As I enter this strange new unparented new stage of my life, I’ve been thinking about how my family gave me many gifts.
And I’ve also been thinking about how they gave me stories about myself, some less true than others, some more harmful than others.
As happens in families, there are those who’ve chosen to be the keepers of those stories, to try to keep them alive and to give them power, true or not.
But I get to choose, too.
And I don’t choose to keep these stories. I choose to be—to continue to work toward being—my true self, and not the self who others, through decades of family and time, wish to believe I am.
Their reasons believing—for needing to believe—are their own.
They’re nothing to do with me, unless I let them be.