think I was strong enough to believe in myself without it, but when we're young, support and encouragement from adults, especially teachers and parents, matters so much in shaping who we believe we are and can grow to become.

That vindication satisfied a profound psychological need to feel worthy. Much of my inner work as an adult has been to understand that I am worthy, no matter the accolades or criticism of others. I do things because I want to, or because I have found purpose in the work beyond outside opinions. It's still hard sometimes and moments of vindication help, especially in a world that seems hell-bent on judging your worth and exploiting your vulnerabilities.

I believe that a collective vindication will come. It may not be as neat and simple as my choir audition and a lot of lives may come apart before we see it happen, but I have to believe that America will see the day when it is evident that love and belonging are more important than greed and exclusivity. Maybe then we can build a country where everyone can feel worthy and thrive. If enough of us keep showing up, keep insisting on our worth and each other's, then maybe the record will set itself straight. Our resilience will see us through, not because someone finally says "yes," but because we never stopped answering it for ourselves.

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Photo credit: Marius Masalar at Unsplash