Abbey Wildhorse

Mrs. Caldwell caught me humming in algebra again. She sighed, tapping her fingers on the desk. "Keep your focus on the equations, not your… performance."

Snickers rippled across the room. I sank lower in my chair, my face burning.

I hated school. Not just because of the math problems, but because every day felt like a test I hadn’t studied for. I didn’t talk the right way, dress the right way, believe the right way. My family’s name was a joke, our faith a punchline. My long skirts, my homemade lunches, my quiet refusal to join in on certain conversations—it all made me an easy target. Too religious for the "normal" kids, not devout enough for my own community.

At home, I was a different kind of outsider. My parents thought I was a good girl, obedient. I knew all the right answers when they asked. I nodded when they told me how lucky I was to be born into truth. But if they ever caught me belting out Taylor Swift in the shower instead of hymns, they’d remind me that vanity is a sin. If they ever saw my journal, filled with questions I wasn’t supposed to ask, they’d tell me to pray harder.

Fifteen years old, growing up in Salt Lake City, and I already knew—I didn’t belong here.

But when I sang? The world blurred. Whether it was in the pews, the shower, or alone in my room, singing made me feel real. Whole. Not the girl who was too much and never enough. Just me.

One evening, after everyone was asleep, I crept out of bed and opened my laptop. I had made a secret account, one my parents would never find. I hesitated, then pressed “upload.” My voice, just me and a cheap mic, floating into the world. My heart pounded. Would anyone hear it? Would anyone care?

The next morning, I woke up to a notification. A comment. Wow. Your voice is amazing.

A small thing. But it was proof. Proof that outside this house, outside this town, someone was listening. And one day, I was going to sing my way out.