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When I was only about six years old, I began realizing that I'd made an awful mistake.

I thought maybe it would go away as I grew older and people would forget about it.

Mom convinced me it wasn't a mistake after all, but I found that hard to believe.

Then, when I was nine and I lost that final shred of comfort she'd ever offered me…I wasn't sure what to do.

So I pushed myself harder, and never dwelling on Mom's words of encouragement, telling me I was smart and strong, just not strong in the traditional Viking way.

Instead, I dwelt on my father's words of disappointment, the other teens' constant mockery.

I depended on that, and those cruel words that had pierced me like daggers when they had been spoken became the reason I lived: So I would never give anyone a reason to bring up my mistake again.

I became obsessed in my ambition to kill a dragon. My very first didn't have to be amazing; no one would judge me if it were a Nadder, sometimes even Dad had trouble with Nadders.

If it was a Gronckle, people were bound to be a little more impressed. The scrawny son of the chief, finally becoming a proper Viking at last.

It didn't matter what breed it was, just as long as I was showing I could kill a dragon.

Of course, the breed I was really after was a Night Fury.

But any ordinary dragon would have to do for my first kill.

And then, when I shot down the Night Fury…

"You're strong, Hiccup. You're just not strong in the traditional way."

The words I'd carefully buried, just so I'd never, ever, get my hopes up, came rushing back and I knew no matter how weak it was, Mom would think me strong if I cast aside that dagger.

So I did.

And when I trained Toothless instead…

I realized I didn't have to live in the one enormous mistake of my past and I could take that mistake and make it destiny instead.

I didn't have to live in mistakes.

I didn't have to call my life the mistake of being me.