When I was less settled in my life, I often found myself in existential quandaries. I would freeze over internal questions about what I was, whether I was a good woman, and whether everyone around me believed what they saw. Or whether I believed what I saw. In the end, it boiled down to asking how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. And my eventual answer was just the same: it didn’t matter. I don’t have to know what I am. I only have to aspire to be something more.
Something in me believed that I would discover what I was, or that I knew what I was and my change was a process of understanding that thing — an evolution I didn’t have to understand but with an endpoint to reach. I wasn’t becoming the real me, as the rhetoric so often states. I was always the real me. This change was just about smoothing the friction between myself and the rest of the world.