Before I was born, my mother gave birth to three other children: all boys, and I am so grateful to call these now men my brothers.

Growing up, I thought it was the norm to have older brothers. I was confused when people had younger siblings or even worse, didn't even have one brother. It felt right: the way it should be and I never questioned the structure of my family or the age gap between my brothers and me.

I spoke like a truck driver and sassed boys because I didn't stand for their smut. I watched football and baseball and eventually fell in love with hockey because I was enveloped in an athletic household. I sat in the grass as they played Home Run Derby and had nothing but the greatest respect in my heart and the largest love in my eyes as I watched them run around the field.

Because of the age difference between my brothers and me, just under eight years being the smallest gap, I learned the taste of independence at a young age and what it means to defend yourself in the world. I learned what it meant to be a woman in this world, our world, what to expect from society, and to disregard it all: better yet, demand to be treated better.

I learned how to be fierce, strong, even fearless in some respects. Growing up in a house of boys, I learned how to balance my gender stereotypes amongst the side affects of a male-dominated household. My brothers believed in me so I believed there shouldn’t be any reason why I couldn’t do anything a boy could do.

I learned balance from being spun around in the yard, growing dizzy from the speed and nauseous from endless giggles. I learned speed and agility from the taunts of counting to three before the lobster pincers were released, following my tiny feet as I ran up the staircase. I learned endurance from the countless miles written on my training schedule. I learned how to carry myself confidently because I shared the same blood as incredible men. I learned forgiveness every time tickles nearly ended in tears. I learned acceptance every time a new sister was introduced and I wasn’t the sole princess reigning supreme in their life anymore.

But most of all, and perhaps most importantly, I learned what it meant to fight: to fight for yourself, your dreams, your beliefs, for anything that captured your heart and you thought was worth while fighting for.

Even though it my be the most difficult thing to do, it is something we must do. It rattles our bones with teeth shaking and lips quivering: fear can absorb into the red blood cells traveling through the seemingly infinite highways routed in our bodies.

The hardest thing we must do is fight.

Even with white flags clenched in our nimble fingers and the word of surrender threatening to jump off the cliff our lips, the idea of perseverance and determination was deeply routed into my brain by the three men before me who saw an elastic mind and opportunity when looking at me. The idea of never giving up and always fighting was seared into my brain by the men who looked at me and believed.

Perhaps maybe that's why I am so deeply involved and rooted in my beliefs and passions. I never wanted to give up something I loved because they instilled in me if I loved something enough and aspired great enough, I could hold my dream in the palm of my hand.

Sometimes I wonder if I let them down by allowing myself to engage in a relationship with a boy who appeared as some dumb jerk to them but spoke with hands of abuse, by not being a stronger young woman, by not being relentless and fearless enough to swim against currents of depression, for not being able to have a louder voice when I said things like, "no."

Sometimes I wonder why I never had the courage to talk to them about the boys that broke my heart or fractured my esteem, about the different kinds of pain that made my soul feel inflamed, constantly bruised and inflamed. Sometimes I wondered why they didn't ask me about those things.

There was a part of me that believed because my dreams were shaped in different clouds than their own and my experiences were perhaps tinged darker than theirs, I had somehow began to grow into a woman who differed vastly than the little girl whom they saw hope in -- that somehow I'd grow into a woman that was not what they dreamed of their little sister to be.

As I reflect and write this now, I realize that's not the kind of men my brothers are nor is it how I was raised, by my parents and my brothers. My brothers speak in a language unable to be interpreted by outsiders, a language so silent and invisible only siblings can pick it up. They speak in hugs just a second too long, giving me the keys to their car when I'm in a pinch, a hand on the shoulder, a single glance. They speak in a language of eating two more of the cookies I baked, checking the oil in my car or the tire pressure, a wink from across the room.

The love and respect they have for me doesn't need to be communicated through speech or written words -- it's spoken silently.

They taught me to fight: fighting for what I love and who I am encompasses my opinions and passions, and it also includes all the dirty, knotted, tangles that might've wrapped around my path.

There aren't words in the English language that will ever be able to truly capture how grateful I am to be raised with the three men I get to call my brothers, and I will never be able to truly thank them for giving me the most wonderful childhood, filled with sunshine, laughter, and soccer games.

When you grow up with brothers, you never stop fighting, and in your headstrong mindset, you also realize because of this, you will never be a disappointment or a shadow of the woman they hoped you'd be.

When you grow up with brothers, you develop into the best version of yourself because they taught you to never and never let you stop fighting.