09/17/2024
Do you ever wonder... like I do...
what parts of me are the same, and which parts have been refined, discarded or transformed with time? Am I the same person was in 1979, simply inhabiting an older body? Or have I fundamentally changed, becoming someone new as my experiences layered over the core of who I am? Like a chameleon, my blood feels like it runs the same—steady, familiar, always coursing through me—but my outward colors have shifted to fit new environments, circumstances, and roles. I’ve adapted, but have I really changed?
Perhaps I’m like a snake, shedding layers of skin over time. Each layer represents an old version of me, left behind as I move forward. I’m not the same as I was, but those old skins are still part of my story, still part of who I’ve been. Or maybe I’m more like a butterfly, once bound inside a chrysalis, undergoing a transformation so profound that when I finally emerged, I was a different creature altogether—still with the same beginning, the same origins, but with a wholly new form.
Growth takes many shapes. Like a river carving its way through the earth, smoothing the rough edges of the rocks over time, maybe I’ve been molded and reshaped, but the river itself—its flow, its purpose—remains unchanged.
Or, perhaps I’m more like Shel Silverstein's Giving Tree, adding rings with each passing year. My roots are deep, my trunk strong, but new branches have grown in directions I couldn’t have predicted, reaching toward the sky.
What parts of me are the same? Which parts have been refined? Which parts are wholly different? And can I ever fully know the answers to these questions, or is the act of growth itself the mystery that keeps unfolding?