Who Am I?

My grandpa always said, “To accept yourself you have to ask one question. Who are you?” I knew who I was though, at least I thought I did. I was a young adult. I was female. I was from a stereotypical Italian family. I had a mom related to the McCoy’s. I wrote a book. And most importantly, I was a dog person.

But even though I knew who I was it was like I was stuck at a fork in the road.I was a knight who did not slay the dragon, but got slayed himself. Maybe because the hauberk weighed me down like my thoughts. And I wasn’t a knight.

No, I was a sovereignty without a diadem to give proof.

I was a power without a voice. I was a fraud.

But as a five year old there was no way I could grasp what my grandpa meant. For there was more to “who are you?” than “Hey, look what I did!”

To accept yourself you have to accept who you are. You cannot lament what you are not, but have to be ebullient with

what you are. And me, I’m an extroverted introvert who wants to make a mark on this world. I want to be indelible, like a coffee stain on your favorite pair of khakis. Interwoven with flaws and perks, I want to be me, myself, and I, as cliche

as it all sounds. But still I only wanted to convey my truth not theirs, I didn’t want to come off as someone I’m not. I don’t want to fit in, no, not anymore. I want to be that one person who stands out.

Because that is who I am. I am my dreams. I am my source of strength. I am what I believe in.

I am me.

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