Introduction

Let me take you back to when I was five years old. I walked into my
classroom and found a series of long, vertically stacked, curved wooden
boards that looked like giant over-toasted pieces of bread curved at the
edges! Like a very weird food show version of a post-apocalyptic future. At
first, I was intrigued. ‘Could this be a new kind of slide? If so, where is the
ladder?’ And then one of the other kids screamed out, ‘Why are our
sleeping boards standing up?’

Let me first give you some context. Our school made all kindergarten
kids take a nap after lunch on these large hardwood boards (the kind most
clipboards are made of and not the most comfortable option in hindsight).
So, in essence, what was once horizontal was now interestingly vertical. So
we all did what any self-respecting five-year-old would do—We started
jumping with our tongues out trying to lick the upper part of the board. I
jumped once, I jumped twice, until I jumped too high and landed too hard
and my teeth bit straight through my tongue. The next thing I knew, I was in
the hospital, and my poor parents had come rushing in panic. They found
me with half my tongue almost detached from the rest, dangling out of my
mouth. The doctors first tried to stick it together with glue (no, it wasn’t the
kind you keep at home), and when that didn’t work, I eventually ended up
with a ton of stitches on my tongue to hold the pieces together. That also
meant that I couldn’t speak for the next three months (and I’ve been making
up for lost time ever since).

If only someone had told me to hold my tongue, figuratively and literally,
I wouldn’t have had to learn it the hard way. But the way life teaches you
things is often messy and out of context. Because in most instances in life, a
mess gives you more clarity than anything else.