It started when I was six. A simple mother-daughter brunch that led to the predictable, “Mom, I need to go to the bathroom,” comment. I went into my own stall, like a “big girl” does, keeping the door unlocked – a favor my mom requested to save her the trouble of crawling under the door. I was minding my own business, my tiny legs dangling off the edge of the seat, and a lady failed to notice me – almost sitting on top of me. As scarring as that moment was, ironically, it led to a theme that defined the rest of my life.