Okay, real talk: I never asked to be reincarnated as a short-stack fantasy dwarf kid, but apparently fate thought it’d be hilarious to drop me into this situation. Seriously, I can’t even remember how I died. Last thing I recall from my past life is flipping through TV channels in some late-twentieth-century apartment—cable news, maybe some cheesy sitcom rerun—then boom: New world, new life, and, as I’d soon find out, new height issues.

  When I say “soon,” I mean years later because for the first few seasons of my new childhood, I didn’t catch on to the whole “I’m a dwarf” thing. I know, I know. You’d think I’d notice that everyone around me had squat, chunky builds and beards that sprouted early (including some of the women, by the way—no judgment, just noting the cultural differences). But I was a kid, and everyone looked pretty much the same. Plus, I was only five. Perspective is limited when your eyes barely clear the kitchen table.

  So there I was, five years old and living in what might as well have been a real-life fantasy MMO town: stone cottages tucked under grassy hills, forges belching smoke, people shouting about ale and axes at seven in the morning. Honestly, it was kinda cozy—if you could tune out the constant hammering and accept that “tavern stew” is apparently code for “mystery meat surprise.” I was still getting used to the whole “I guess I’m a dwarf now” vibe before I even knew what that meant. Everyone was roughly my height, waddled around with stocky builds, and gave me that familiar small-town side-eye I’d come to expect in any world.

  In my head, I was this modern millennial soul dropped into some Tolkien-esque neighborhood. I remembered things like Game Boys, MTV, and low-rise jeans (ew), but none of that did me much good here. We didn’t have screens, we had stone tablets. We didn’t have Wi-Fi, we had Wi-who-are-you-staring-at. But I rolled with it. What else could I do? I was five. You try explaining reincarnation to your new parents and see how far you get. “No, mom, I don’t want oats and turnips for breakfast. How about some cereal and milk?” Yeah, that suggestion went over about as well as a lead balloon. Oats and turnips it was.

  It’s not like I was miserable. I mean, sure, I missed a lot from my old life, but there’s a weird serenity in having zero responsibilities besides growing up and trying not to trip over your own stubby legs. I wasn’t so much reborn as rebooted. I got a second chance at life in a place where no one had even heard of smartphones or fast food, and ironically, that second chance mostly consisted of trying not to look bored while my “dad” taught me how to hold a hammer properly.

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  But the big moment of clarity—when I finally realized I wasn’t just short, but capital-S Short—came on a trip to the next village over. We were hauling a load of freshly forged pickaxes (a hot commodity, apparently) to trade with some travelers. I had my suspicions something was off because everyone around me had these big, beefy forearms and stout legs, yet I just chalked it up to “that’s how people are here.” Then we arrived at the trading post and who do I see waddling around with annoyingly graceful strides? Humans.

  Tall. Lanky. Freakishly elongated humans. Each one of them was a walking basketball player compared to us. I tried to not look shocked, but my jaw basically hit the dusty ground. They towered over me—and I mean they looked like fashion models strolling through a preschool class. That’s when the penny finally dropped: I was the weird one here, not them. I was the dwarf in a world that definitely included bigger specimens. The beard, the stout build, the fondness for underground living—these weren’t just lifestyle choices. This was my new species.

  After that day, I couldn’t unsee it. Every time I caught my reflection in the polished blade of an axe, I had to admit: I was a squat, tiny dude with a beard that would eventually come in like a glorious, fuzzy waterfall. Great. In my old life, I was average height at best, and now I was shorter than my old self by a generous margin. At least I had the excuse that it was still early. I was only five, so I had some growing to do. But I had a feeling even at thirty I’d be staring up at people’s chins. Oh well, guess I can skip leg day forever.

  I didn’t remember how I died, and honestly, I wasn’t in a hurry to figure that out. I had enough on my plate grappling with my newfound dwarven identity. Besides, this world wasn’t so bad—no corporate emails, no rent to pay, no traffic jams, and the local beer (yep, they let kids taste here, guess it’s cultural) was pretty fantastic. If being a dwarf meant a steady supply of good brew, maybe I could handle looking up to the world around me.

  So there you have it: I’m five years old, I’m a dwarf, and I’ve got a cynical millennial brain hidden behind these chubby cheeks. Life’s weird, but at least it’s interesting. Now if I could just get my “mom” to put fewer turnips in the stew… well, let’s just say a dwarf can dream.